EveningMist

Day 66 · Waiting for the Bamboo to Grow Tall
I heard that in the first four years underground, bamboo only grows three centimeters.
That three centimeters is all underground. Invisible, untouchable, only when you dig it up do you realize its roots have quietly spread over hundreds of square meters. Starting from the fifth year, it shoots up at a rate of thirty centimeters a day, reaching fifteen meters in just six weeks.
In the first four years, it’s not in a hurry because it knows it’s taking root.
During tough times, it’s like the first four years of bamboo.
The numbers on your acc

Day 65 · Waiting for the River to Thaw
In the afternoon, I went for a walk in the suburbs and saw the river still covered with ice.
It’s not the thick, white, opaque ice, but thin, transparent ice, with water visible underneath. The sunlight shines on it, sparkling like a layer of broken glass.
Squatting down to look, I saw cracks on the ice surface, thin and winding, like rivers on a map. Following the cracks inward, I saw water slowly flowing underneath—calm, unhurried, knowing that spring will come.
It reminded me of childhood back home, when the river froze in winter and children played on

Day Sixty-Four · Planting a Tree
Last spring, I planted a loquat tree in my hometown yard.
When I was planting it, the neighbor said it would take three or five years to bear fruit. I said, no rush.
Later, I returned to the city. Occasionally, I would think about it and ask my mom how the tree was doing. She said it had grown a little taller, then a little taller again. I asked if it was bearing fruit, and she said, just one year, it’s too early.
This year, when I went back, the tree was already taller than me. Its branches thick, leaves green, rustling in the wind. Still no fruit. But

Day Sixty-Three · Waiting for a Cat to Come Home
The orange cat downstairs is missing.
Usually at this time, it’s sunbathing by the flower bed, its tail curled into a question mark. Today, the flower bed is empty, only the wind flipping through the leaves.
I took a walk around the neighborhood. No sign of it in the bushes, under the cars, or on the steps where it usually naps.
As I kept looking, I suddenly smiled—what am I so anxious about?
It’s just gone for a walk. Maybe visiting the neighbor’s yard, maybe napping on a tree branch, or watching the sunset from a windowsill. It knows the way,

Day 62 · Waiting for a leaf to stand up again
The morning glory on the balcony was blown over by the wind yesterday.
The vine was leaning askew, the leaves pressed against the soil, and the flower buds facing downward, as if apologizing to the ground. I tried to help it up, but it was soft and couldn’t stand. Forget it, let it rest for a night.
This morning, I looked again—and it had stood up on its own.
The vine wrapped around the railing again, the leaves stretched toward the sun, and the flower buds also lifted their faces, pink and tender. As if nothing had happened.
I squatted there and w

Day 61 · The neighborhood after the rain, the air carries the smell of earth.
Puddles reflect the sky, a shallow pool, clouds swimming through it. The leaves are wet and shiny green. A bird is singing, hiding somewhere in a tree, its call crisp and clear, as if saying goodbye to the rain.
I stand by the window and watch for a long time.
Thinking about the market situation these days.
The group chat has gone quiet, no more sharing screenshots, even the KOLs who give signals have posted fewer updates. Someone asked: What should we do? Cut? Run?
I don’t know.
But what I do know is — the rain will

The Sixtieth Day · That Tree
The tree downstairs, I've watched it for sixty days.
When I first moved here, it was bare, its branches reaching up to the sky, as if asking a question. I didn't pay attention, hurried past with my suitcase, rushing to sign my first contract.
Later, I passed by every day, sometimes glancing up, sometimes not. When I looked, I felt it hadn't changed much; when I didn't, I felt like it had secretly grown a little.
Until today — the sixtieth day.
Tiny new buds appeared on the branches, yellow-green, small, like newly opened eyes. One, two, three, countless. Sunlight f

Day Fifty-Nine · Watching the Distant Mountains
When hanging clothes on the balcony, I looked up and saw the distant mountains.
Gray-blue in color, faint, like someone lightly sketched with a brush. Usually blocked by tall buildings, but today, for some reason, I saw them at a glance. Maybe because the air is good, maybe because the sun’s angle is just right, or maybe I just felt like looking up today.
The mountains are right there. They've always been.
I've lived in this neighborhood for three years, and for the first time, I noticed I could see the mountains from the balcony. In thos

Day 58
Went downstairs for a walk and ran into an orange cat by the flower bed.
It was lying there sunbathing, sprawled out completely, belly up, tail tip gently swaying. The sunlight fell on it, fluffy and golden, like it was dusted with gold powder. People passing by glanced at it, but it didn't care at all, didn't even lift an eyelid.
I stood there for a while. It flipped over, changed position, and continued sunbathing.
I'm really envious. No need to watch the charts, no need to stare at the candlesticks, no need to worry about whether it went up or down today. When the sun comes out, bask

Day 57 · Counting Stars
Went up to the rooftop in the evening to hang clothes, and when I looked up, I saw so many stars.
Not the kind that shine so bright they dazzle your eyes, but faint, scattered ones, strewn across the black sky like I'd accidentally spilled a handful of salt. I counted, and could make out about a dozen or so clearly, then when I looked more carefully, a few more appeared.
When I was little, my grandmother taught me to recognize the Big Dipper. Shaped like a ladle—counting from one end to the other, seven stars. Back then, I thought there were so many stars, I could never

Day 56 · Sprouting
The avocado pit on the windowsill finally cracked open a small line.
I casually soaked it last month after eating an avocado, with four toothpicks propping it up, half submerged in water. At first, I checked it every day, three times a day, but nothing happened. Later I forgot about it, occasionally changing the water and glancing at it when I remembered.
This morning while changing the water, I discovered a fine crack at the bottom, with a white root peeking out from inside—like a baby extending its first finger.
Suddenly I remembered when I first entered the circle.
Back t

Day Fifty-Five · Stillness
Nine o'clock.
The city lights are still on, but the noise has quieted down. The distant sound of cars becomes faint, like it's filtered through a veil. The convenience store downstairs has turned off its lights, and the street lamps stand alone, casting tree shadows on the ground, perfectly still.
I sit on the balcony doing nothing.
No checking my phone, no listening to music, no thinking about tomorrow's tasks. Just sitting, listening to the sounds of the night.
Actually, the night has no sound. Or rather, the sound of the night is stillness itself.
Daytime is too n

Day Fifty-Four · The Noon Shadow
12:03 PM. The sun hangs directly overhead.
Standing downstairs waiting for a friend, I look down and see my own shadow—compressed into a tiny bundle, clinging tightly to my feet like a crouching small animal. Step on it once, and it dodges. Step again, and it dodges again. No matter how hard I try, I can never catch it.
Suddenly, I remember my favorite childhood game—stomping on shadows. Several kids would run wild on the playground, stomping on each other's shadows, and whoever's shadow got stepped on would lose. Back then I didn't understand: how could you ev

Day Fifty-Three · Swallows
There's a nest of swallows living under the eaves of the building downstairs.
Every morning at 5:30 AM sharp, they start calling. Chirp chirp chirping—not the harsh kind of noise, but delicate, fragmented chatter, like a family discussing where to catch insects today.
Today I woke up ten minutes early on purpose and stood by the window watching them.
The mother swallow flies out first, circles through the sky, then comes back. Then she takes the baby swallows and flies together—one, two, three, lined up in a row, disappearing beyond the other side of the building.
Th

Day Fifty-Two · Dewdrops
At 6:30 in the morning, on the grass in the company garden, every leaf is topped with a dewdrop.
Small, round, and shiny. When there is wind, they sway gently but do not fall, as if playing a game with the leaves.
Crouching down to look, the sky is reflected in the dewdrops. A cloud just happens to drift by, gets captured in that tiny water droplet, then drifts away. Another cloud, then it drifts away again.
Suddenly I realize that dewdrops actually exist for a very short time.
Once the sun rises, they are gone.
The short ones may last only an hour or two, the longer o

Day Fifty-One · Listening to the Rain
It rained all day long.
Yesterday was light, tapping gently against the glass, like someone lightly scratching with their fingernails.
This morning it grew heavier, splashing loudly, the rain canopy on the balcony being hit with a loud noise.
By noon it became lighter again, drizzling softly, like telling a very long story.
I listened to it all day.
I remember I used to dislike rain the most.
Going out was troublesome, clothes wouldn't dry.
Whenever it rained, I would feel anxious, always worried about missing something, always wanting to open an app to ch

Day fifty · Halfway point
The mint on the windowsill has sprouted new leaves again.
I remember the first day I wrote these words, I casually pinched off a branch and placed it in water. At that time, I thought, if I can keep it alive for fifty days, it would mean that some things don’t need to be forced to survive.
Now it has truly grown roots—thin and white, floating in the water.
Day fifty. Halfway there.
Looking back at what I’ve written over these fifty days:
Sometimes I write on an airplane, with the person next to me watching a movie, while I’m writing about the relationship

Day Forty-Nine
The magnolia flowers below the community building have bloomed.
Last month when I passed by, the branches were still bare, like ellipses stretching toward the sky. Nobody paid attention to them, not even birds wanted to linger.
The day before yesterday, I saw a hint of white, like the tip of a brush dipped in ink, gently dotting the branches.
Today, when I look again, more than half of the flowers have opened, with thick, fleshy petals swaying gently in the wind.
Only two weeks have passed.
Suddenly, I remember when I first entered the circle.
Watching others double their invest

Day 48
At 8 a.m., I turn on the computer.
Walking to the window, I happen to see that the sun is no longer glaring—like a cooked egg yolk, softly hanging on the horizon. The clouds are tinged orange-red, layer upon layer, like ocean waves, and also like cotton candy.
On weekends, most people in this city are resting at home.
I look at all this quietness.
99+ messages in my phone, 99+ discussions in group chats, 99+ fluctuations on the market software.
Afraid of missing something, afraid of falling behind, afraid that if I don’t watch the charts this second, they’ll skyrocket the ne

Day Forty-Seven
Ran out to the woods at dawn, perched on a tree branch watching. Dewdrops hit the leaves, slide down, then hit the next leaf below, layer by layer, like the staircase of time. The air smells of soil, damp and soft, unlike the dryness of an air-conditioned room.
I remember as a child, on rainy days my favorite thing to do was perch on the windowsill and watch the rain. I could watch for a whole morning without getting bored. But now? My first instinct is to check my phone—does the market affect the K-line? Which sector will be affected by concept speculation?
Suddenly I recalled