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On the day he left, the cherry blossoms in the alley were in bloom, with pink and white petals falling all over the ground, like a grand spring snow. I held the old cotton-padded jacket she left behind and stood under the flowers. When the wind blew, the petals penetrated into the collar, and they were cool, just like the warmth in his eyes when he finally said "Don't wait." Later, spring came on time every year, with peach blossoms covering the walls, willow branches hanging down to the water, and flower sellers carrying burdens walking through the streets, and their shouts were full of fresh warmth. I still habitually stop when passing by a flower shop and touch the dew-covered roses with my fingers, but I can no longer remember what he once said, "When spring is deep, just keep a pot on the windowsill." Some people advised me to go out for a walk, saying that the rapeseed flowers outside the city have bloomed into a golden sea, that the kites on the river bank were flying higher than the clouds, and that the spring in this world is becoming more and more lively every year. But I always feel that all the excitement belongs to others. The pot of roses in front of my window froze to death last winter, and the flower stand he nailed with his own hands was still empty. When the spring breeze blew by, there was only the hollow sound of the wood. This year during the Qingming Festival, I went to his grave and brought him his favorite drink, Longjing. The photo on the tombstone is still very new. He smiled like before, with a tiny light in his eyes. The grass on the grave has just begun to turn green, and dandelions are flying everywhere on the distant field ridges. It is obviously the season when all things grow, but I feel that the place in my heart has long been deserted. It turns out that spring is all over the world, but in this overflowing spring scenery, no one will reach out to block the petals stuck in my hair when the cherry blossoms are falling.