Such stories were repeated many times. Every time, my brother ran happily, but returned dejectedly. Gradually, my brother became silent. He often sat alone on the ridge of the field. Sometimes he looked up, watching his paper plane floating, gliding and dancing in the air over the fields; sometimes he hung his head, lost in thought, thinking about his unsolved doubts. His paper planes became fewer and fewer, and finally one day, all his planes fell to the ground. I asked him why, but he just shook his head without answering. Was it because he had really grown up? I don't know. All I know is that no one has ever carefully appreciated his paper planes, no one has ever patted his head and said: "Kid, you're great." No one has tried to open his heart and listen to his story...