In the corner of an old bookstore at $ETH , there is a musty-smelling bound book. When I flipped to the last page, the red ink suddenly blurred—"Lin Xiaoman, on the day the ginkgo leaves fall, losing the last petal of spring."

As autumn sets in, I always run to the old ginkgo tree at the alley's entrance, picking up golden leaves to tuck into my textbooks. Grandma sits under the tree on a small stool, saying that when I collect a hundred leaves, she will make me ginkgo porridge.

Today the wind is strong, and the ginkgo leaves are falling onto the blue stone slab. When I counted to ninety-nine leaves, my phone vibrated—it's a call from the hospital. Amid the smell of disinfectant, Grandma holds my hand tightly: "Xiaoman, spring... is in the porridge."

Outside the window, the ginkgo tree is bare. It turns out the most painful prophecy is to write the people we cherish as inevitable footnotes of loss.