The flowers on both sides of the Forgotten River are still blooming, but people are coming and going on the bridge. Po Meng sits at the bridge and delivers bowls of Meng Po soup. There were pairs of old couples walking hand in hand, there were lonely old men, there were girls with tears on their faces, there were cats and dogs, and there were also young men standing by the bridge waiting for their lovers year after year. Her face was as calm as ever, as if nothing in the world had anything to do with her, as if the love and hate in the past were just clouds and smoke, already drifting in the wind.