"Speaking of Sichuan, this camellia was actually brought from there," unlike Zhu Shijun, Bai Juyi seems different; living alone for decades without anyone to talk to, now that he is running out of oil and the lamp is dimming, he instead wants to talk more. But every time he speaks, that thick phlegm with a bloody taste surges up his throat.
"Okay, Mr. Bai, I'll listen to you, take your time," Xiao Xian sat by the bed.
"Hehe, good kid, don't mind my ramblings. She used to always complain that I talked too much," Bai Juyi began talking about the past. Every elderly person has a common affliction—liking to talk about the good old days—but Bai Juyi's reminiscences actually had some substance to them.
From Bai Juyi's story, Xiao Xian learned that Bai Juyi was from Xiangtan, lost his father at a young age, went to Yunnan with his mother, and started working in horticulture at the age of six, starting from a soil prep worker, to a pruning master, and later to a gardener.
