It's time for the leaves to fall again.

　　My workplace is a small courtyard with several sycamore trees. Every late autumn, their large leaves fall to the ground. Others might think they're unsanitary and need to be swept away, but I have a special feeling for them because I spent my childhood winters surrounded by fallen leaves.　　I remember when I was little, my family was very poor. We couldn't afford coal, and we didn't have enough firewood. In winter, we relied on the fallen leaves that nature provided for cooking and heating. Fallen leaves were excellent firewood; as my mother said, they burned well. So every autumn, just as dawn was breaking, my brother, sister, and I would be woken up by our mother to grab rakes and gather leaves. I would follow behind them, dozing off as we went. When we reached our chosen spot, we'd find someone had already gone ahead, piling up the leaves, and I would often trip over them. We had to find other places with lots of leaves and no one else around. By the time we'd spent over an hour "harvesting" four large baskets of leaves, it was often still dark, and my drowsiness only intensified.
　　Looking back, I remember spending a large part of my free time in late autumn and early winter surrounded by fallen leaves. Because firewood like corn stalks had to wait until there were no more leaves to sweep or after snowfall, my brother, sister, and I would rush home from school, grab baskets, and head to the woods to sweep up leaves—if we didn't sweep for a day, we might run out of fuel. I remember seeing a place with lots of leaves felt like discovering treasure; I was always overjoyed. Carrying a heavy basket home often earned me praise from the adults, and I felt a strange sense of accomplishment.
　　Later, as living conditions improved, we gradually stopped sweeping leaves, but the memory of fallen leaves remained forever etched in my heart. So, whenever the leaves fall, walking on the thick layer of leaves fills me with a sense of fulfillment, devoid of any desolation or defeat. I feel as if I'm back in the dense forests of my hometown.
　　Returning to the present, I felt a little grateful for the fallen leaves in the courtyard, as they somewhat made up for my regret. Watching the sanitation worker diligently sweep up the leaves and put them in the garbage truck, I felt a pang of melancholy.