You are my entire youth -- When Shen Yu was six years old, his mother found out about his father's affair. His mother didn't throw a hysterical fit or smash things. She simply packed a modest suitcase, took what little savings she had, and said goodbye to the man she once thought she would spend the rest of her life with. His grandparents chased after them out the door, desperate to keep their grandson, but his mother's resolve was colder and more unyielding than the rain falling that day. In court, she fought for only one thing: custody of her child. The day the verdict came down, it rained heavily. Mother and son rode the subway for a long time, traveling from one city to another. When they walked out of the subway station, it was dusk. The rain blurred the glow of the traffic lights, the traffic was backed up as far as the eye could see, and horns blared ceaselessly—a clamor so chaotic it felt like it could unravel anyone's nerves. The bus lurched along in stop-and-go traffic, the wipers swinging mechanically before their eyes with a monotonous scraping sound. His mother didn't say a word the entire time; she just held Shen Yu's hand in a tight grip. They settled down on an old street. It was an ancient street that curved and wound ahead. Bustling though it was, it carried an indescribable clutter. Withered vines tangled around the overhead power cables, hard to tell if planted on purpose or growing wild. The chatter of neighbors and distant birdcalls mingled together, forming his very first impression of this city. Their rented apartment was on the second floor, facing the street. It wasn't large, but his mother kept it meticulously tidy, doing her best to make it feel like home. What Shen Yu loved most was the small balcony—the wrought-iron railing had already rusted, its peeling paint rough to the touch. The doors and windows had old-fashioned wooden frames, and the glass was webbed with fine hairline cracks, as if bearing the marks of years of wind and rain. On sunny days, the balcony would be bathed in warmth. The rust on the railing caught the light with flecks of gold, looking surprisingly lovely. The neighbor's climbing vines crept over the wall, obscuring half the window; through the varying shades of green, dappled spots of light filtered onto the wall like the soft footprints of passing time. On the balcony, his mother planted several pots of morning glories. Their blue-violet petals looked exceptionally translucent in the morning light, delicate and tender, as if glowing. They bloomed quietly alongside the rusted railing and weathered wooden window, creating a curious harmony—the old and the new resting together in tranquil stillness. And right across from them was an identical balcony. Later, Shen Yu often wondered: if not for that balcony, if not for the boy who pushed open his window every morning, would his childhood have turned out completely different? The first time he saw you was on a weekend afternoon. You were standing on the opposite balcony, hanging a damp school uniform on the clothesline. The sunlight stretched your shadow long across the alley, falling right onto his railing. Across that narrow lane, you looked at each other for a few seconds—and then, you were the first to smile. From that day on, every morning became something to look forward to. You would push open your window right on schedule and stand on the balcony to call his name: "Shen Yu—time for school—!" Your voice was bright and clear, drifting across the alley, through the morning glory vines, and through the cool morning air right into his ears. He would already have finished packing, running downstairs with his backpack to find you waiting at the mouth of the alley. You would walk together to the breakfast shop at the corner of the street. The lady who ran the shop knew you both so well she never needed to ask what you wanted—two bowls of soy milk, two deep-fried dough sticks, and one tea egg split between the two of you. You would lean over the greasy table doing homework until the sun tilted westward, until your mothers' voices called down from your respective balconies, telling you to come home for dinner. In those years, the days slipped by like that, one after another. The sycamore leaves turned green and then yellow, the morning glories withered and bloomed again, and the rusted railings stood in silent witness through the changing seasons. And you two grew from small, skinny children into youth. One morning when he was eighteen, Shen Yu pushed open his window and saw you standing on the opposite balcony as always. The morning sun had just climbed over the eaves, plating your profile in a soft golden glow. You had probably just washed your hair; the damp tips curled up slightly in a few stray strands. As if sensing his gaze, you turned your head and smiled at him. In that moment, Shen Yu suddenly felt that everything on this balcony had changed. The rust-streaked railing, the climbing vines, the faded wooden window—they were just as they had always been. Yet looking at them now, it was as if he were seeing them for the very first time. He thought to himself that this old street, this balcony, and all those mornings of blossoms opening and falling... had all along been waiting for an answer.