$YUSHU

Day Sixty-Seven · Waiting for a Flower Bud to Bloom
The gardenia on the windowsill has formed a bud.
Greenish and tight, like clenched fists. I check it every morning; it’s still the same, tightly closed. I looked again this morning, still the same.
I started to feel a little anxious.
Clearly, the leaves are green, the sunlight is enough, and I’ve watered it, but it just won’t open. I leaned in closer and saw a thin crack at the top of the bud, with white petals peeking out little by little, like a baby opening its eyes.
It turns out it’s been blooming all along. I just couldn’t see it.
Waitin

Day 66 · Waiting for the Bamboo to Grow Tall
I heard that in the first four years underground, bamboo only grows three centimeters.
That three centimeters is all underground. Invisible, untouchable, only when you dig it up do you realize its roots have quietly spread over hundreds of square meters. Starting from the fifth year, it shoots up at a rate of thirty centimeters a day, reaching fifteen meters in just six weeks.
In the first four years, it’s not in a hurry because it knows it’s taking root.
During tough times, it’s like the first four years of bamboo.
The numbers on your acc

Day Sixty-Four · Planting a Tree
Last spring, I planted a loquat tree in my hometown yard.
When I was planting it, the neighbor said it would take three or five years to bear fruit. I said, no rush.
Later, I returned to the city. Occasionally, I would think about it and ask my mom how the tree was doing. She said it had grown a little taller, then a little taller again. I asked if it was bearing fruit, and she said, just one year, it’s too early.
This year, when I went back, the tree was already taller than me. Its branches thick, leaves green, rustling in the wind. Still no fruit. But

Day Sixty-Three · Waiting for a Cat to Come Home
The orange cat downstairs is missing.
Usually at this time, it’s sunbathing by the flower bed, its tail curled into a question mark. Today, the flower bed is empty, only the wind flipping through the leaves.
I took a walk around the neighborhood. No sign of it in the bushes, under the cars, or on the steps where it usually naps.
As I kept looking, I suddenly smiled—what am I so anxious about?
It’s just gone for a walk. Maybe visiting the neighbor’s yard, maybe napping on a tree branch, or watching the sunset from a windowsill. It knows the way,

The Sixtieth Day · That Tree
The tree downstairs, I've watched it for sixty days.
When I first moved here, it was bare, its branches reaching up to the sky, as if asking a question. I didn't pay attention, hurried past with my suitcase, rushing to sign my first contract.
Later, I passed by every day, sometimes glancing up, sometimes not. When I looked, I felt it hadn't changed much; when I didn't, I felt like it had secretly grown a little.
Until today — the sixtieth day.
Tiny new buds appeared on the branches, yellow-green, small, like newly opened eyes. One, two, three, countless. Sunlight f

Day Fifty-Nine · Watching the Distant Mountains
When hanging clothes on the balcony, I looked up and saw the distant mountains.
Gray-blue in color, faint, like someone lightly sketched with a brush. Usually blocked by tall buildings, but today, for some reason, I saw them at a glance. Maybe because the air is good, maybe because the sun’s angle is just right, or maybe I just felt like looking up today.
The mountains are right there. They've always been.
I've lived in this neighborhood for three years, and for the first time, I noticed I could see the mountains from the balcony. In thos

Day 58
Went downstairs for a walk and ran into an orange cat by the flower bed.
It was lying there sunbathing, sprawled out completely, belly up, tail tip gently swaying. The sunlight fell on it, fluffy and golden, like it was dusted with gold powder. People passing by glanced at it, but it didn't care at all, didn't even lift an eyelid.
I stood there for a while. It flipped over, changed position, and continued sunbathing.
I'm really envious. No need to watch the charts, no need to stare at the candlesticks, no need to worry about whether it went up or down today. When the sun comes out, bask

Day 57 · Counting Stars
Went up to the rooftop in the evening to hang clothes, and when I looked up, I saw so many stars.
Not the kind that shine so bright they dazzle your eyes, but faint, scattered ones, strewn across the black sky like I'd accidentally spilled a handful of salt. I counted, and could make out about a dozen or so clearly, then when I looked more carefully, a few more appeared.
When I was little, my grandmother taught me to recognize the Big Dipper. Shaped like a ladle—counting from one end to the other, seven stars. Back then, I thought there were so many stars, I could never

Day 56 · Sprouting
The avocado pit on the windowsill finally cracked open a small line.
I casually soaked it last month after eating an avocado, with four toothpicks propping it up, half submerged in water. At first, I checked it every day, three times a day, but nothing happened. Later I forgot about it, occasionally changing the water and glancing at it when I remembered.
This morning while changing the water, I discovered a fine crack at the bottom, with a white root peeking out from inside—like a baby extending its first finger.
Suddenly I remembered when I first entered the circle.
Back t

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