A deep autumn evening. The car stopped in front of a row of old villas at Cuihu Garden.



The setting sun slanted onto the red brick walls, pulling the dappled tree shadows very long. Shen Zhengye pushed open the iron gate. The hinge emitted a dull sound. Rust flaked off in chunks.



The courtyard wasn't large. The bluestone path was jacked up in arches by wild grass growing underneath. From the cracks in the stone grew clusters of dogtail grass. In the slanting sunlight, the fuzzy spikes looked like they were gilded.



At the end of the path was an osmanthus tree.



The trunk was two circles thicker than a rice bowl. The canopy spread out to cover most of the courtyard. Among the branches and leaves were densely clustered tiny golden flowers. Wind passed through the treetops. Petals rustled down like a fine, dense flower rain. The ground was covered in a thin layer. Soft to step on.



Under the osmanthus tree stood an elderly person.



Hair white as snow. In the setting sunlight, it had a faint orange tint. Her back was slightly hunched. One hand rested on the tree trunk. The other hand gripped a grayish-white cleaning rag. Hearing the iron gate, she turned around.



Her gaze passed over Shen Zhengye, passed over Gu Zhilan, and landed on Wanting's face-and didn't move.



Zhou Guifen. Nian'nian's grandmother. On the 68th floor of Wand Tower, that pink room-she had wiped it for over twenty years, once a week. The floor mopped three times. The windowsill wiped twice. The cloth rabbit on the headboard-she would pick it up, wipe it clean, and put it back. Never once changing its position. The missing person notice for Nian'nian was kept in her apron pocket. The paper had frayed edges. The creases were taped over with scotch tape again and again.



Wanting stood at the iron gate entrance. Her feet wouldn't move. She didn't recognize this face, but she recognized those eyes. When that gaze looked at her, there was something very heavy in it-exactly the same as when Shen Zhengye looked at her.



The elderly person walked forward two steps, then stopped again. She raised her hand-that hand full of calluses-and extended it into the air, not daring to touch.



"Nian'nian."



The voice was very soft. Carried over by the wind mixed with osmanthus fragrance.



Wanting walked over. Bent down. Pressed her face against that hand. The calluses scraped against her cheek. Rough. Warm. Trembling.



"Grandma."



The elderly person didn't make a sound. She just used the hand gripping the rag to repeatedly wipe her eyes. Tears flowed down her hand and soaked into the grayish-white rag. For twenty-four years, she had gone to wipe that room every week. While wiping, she would think: Is Nian'nian cold outside? Is she hungry? Does she still remember there's an osmanthus tree at the door of her home?



Wanting helped Grandma sit on the stone bench under the tree. The wind picked up again. Osmanthus petals rustled down. Falling on the elderly person's snow-white hair. Falling on Wanting's shoulders. Falling on her open palm.



She looked down at the small flower in her palm. Golden yellow. Four petals. Exactly the same as the flowers on the tree in her dream.



She closed her eyes.



Since childhood, she had had the same dream countless times. In the dream, there was a very large osmanthus tree. Under the tree stood a person extending both arms, calling her over. But no matter how she ran, she couldn't reach them. Every time she woke up, her pillow was wet.



Now she knew. That tree was an osmanthus tree. That person was Mom.



And today, she finally stood under that tree. This time, it wasn't a dream.



(The End)