You are my grandson's prose poem.

There is an autumn wind blowing in the deciduous season. I hold your hand and make a sound together in the boundless night sky, but I walk carefully, worrying that you are still in love with summer. Where there is no light, there is no hope, and you can't see your face in the dark. In the days without you, I know the taste of missing you is like a cup of bitter coffee, and its bitterness proves that I miss you more.