Shen Qingzhao's world used to be the fireworks on the three-foot stove, the wrinkles of shirts on the clothesline, and the dried ink marks on the drawings pressed on the bottom of the wardrobe.
Gu Zhen's appearance was not a sudden intrusion of light, but the street light at the alley that always turned on a little later.
This is not a vigorous rescue, but two people who have missed each other, slowly waiting for a "just right" in the alley with daily necessities.
