Chapter 89: No Flowers in February

——Liu Guozong's Spring Diary, Part Eight

The sun is a little warm, but the wind stays cold. No tender grass shoots appear, and in February's mountain city, no flowers bloom.

The floors on the construction site keep getting higher; from up high, one can overlook people's activities; one can even fly side‑by‑side with the birds, but cannot **.

The sun in the cloud gaps is red like a ripe persimmon. How I wish I could go and bite it, to taste the flavor of my hometown's autumn.

The clouds in the sky, cleverly shaping themselves into various forms, drift back and forth across the heavens, just like crowds bustling through city alleys; no one can tell where they come from or where they're going.

But I cannot imitate the clouds; I can only stay put in a certain place, letting my thoughts and soul follow the clouds to drift and wander——

I remember my childhood self: back then, looking at the sun in the sky, it looked not like an autumn persimmon but a rolling football, like the little companions playing on the spring grasslands, darting in and out of the joyful, happy gaps in the clouds.

My childhood self longed for a miracle to appear, just as a winter bird longs for, 'Overnight, the spring wind comes, and thousands of trees burst into pear blossoms.'

Frequently filled with curiosity and joy, I gazed at the ever‑changing face of the world. Just like me now, standing on the construction site's floor, I looked down at the crowds hurrying like flowing water.

Back then——

In my heart, the insects in the grass, the birds in the trees, the beasts in the forest, the grasses by the river, and the drifting clouds in the sky all possessed the fullest, miraculous value.

Back then——

The gentle rain of a spring night, with its pattering sound, would carry my teenage self into a fairyland, spreading much fragrance.

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