My grandmother ran a flower shop her whole life. It was a small shop with a red-tiled roof, blue-green walls, and two baskets of pink flowers always drying on the windowsill. She said the flower shop wasn't just selling flowers, but about who was thinking of whom.
Later, my grandmother grew old, and the flower shop closed. I carried her flower shop home piece by piece—recreating it as I remembered it, piecing together the wooden walls, opening the small windows, hanging baskets, laying out the checkered tablecloth, and lighting the kerosene lamp. When I finished the last window, I suddenly felt that my grandmother was sitting by the window, smiling and saying to me: "Take your time, life should be lived slowly."
Flower Leisure Time. It turns out that what I built with my own hands wasn't just a small flower shop, but a time I couldn't bear to forget.
