The nightingale lingers in my thoughts.

Choosing a spot in an outdoor cafe, I gazed down Hanoi's Book Street. A few people, probably tourists, were happily taking photos and browsing books, occasionally shrugging their shoulders and adjusting their scarves when a breeze passed by.

Hanoi has twelve seasons of flowers, but the daisy remains a special flower that embodies the character of the people of Hanoi.

I love Hanoi in the early days of winter like this, with the chill in the air bringing with it scents that evoke memories. A ray of sunlight breaks through the leaves and dances with the daisies, and the book I just chose and placed on the table seems to be imprinted with tiny flower clusters. I gaze at the tiny white petals of winter that have arrived on the streets.

Hanoi has twelve seasons of flowers, but the daisy remains a special flower, embodying the character of the people of Hanoi. Hanoians are refined, daisies are gentle; Hanoians are graceful, daisies are delicate and subtle. I am captivated by this flower as I am by everything simple and pure, and I also strangely love the flower vendors. When the wind blows, the streets are adorned with gentle white hues, making the capital's winter surprisingly gentle and peaceful. The scent of late-season milkweed lingers, as if autumn is reluctant to leave, a little sunlight still clinging to the flower's pistil, adding a touch of yellow amidst countless white petals.

I remember Huy! When I first came to Hanoi, Huy was the one sitting opposite me in a café with a vase of pure white daisies. Huy smiled and said, "So you're satisfied now, aren't you? You get to see them in person, touch them, and smell them, unlike before when you used to scold me for sending you pictures just to tease you." Huy said that if I stayed longer, he would take me to the rocky banks of the Red River to take pictures. Huy had a charming, perfect Hanoi accent, and he was as gentle and simple as the daisies, exactly like the characters in the TV dramas that a Southerner like me always admired.

Huy and I met in a group where we were born on the same day, month, and year. Out of politeness, I always called Huy "brother," and it's become an unchangeable habit. There were many people in the group, but Huy and I got along better; every time I went to Hanoi, Huy became my tour guide. Three years ago, Huy suddenly discovered he had a thyroid tumor, and all doors closed for this enthusiastic young man. Since then, every time I go to Hanoi in winter, there's always an empty seat opposite the chrysanthemum garden, a space I can't stop thinking about. I still missed our date to go to the Red River embankment to take pictures with the chrysanthemums, but what I regret isn't the beautiful photos, but the warm voice of this Hanoi boy.

From then on, daisies became an unforgettable memory for me. This year, many flower vendors on the streets of Hanoi offered photo services, allowing girls to freely pose with the pristine white flowers. I also chose a bouquet of daisies, and I gazed wistfully beneath the ancient trees. Leaves fell scattered along Phan Dinh Phung Street, and the characteristic autumn sunlight was so gentle and bright that I find it hard to describe; I only know that this moment is unlike anywhere else.

I often buy a bunch to take back to the South, but it seems that daisies are only truly beautiful when they bloom on the quiet streets of the capital; they are even more beautiful in the crisp, cool air of early winter in Hanoi. Another winter without Huy, I sit alone in the old café, gazing at the vase of daisies, my heart filled with nostalgia. Daisies have always been like that—not intensely fragrant, not dazzlingly colorful, but incredibly subtle and faithful. The book street is bathed in a soft golden sunlight today; I let my soul wander in a winter melody, watching the gentle daisies descend onto the street!

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