Later, I bought a pot of jasmine every year and placed it on the windowsill. When the wind came, the fragrance would float into the house. Just like that autumn, someone came out of the dusk with a pot of flowers in her arms, her floral skirt caught in the wind by the river, and she said, "What's your name?"
I didn't know that one sentence could stick with me for so many years.
I thought summer was long, long enough for her to recover from her illness, long enough for us to have countless evenings to share an orange candy, long enough for those words to never be uttered. I didn't even dare to think of the word "later", for fear that the wind would stop as soon as I thought about it.
She left anyway.
It was summer when we left. The clouds were beautiful that day, like the ones she had painted, light golden, floating slowly in the sky. The last thing she said to me was "That's nice" and she closed her eyes. There is the fragrance of jasmine in the ward, and the flowers on the bedside table are still blooming. She asked me not to cry, and said that it would not change in a hundred years. I really haven't changed since then. Every summer, buy a pot of jasmine and stand on the balcony waiting for the wind. The words she had no time to say were carried to my ears by the wind.
In June, jasmine bloomed all over the city, but the man who walked out of the dusk holding a flowerpot never came back.
I'm still waiting. Waiting for a summer that will never come back. Wait for someone who already lives in the wind.
Intention: There will be love in the light