When the wind outside the wall whipped up gravel and rattled the windowpanes, I ran into him again at the corner where we mended cracks. The guy was carrying half a sack of potatoes scavenged from an abandoned farm, mud smudges on his forehead, yet his eyelashes glinted with what looked like starlight—not really stars, just the sweep of the early-morning searchlight. He shook his head triumphantly: “See? I’ve got my own spotlight.”

The first time I handed him a bandage, his指尖 brushed mine, a tickle that nearly made me drop the whole roll. He only grinned, baring his teeth: “Your hands are as soft as cotton—softer than the potatoes I dug up.” I huffed and turned to leave, but a yelp from behind made me glance back. There he was, bending to pick up the bandage, potatoes rolling everywhere, looking like a clumsy bear.

Later, we’d meet most evenings while watering the fields. He tilled the soil at the edge of the playground, and I carried a half-pail of saved water, walking slowly along the ridge. He’d suddenly pause with his hoe, pointing at the晚霞-drenched clouds: “Don’t they look like the cook’s failed brown sugar buns? The ones that didn’t rise right?” I burst out laughing, startling the sparrows in the Chinese parasol tree. He pressed his luck: “You look nice when you laugh—way better than those buns. Hey, don’t splash me with that watering can!”

On the night danger struck, the second he tugged me under the desk, I heard two hearts thudding in unison in that tight space. His back braced against the shaking desk leg, palm covering my ear to muffle the roar outside: “Don’t panic. I’ll count to three, then we run.” But when he got to two, I clutched his frayed sleeve like it was the only driftwood in this apocalypse. He stifled a laugh: “Clutching that tight—afraid I’ll bolt, or the desk’ll collapse?” I started to glare, but he dropped his voice: “Relax. If I run, I’m taking you with me. With those short legs, you’d trip on your own.”

After the chaos died down, I learned he’d had a dried parasol leaf in his pocket that night, planning to slip it to me during patrol. “Every time I see a leaf,” he said, “I think of you staring out the window—like a cat sunning itself on a windowsill, not moving a muscle.” I snatched the leaf and smacked it against his forehead: “You’re the cat—some thieving wild cat who steals potatoes!”

We started tucking little secrets into our supply swaps. He’d hand me a compressed biscuit, its wrapper hiding a wild jujube and a scrawled note: “Sweeter than the cafeteria’s artificial sugar. Tested and approved.” When I mended his tattered gloves, I sewed a lopsided sprout into the seam. Every time he swung his hoe, that sprout bobbed like it was dancing. Once he held up the glove and yelled: “This sprout’s upside down! Roots up, leaves down—you want it to grow backwards?” My cheeks burned as I turned for the water bucket, but I heard him laugh: “Still cute, though. Prettier than the seedlings in the field.”

During a lecture in the auditorium about old-fashioned weddings, he leaned close and murmured: “When we can walk the streets freely again, I’ll weave you a ring out of parasol leaves.” I didn’t look up, but his breath on my ear felt like spring wind over thawing river ice. He added: “Don’t worry—it’ll be way nicer than that lopsided sprout you sewed. I’m handy.” I stomped on his foot under the table. He bit back a yelp, glaring at me with a grin, his eyes sparkling like he’d pocketed a handful of stars.

When the rainy season made the seedlings surge, he snuck a row of sunflowers along the ridge. “They follow the light,” he said, squatting beside me, finger brushing a tender bloom. He nudged me with his elbow: “Kinda like us—chasing that searchlight every day, more eager than these flowers.” I studied his mud-caked褲腳 as he fussed with the buds, and he said: “When they bloom, I’ll pluck the biggest one for you. Make a better hat than those patrol helmets, guaranteed.”

By the time the howls outside the wall faded, we sat beneath fully grown sunflowers, and sure enough, he’d woven a leaf ring, insisting on sliding it onto my finger. The edges were rough, but he preened: “See? Better than your sprout. This is art.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he leaned in, voice softening: “Truth is… I practiced for days. Unwove it, rewove it. Got cut by the leaves a bunch.”

Laughter drifted over from classmates passing out newly harvested potatoes, someone calling us to help. He pulled me up to run, the leaf ring fluttering in the wind. Passing the field, he stopped, pointing at our sunflowers: “Look—they’re all facing the light.” I glanced up, and sunlight through the blooms dappled his face, just like the “starlight” on his eyelashes the first day we met.

Love, it turns out, can thrive in cracks and make a racket doing it. It hides in bickering jokes, in tiny, secret kindnesses, in every shared smile—wild as the overgrown seedlings, brighter than the searchlight. Like that leaf ring of his: rough around the edges, but brimming with the warm, sweet heat of two people building something together.

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