In the corner of the old bookstore at #加密概念美股 , there is a musty smelling thread-bound book. When I turned to the last page, the red ink suddenly bled—"Lin Xiaoman, on the day the ginkgo leaves fall, losing the last petal of spring."

As autumn arrives, I always run to the old ginkgo tree at the alley entrance to collect golden leaves to tuck into my textbooks. Grandma sets up a small stool under the tree, saying that 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. Amidst the smell of disinfectant, Grandma held 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 people into the footnotes of inevitable loss.