Jack Stewart had a dream, a dream of his childhood.
They were mories from a long ti ago.
Before he turned five, he had a seemingly happy and perfect family; his parents were in love, and the family was affluent.
In his mory, his mother was a gentle woman, like a lady from the water towns of Jiangnan, always loving to wear long dresses, her waist-length hair loosely held with a pin.
His mother loved flowers, so there were always flowers blooming in the yard in front of the house all year round.
When the weather was nice, his mother would go to the yard to prune the branches of the flowers, and when she bent over, so strands of hair would fall beside her ears, then she would tuck them behind her ear.
The sun was just right, a faint layer of warm light, loved most when cast in people’s mories.
At that ti, he was still naive, and while his mother wasn’t paying attention, he ruined several blooming callias.
Without any care, he pulled off the petals and threw them on the ground.
His flower-loving mother saw this and her eyes reddened, but in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to hit him, she just quietly cried to herself sadly.
Later when his father ca ho, he picked him up, spanked his bottom, and told him that he shouldn’t make his mother sad.
The young him nodded, half understanding, half not.
But it was this man who taught him not to make his mother sad, who hurt her the most deeply of all.
After he turned five, his once gentle mother seldom smiled; she always stared blankly at the fallen flowers in the yard, occasionally sighing, and after sighing, she would smile with her eyes downcast.
It wasn’t until he grew up did he understand that such a smile was bitter, like when he used to chew the petals he picked as a child.
Beautiful on the outside, but filled with bitterness inside.
But at that ti, he didn’t understand; his mother would still hold his hand, sing to him, tell him bedti stories.
Telling him, "Our Jack is the best child."
He couldn’t see the sadness in his mother’s eyes.
Just like how after the blossom blooms, it gradually begins to wither, little by little taken away by the autumn wind.
That man whom he should call father stayed by his mother’s bedside day and night, as if aged ten years overnight, with eyes full of vicissitudes and remorse.
The tone of sorrow was so real as if he truly loved his mother with all his life.
Perhaps it was love.
But for so people, love holds so little weight in their hearts, that even at its peak, it’s no match for so-called "temptation."
No, what "temptation," it was nothing but an excuse, the greed and desire in that man’s heart.
He was unworthy of his mother.
A person like an orchid has left, after all.
He rembered the last thing his mother said to him, "Jack, you must learn to distinguish genuine affection, if you truly love soone, you should give them all your feelings, do not fail them, and do not hurt them."
In the many years that followed, the mory of his mother had blurred, but those words remained etched in his mind.
After that autumn, the flowers in the yard all withered.
The person who used to sit sadly weeping under the tree was replaced by his father.
The scattered red leaves covering the ground looked like the years that had passed away, no matter how beautiful the flowers were in the following year, they wouldn’t be the sa as last year’s.
Once gone, it’s gone.
The man’s belated regret only made him feel ridiculous.
rely moved by himself.
After he turned five, it was just him and his father left in the house.
The sadness in the man’s eyes never faded throughout the year, as if deeply branded into his heart, gradually becoming stubborn, insane.
There weren’t many things in the house that belonged to his mother, the few remaining photos were locked in the room by his father.
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