The slow time of Li Dong and the worldly fireworks.

As the Start of Winter arrives, life seems to be put on slow motion. The morning mist is so thick it can't be dissolved, carrying a chill that seeps into the collar, reminding people it's time to take out the sweaters from the closet. The plane trees at the street corner finally shed their last stubbornness, with withered yellow leaves swirling down, paving a thin layer on the bluestone slabs. The crunching sound underfoot is like the whisper of the years.

The kitchen in my hometown always has a special aroma. Mother digs out the white radishes stored for a season from the cellar, and slow-cooks them with pork belly. The crackling of firewood in the stove, mixed with the gurgling of the pot and the howling wind outside the window, becomes the most comforting prelude to winter. Father would bring out the idle clay pot, peel the newly harvested chestnuts, and steam them with glutinous rice. The sweet and fragrant aroma would fill the entire yard. I would squat by the stove, watching the flames lick the bottom of the pot, my face flushed by the heat, yet feeling in my heart that this is the true flavor of the Start of Winter—down-to-earth with the breath of the hearth, and the warmth of family gathered around.

In the fields, farmers are busy covering the wheat seedlings with a "winter quilt." The golden rice has long been harvested and stored away, leaving only a few withered stalks swaying in the wind on the empty fields. The distant mountains are tinged with a light ink color, like a painting gently brushed with an ink wash, exuding a desolation that also hides a power ready to be unleashed. The lotus flowers in the pond have long withered, leaving only withered branches and leaves floating on the water's surface, with an occasional wild duck paddling, creating ripples that add a touch of life to the silent winter.

The Start of Winter in the city is another scene. People in office buildings button up their coats and hurry along the streets, their breath condensing into a fleeting mist in the cold air. Coffee shops on the street offer special deals on hot drinks; their windows are fogged up, and inside, people hold their cups, watching the falling leaves outside with a hint of languor in their eyes. Children, however, pay no mind to this. They wear gloves, chase and play in the park, tossing leaves into the sky. Their laughter, crisp as wind chimes, breaks the winter's silence.

The Start of Winter is an end, and also a beginning. It uses the biting cold wind to announce the end of autumn, and yet, with its accumulated warmth, it nurtures the hope of spring. Just like every turning point in life, it must go through a period of settling before new growth can emerge. At this moment, why not brew a pot of hot tea, read an old book, and in the quiet of the time, wait for the winter snow to fall, wait for all things to accumulate strength in their slumber, and wait for the warm spring and blooming flowers of the coming year.