Since we are all reborn, let’s arrest the senior!

The six o'clock morning sunlight, like crumbled egg yolk, filtered through the sheer curtains and spread across the bedroom floor. Jiang Zimei groggily turned over, her nose first catching a faint, sweet fragrance—the smell of Lu Mingze cooking osmanthus porridge in the kitchen. She grabbed her phone from the bedside table; the lock screen wallpaper was a photo taken at the beach last week: him kneeling on the sand, putting a stardust bracelet on her finger, the setting sun casting long shadows of the two of them, like two paintbrushes dipped in orange paint.

"Get up and have a bowl of porridge when you're awake." Lu Mingze pushed open the door and came in carrying a tray. The cuffs of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the pale blue veins on his forearms. In addition to the bowl of porridge, there was also her cashmere cardigan that she had left on the sofa last night, folded neatly, with a seashell-shaped brooch pinned to the collar—a souvenir she had brought back from the guesthouse.

Jiang Zimei sat up, wrapped in the blanket, and watched him crush the osmanthus flowers in the porridge with a spoon: "Didn't you say you were going to the botanical garden to see the chrysanthemum exhibition? How come you have time to cook porridge?"

"You can't drink cold milk on an empty stomach." He blew on the porridge in the spoon and brought it to her lips. "Besides, someone insisted on drawing succulents in the middle of the night yesterday, and now their finger joints must be sore again."

She glared at him, but then squinted as she tasted the smooth porridge—it had the delicate aroma of dried tangerine peel, which he had specially bought from a time-honored brand. Her tongue touched a plump chestnut, and she remembered her casual remark last week at the supermarket, "It's time to eat chestnuts in autumn." It turned out he remembered.

After breakfast, the two began packing their bags. Lu Mingze stuffed a pack of hand warmers into his side pocket and checked the camera battery three times—last time at the zoo, she'd run out of battery halfway through taking pictures of flamingos, and she'd stomped her feet in frustration. Jiang Zimei was squatting in the entryway tying her canvas shoes when she suddenly noticed half a ball of blue yarn sticking out of his pocket. She reached out and pulled it out: "What's this?"

"It's nothing!" Lu Mingze reached out to grab it, but was a beat too slow. Jiang Zimei unfolded the ball of yarn, and a half-finished keychain fell out—a little bear crocheted with blue yarn, with a silver star pinned to its chest.

"Lu Mingze!" She laughed until tears streamed down her face, holding up the keychain. "When did you learn to crochet?"

The man's ears flushed red as he bent down to tie her shoelaces. "I saw you knitting a scarf for Snowball last time, and I thought it wasn't difficult." He ran his fingertips over the mole on the inside of her ankle. "I originally wanted to crochet an owl to hang on your camera, but..."

"So the bear has three ears?" She poked the bear's round head and found that one of the ears was indeed crooked, like a succulent leaf blown askew by the wind. Lu Mingze suddenly grabbed her wrist, pulled her into his arms, and rested his chin on the top of her head: "Anyway, you already have the stardust pendant I gave you on your camera, so one more won't make a difference."

As she zipped up her backpack, Jiang Zimei slipped a packet of throat lozenges into his side pocket—he'd been coughing a lot lately when she covered her with the blanket in the early morning. In the entryway mirror, the two of them wore matching khaki trench coats; she had a seashell brooch pinned to her lapel, and his backpack had a crooked-eared bear hanging from it, like two trees standing side by side, their branches gently intertwining in the wind.

The wind at the end of September carried the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms, and the benches at the bus stop were covered with golden petals. Jiang Zimei squatted by the flower bed taking pictures of the osmanthus flowers when a calico stray cat suddenly appeared in her frame. Just as she was about to focus, the cat was startled by Lu Mingze's footsteps and ran away.

"It's all your fault!" She looked up angrily, only to see him holding a bag of roasted chestnuts he had just bought: "I bought these for someone, they're still warm."

The moment the chestnut shell cracked open, the aroma of caramel mixed with the fragrance of osmanthus wafted out. Jiang Zimei bit into a chestnut, and the soft flesh melted on her tongue. She suddenly remembered last winter when she was queuing up to buy chestnuts on the street at minus five degrees Celsius. Her fingers were frozen red, but she said, "The chestnuts here have thin shells."

The bus stop announcement broke the silence. Lu Mingze boarded first, then turned to help her, the calluses on his palm brushing against her wrist—marks left from years of handling spatulas and cat food cans. The window seat in the back was empty, sunlight slanting in and gilding his hair. Jiang Zimei suddenly reached out to remove the osmanthus blossoms from his hair, her fingertips touching a few newly sprouted white hairs, like milk foam in coffee.

"What are you looking at?" When Lu Mingze turned his head, their noses almost touched. She saw her reflection in his pupils, wearing the milk tea-colored sweater he had bought for her, her eyelashes still covered with pollen from when she was taking pictures of the flowers.

"I wonder if Mr. Snowman will be marinated in the fragrance of osmanthus." She shook the bag of chestnuts in her hand. "Last time you said the osmanthus sugar I made was too sweet, now you know what 'sweet to the point of being cloying' means, right?"

The man chuckled and pulled a mint from his pocket, popping it into her mouth: "To neutralize it." The candy wrapper rustled softly in her palm. She suddenly remembered that last night, while organizing the photo album, she saw the candy wrappers he had secretly tucked between the pages of the book—all flavors she had eaten: strawberry, sea salt, lemon, each one pressed flat and neat, like bookmarks tucked into time.

The chrysanthemum exhibition in the botanical garden was set up on the lawn next to the greenhouse. Thousands of chrysanthemums were divided into different areas according to their varieties. Some were as white as snow, some as yellow as gold, and there was also the dark purple "Ink Lotus," whose petals curled like a swan's neck. Jiang Zimei chased after butterflies with her camera in hand, while Lu Mingze followed behind with a backpack containing her spare lens and thermos.

"Look at this!" She stopped in front of a chrysanthemum called "Green Peony," its petals a translucent green, like they were carved from jade.

Lu Mingze handed her a wet wipe to wipe her sweat, and noticed a chrysanthemum petal stuck to her forehead. He reached out and picked it off for her: "Want to take a picture with it?"

Just as she struck a pose, a gust of wind blew by, causing the chrysanthemums to sway gently like golden waves. The instant Lu Mingze pressed the shutter, she saw him behind her in the lens—his silver hair was blowing in the wind, a smile playing on his lips, like a reed warmed by the sun.

At noon, the two ate sandwiches in the gazebo. When Jiang Zimei unwrapped the plastic wrap, she found an extra fried egg in her sandwich—she had said she wanted a soft-boiled egg that morning, so he had spent an extra ten minutes in the kitchen. In the distance, children were chasing bubbles, and colorful bubbles floated to their feet. Lu Mingze reached out and popped one, and soapy water splashed onto the back of her hand, feeling cool.

"Let's go to the tropical plant museum this afternoon." He wiped the mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth. "I heard they have moving Venus flytraps there."

"Then be careful not to get eaten." She shook his hand. "After all, Mr. Snowman is so sweet, the Venus flytrap would definitely like him."

The man raised an eyebrow and suddenly leaned close to her ear: "Then you have to take responsibility for saving me." His warm breath brushed against her earlobe, and she felt her cheeks burning. She quickly lowered her head and took a sip of osmanthus oolong tea—it was in a thermos, and the temperature was just right, not too hot to burn her mouth.

Suddenly, it started raining outside the glass dome of the tropical plant pavilion. Large raindrops pounded against the glass, making a pattering sound.

Jiang Zimei stood next to the Monstera deliciosa to take a picture. Water droplets slid down the leaves, forming a natural filter in the lens.

Lu Mingze stood behind her, opening the folding umbrella he carried with him for her—although she wouldn't get wet indoors, he was always worried she'd catch a cold from the air conditioning. "Look!" she suddenly pointed to a traveler's palm in the distance, "Doesn't it look like a peacock spreading its tail?" The leaves were broad as fans, the veins clear as the lines on a palm. Lu Mingze followed her gaze, but when he saw the water droplets on her hair, he reached out and tucked them behind her ear: "Your hair is wet."

The air in the greenhouse carried the damp scent of grass and trees, mixed with the smell of Blue Moon laundry detergent on him. Jiang Zimei suddenly remembered watering the succulents on the balcony last night, and him standing beside her humming a song, the off-key melody startling the sparrows perched on the clothes rack. At that moment, the rain grew heavier, and she heard her own heartbeat mingling with the rhythm of raindrops hitting the glass. Suddenly, she turned around and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"What's wrong?" His voice was tinged with laughter as he put his arm around her shoulder, his palm warm against her through her sweater.

"It's nothing." She buried her face in his chest, listening to his steady and strong heartbeat. "I just feel that on a rainy day like this, hiding in a greenhouse with someone you love is more romantic than seeing any flower show."

The man lowered his head and kissed the top of her head, the umbrella ribs making a slight creak. In the distance, the misting system activated, the fine mist forming rainbows in the sunlight, falling on their overlapping shadows like a palette accidentally spilled.

As they left the botanical garden in the evening, the rain stopped, and a sliver of the setting sun hung in the sky, like a salted egg yolk that had been bitten in the cheek. Jiang Zimei clutched her newly bought succulent plant in her hand—its leaves were long and thin like swords, and she named it "Rain Sword" to commemorate the rain of the day. Lu Mingze carried a bag, which now contained a bag of chrysanthemum pastries she had bought, as well as a bottle of mosquito repellent from the greenhouse.

The convenience store next to the bus stop was lit with warm yellow lights. Jiang Zimei suddenly pulled him inside: "Let's buy oden!" Radishes, seaweed knots, and fish balls floated in the soup in the glass cabinet. She picked out a fish ball and held it to his lips: "Try it."

He took a bite, and some soup splattered on the corner of his mouth. She reached out to wipe it away for him, her fingertips touching his stubble—he'd rushed out that morning and forgotten to shave. She suddenly remembered how, when they first moved in together, he would always apply shaving cream to make a small mustache to make her laugh, but now he would put his razor in the top drawer during her period, afraid she'd come into contact with cold water.

The bus moved forward in the twilight, the interior lights glowing a warm, old-fashioned light. Jiang Zimei dozed off on his shoulder, dreaming that she was running through a sea of ​​chrysanthemums, and Lu Mingze, wearing a white shirt, was waving to her from the far end, his hair studded with golden petals. Suddenly, she was startled awake by the sound of brakes, realizing she had drooled a little on his trench coat. Looking up, she saw the smile in his eyes: "What delicious food did you dream about?"

She hummed in response and turned to look out the window. The streetlights flickered on, casting his shadow on the car window, overlapping with hers. She suddenly remembered his silhouette in the kitchen this morning, cooking osmanthus porridge; the steam blurred his glasses, but clearly revealed the silver in his hair. She realized that eternity wasn't some earth-shattering moment, but countless everyday moments like this—him picking the scallions from her sandwich, him tilting his umbrella at a thirty-degree angle to her in the rain, the soft rustling sound when the calluses on his palms touched the calluses on her fingertips.

When they got off the train at their stop, the moon had already risen. Jiang Zimei looked up at the sky and saw that the Big Dipper looked like scattered diamonds on black velvet. She suddenly remembered that he had said, "Those seven stars look like a milk carton when they're connected." She reached out and took his hand, her fingertips touching the silver ring on his ring finger—the "Ze" character on the inside was polished to a shine, like a star that would never fall.

“Brother Lu,” she shook his hand, “tomorrow we’ll dry the chrysanthemum petals we picked today, could we make them into sachets?”

“Okay.” He squeezed her fingertips. “But let’s make it clear first, you’ll be in charge of picking the petals, and I’ll be in charge of sewing the bag—the last bag you sewed was drafty, and the lavender spilled all over the bed.”

She glared at him angrily, but burst out laughing when she saw the faint blush on the tips of his ears. The osmanthus blossoms by the roadside were still falling, like a golden rain. They walked forward, stepping on the petals, their shadows intertwined under the streetlights, like two symbiotic plants, their roots slowly entwining over the years, eventually growing into each other's sky.

When she arrived home, Xueqiu was squatting in the entryway to greet her, a newly knitted scarf around her neck. Lu Mingze went to the kitchen to heat up some milk, while she sat on the sofa organizing her camera's memory card. Suddenly, she saw a photo taken in the greenhouse that day—as he held an umbrella for her, sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on his face, like a painting blurred by time.

The steam from the milk wafted across the windowpane. She turned to look at him and saw him stirring the milk skin with a spoon, his silver hair gleaming softly in the lamplight. She suddenly remembered the jar of stardust she'd bought at the botanical garden—filled with chrysanthemum petals and raindrops she'd collected that day, now lying quietly in her backpack's side pocket. When they were old, opening those jars filled with stardust, they would probably see the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms from the entire autumn, contained within the lines of their intertwined palms.

Before going to bed, Jiang Zimei placed her "Rain Sword" succulent on the windowsill, next to a glass jar of osmanthus sugar. Lu Mingze tucked her in, his fingertips tracing her brow bone: "What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Mmm," she snuggled closer to him, inhaling the scent of soap on him, "I want sweet porridge with double the amount of osmanthus, and a fried egg, the soft-boiled kind."

the next day.

When the misting system in the tropical plant pavilion was turned on again, Jiang Zimei was squatting in the fern area taking pictures of bird's nest ferns.

Fine mist fell like diamonds, and she heard the sound of fabric rubbing behind her—it was Lu Mingze taking off his trench coat.

"Put your coat on." He draped his khaki trench coat over her shoulders, the cuffs still warm from his body. "It's humid here, so don't let your sweater get damp."

She wanted to refuse, but stopped when she touched the warmth of his wrist—his shirt cuffs were already damp with mist. Her fingertips traced the old scar on his forearm (the one he got when he was changing the light bulb on her bookshelf), and she suddenly remembered that he had secretly slipped a hand warmer into her bag before leaving this morning, while he himself was only wearing a thin shirt.

“Then wear my cardigan.” She reached for her cashmere cardigan, but he grabbed her wrist. The man pulled a sealed bag from the side pocket of his backpack, inside which was a neatly folded plaid shirt: “It was prepared a long time ago.” A silver collar pin peeked out from the shirt collar; it was a birthday gift she had given him last year, shaped like a maple leaf.

In the mist, she saw water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, like a curtain adorned with scattered diamonds. As he adjusted the collar of her trench coat, his fingertips brushed against her collarbone, carrying the warm, smooth touch of years spent washing dishes. In the distance, the traveler's palm leaves unfurled in the mist, and she suddenly remembered him saying, "Your eyelashes look like ferns in the sunlight." Now, his eyelashes truly did resemble dew-kissed fern leaves, each one reflecting her image.

The camera lens suddenly fogged up with water. Lu Mingze took out a glasses cloth and wiped it for her. The edge of the cloth was embroidered with small strawberries—something she had done on a whim last year, the stitches crooked, but he had been using it ever since. "All done." He handed the camera back to her, his fingertips lightly touching her palm, like a butterfly alighting and then flying away.

(End of this chapter)