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He had been waiting for a long time for the sweet-scented osmanthus tree in front of his door to bloom, but the sweet-scented osmanthus tree seemed to be deliberately playing a trick on him. Time flies by like water, and the sweet-scented osmanthus tree grows taller and taller, covering the eaves of the house, the distant mountains, and the setting sun that is about to set on the top of the mountain. The afterglow of dusk passed through the leaves and sparsely hit the roof wall. He stooped to the tree and slowly straightened his back and looked up. The setting sun shone on his face. He closed his eyes lightly. Wrinkles that could not be concealed by the brim of his hat covered his cheeks, and there seemed to be tears in the corners of his eyes. He was already 60 years old that year, but he was still waiting for September, waiting for the flowers to bloom. He wanted to use the September osmanthus flowers to brew a jar of fragrant osmanthus wine, bury it under the tree, open it in the next spring, taste the handmade wine, smell the fragrance of the years, and recall the past. But Xiao Xiao became ill, and he left soon after the early spring. For some reason, the flowers bloomed in September of that year, and they were in full bloom. The son brewed a jar of wine with sweet-scented osmanthus, brought it to his grave in the spring of the following year, and sprinkled the wine and thoughts on the loess, which fulfilled his wish.