While organizing my backpack today, I found a dried maple leaf tucked between the pages of a textbook. I had put it there when I first transferred schools last year, and had completely forgotten it existed. The color had faded and the edges had curled up, but the veins had become even more distinct. I stared at it for a long time—realizing that some things truly do quietly remember the marks of time.

There's a spot by the window in the corner of the library where, around 3 PM, sunlight slants in and lands perfectly on the side of the third bookshelf. Sitting there today, I suddenly felt that in this new school, I too am leaving my own subtle traces. They may be light and faint, but they are real.