บท 694: Mingmei

It was Saturday, the end of the second week of March. Spring had just begun and, as always, spring in New York, with its vibrant palette and the scent of flowers, was an invitation to rebirth. The trees, once skeletal, were now dressed in shades of green that looked as if they had been hand-painted by some very talented artist. Shy flowers, like newly rehearsed ballerinas, blossomed in the street beds, displaying a variety of colors in this gray city.

On that sunny afternoon, a shy warmth was melting the last remnants of snow on the weather-worn cobblestones.

New Yorkers came out of their winter cocoons, leaving behind heavy coats and scarves in their closets, eager to feel the gentle touch of the sun on their skin.

For the first time since the previous year, the city had come alive with the pulsating energy of spring.