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

As autumn comes, I always run to the old ginkgo tree at the alley entrance to pick up golden leaves to tuck in my textbooks. Grandma sets up a small stool under the tree, saying when I collect a hundred leaves, she'll make me ginkgo porridge.

Today the wind is strong, and the ginkgo leaves are falling onto the bluestone slabs. When I counted to ninety-nine leaves, my phone vibrated—hospital calling. 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 cherished ones as inevitable footnotes of loss.