It turns out that time doesn't truly pass; it merely disappears from our sight, only to hide in our hearts, and then slowly change our appearance.

So, young one, no matter what setbacks you may encounter in the future, please always maintain a forgiving and joyful heart. That way, when we meet again decades later, I will be able to easily recognize you in a crowd.

Yet, the egret's beauty is often forgotten because of its commonness. Its snow-white plumage, its streamlined body, its iron-colored beak, its blue legs—adding or subtracting even a fraction would make it too long or too short; a touch of white would make it too pale, a touch of black would make it too dark.

In the clear paddy fields, one or two stand fishing, and the entire field becomes a picture framed in glass. The size of the field seems like a mirror case designed by human hands for the egret. On clear mornings, I often see it standing alone atop a small tree, seemingly uneasy, yet utterly serene.

This is a habit rarely seen in other birds. People say it's on lookout duty, but is it really? The occasional low flight of an egret in the twilight sky is a blessing in rural life. That was the embodiment of clarity, and it had come to life.

Perhaps some might feel a slight imperfection: egrets don't sing. But isn't the egret itself a beautiful song? -- No, a song would be too forceful. The egret is truly a poem, a prose poem with its rhythm ingrained in its very being.

The beauty of a flower lies in its creation from nothingness, in its ever-changing nature. Sometimes, overnight, the flower unfolds; sometimes, in half a morning, it blooms. The beauty of a flower isn't entirely in its color or fragrance, but in its incredible nature. I like to solemnly watch the epiphyllum bloom. Actually, the epiphyllum isn't a particularly beautiful flower; its beauty lies in its cactus-like origins, evoking desert imagery, and the mourning it evokes for its sudden demise. But the unfolding of the epiphyllum is a substantial beauty, like a love story, beautiful in the process, not the ending.

There is a large, moon-yellow night-blooming cereus called "Queen of the Night." With each tremble as it opens, it emits a resounding boom, like the sound of a needle piercing a taut embroidery frame. All the delicate stamens tremble involuntarily, a sight that often makes one hesitant to gaze upon it for long—one can't help but believe in the legends of flower spirits and souls.

I often depart before the flowers fully bloom; once the opening stops, death begins. One day, when I am old and unable to witness the opening of flowers, I wish to use a pile of small mulberry pillows as a receiver, listening to the messages from countless herbs and flowers, knowing the music of each night's opening.

She came; she came down from the mountain. Beautifully adorned, as if dressed in pure white, she carried a large bouquet of flowers. I said, "Come, here's a white rose for you to wear on your lapel." She smiled and said something, but I couldn't hear her. It seems I didn't pick it, and she didn't wear it either, still carrying the flowers, and walked on.

Looking up at her path, I saw flowers blooming, hanging, and fallen on both sides. I thought white flowers were better than red ones; yet why didn't I pick one, and why didn't she wear it? What lies ahead? Why didn't I follow her? It's all gone, the flowers have disappeared, the dream is over, what lies ahead? Even if I had picked one, what would I have worn?