Waiting in the Light

As dusk settled, the old twilight market gradually quieted down. Beside a vegetable stall sat an old man with a face full of wrinkles. In his hand, he held a clean white towel, gently wiping a small potted cactus. The old man's wife had passed away from illness half a year ago. Before she died, the old lady loved this small, resilient green plant the most, always saying it was just like their life together – not needing much water, yet always staying green. One day, a little boy ran up to the stall and pointed at the cactus, asking, "Grandpa, how much is this?" The old man looked up and smiled gently, saying, "It's not for sale. If you like it, little one, just take it." The boy shook his head. He took out a crumpled hundred-yuan bill and a few coins from his pocket and said earnestly, "Mom said I shouldn't take things for free. This is all the money from my piggy bank. I want to buy it to give to my mom, who's in the hospital, so that when she sees green, she can be brave like the cactus." The old man's hand trembled slightly, a flicker of light flashing in his cloudy eyes. Looking at the sensible, frail child before him, he seemed to see himself from years ago, gritting his teeth and persevering for survival. He gently pushed the money back, packed the cactus into an exquisite paper bag, and handed it to the boy: "Take your money back. Grandpa's flower was meant for the person who needs it most. I wish your mother a speedy recovery." The boy bowed, hugged the flower, and happily ran towards the bus stop. The setting sun stretched the old man's shadow long. He turned his head and looked at the rattan chair his wife had loved most during her life, as if seeing her smiling at him and thanking him.