It's dawn, so beautiful.

 　　I wake up in the thin light of dawn, always muttering to myself: "It's daylight, so beautiful." Everyone probably has a kind of fascination, intoxication, and longing for the pure beauty of nature. I especially love the time of daybreak; my body and soul, dormant all night, just want to run wildly with the morning light. In the quiet passage of the morning light, I also hope to find someone to miss.

　　That night, a heavy rain fell, dispelling much of the summer heat. The stone bricks gleamed with a bluish light. When my beloved morning arrived, I saw the old man still holding a round teapot in his right hand, swaying gently, humming softly. The Tang Dynasty poet Lu Tong wrote about tea: "One bowl moistens the throat and lips, two bowls dispel loneliness, three bowls scour the dry intestines..." The old man didn't set out an open bowl and gulp it down. He probably didn't know Zhou Zuoren's famous line: "Drinking tea should be done under a tiled roof and paper window, with clear spring water and green tea, using simple ceramic teaware, shared with two or three friends, gaining half a day of leisure, which can be worth ten years of worldly dreams." For the old man, the memories of ten years of life's journey are profound, and half a day of leisure is carefree. Those who know him well know that he is an old man who has experienced several ups and downs in his official career, yet remains upright and outspoken. He sips his drink alone, without needing two or three companions. As Lin Yutang said, "To have one true friend in the world is enough to make one not hate, which shows how rare it is." Therefore, the old man's virtuous character and upright conduct shine brightly in the sky, and he is beautiful on his own, not caring whether he has two or three companions.

　　As dawn broke, the world outside the window remained quiet. Unable to speak, unable to listen, I read the news: a man in Henan had his vegetable-selling money stolen, and he knelt and wept in the street. This stirred up a deep sorrow within me. I thought of my mother. That year, as the year drew to a close, she took the family's only money to the market in Haozhuang. As dusk settled, my mother, always punctual, still hadn't returned. My father and I found her on the bridge near the village. In the thin winter mist, she shivered, her eyes red and swollen, sitting blankly on the bridge. She said she was ashamed to go home; the money she had saved to buy new clothes for her six children had been stolen. When she looked up at my father, tears welled up again. My father simply said softly, "It's alright, we can earn it back!" In the days that followed, my father didn't return home until the early hours of the morning. When I asked him what he had been doing, he held my hand and said, "Just busy with some small things." Years later, I learned that every night, my father would ride his old bicycle under the cover of darkness to the quartz mine near Zhao Village to push ore. My father was busy with farm work during the day, and at night he had to walk dozens of kilometers of mountain roads to get there. At dawn, my father must have felt very happy. He deeply loved my mother; his love was profound and unspoken. He gave her the warmest affection in the world without reservation. He deeply loved this family, and through thick and thin, he never abandoned them, bravely shouldering their responsibilities.

　　In the morning in the small town, Yingzi and I were also among the crowds, walking in high heels, our steps swaying. Just hearing the name of the park was intoxicating: Shengjing, with its clear springs, a place of joy and tranquility. Stretching from Yuquan Street in the east to Tiantaishan Road in the south, from Taihang Avenue in the west to Qishanhu Avenue in the north, the park meanders around the water. Friends had often mentioned that hidden along its winding paths lay a sea of ​​flowers. I never imagined that when I arrived, the flowers would already be in full bloom, a vibrant, unrestrained display of color. Their petals, fragrant and shimmering, danced freely, neither humble nor shy, neither timid nor pretentious, fully embodying the beauty of springtime—grand, proud, and radiant. I was captivated, mesmerized. Everything, scene after scene, was like life itself, each person reciting the language of flowers in their own season, reveling in a floral spectacle. I began to guess its true name. My friend said its scientific name is Hollyhock, native to Sichuan. I was astonished. How could something so radiant and lovely have traversed mountains and rivers to take root in such a desolate little town? Every glance I made revealed familiar faces. Had it finally realized that a foreign land could be home? She bloomed in the depths of summer, the rain gently dripping onto the branches, just like the cool and mellow summer. The flowers that stirred my childhood were dressed in red dresses a foot long, pink, bright red, and crimson, simple and lively, upright and straight, silently enduring the vicissitudes of life, adding a lot of nobility to her simplicity. The bowl-sized flowers had a silky light and texture, and there was an inexplicable mystery settled in them, with a hint of fearlessness and flamboyance.

　　The morning sky was still a deep blue, a highland blue, its soul pure and gentle. The soul of a novel is emotion; the two cannot be blended, yet they share a common beauty. I thought of Jiayou Village, that pure village imbued with historical sentiment, its elegant civilization hidden deep within its cobblestone alleys, ultimately captivating the soul. The village awoke with a rooster's crow from beyond the clouds. For me, years of turmoil had long since extinguished any fleeting fantasies. Dreams of distant lands, middle-aged listening to the rain, serene and carefree, I only hoped for more unexpected surprises on life's journey. I had long heard that Lijiang was a place of heavy drinking and revelry, where the night began in bars. The novel "Lijiang's Soft Time" said that Lijiang's wine was soft, capable of healing; if one squeezed into a bar, the noisy, chaotic sounds could soothe wounds. Thinking about it, I became engrossed. Perhaps Lijiang would be even more beautiful after dawn, with lush vegetation, rolling mountains, and babbling brooks.

　　Dawn broke, and everything was breathtakingly beautiful.