Twenty-six-year-old Jiang You guarded the corner flower shop. When pruning the flower branches, she always thought of her parents sighing: "What future can selling flowers have?" Until the boy in an indigo shirt opened the door during the rainy season and paused in silence for thirteen times. On the ninth full moon night, his fingertips brushed against the dying agaricus and said: "Cut at an angle of 45 degrees to survive."
Zhong Shaoyu's world is a suspended herbarium - his parents exchanged his sister's life for a business empire, and his brother is weaving a web in the shadows. He thought he would only have to live with the rotten soil for the rest of his life, but he saw someone soaking a dead branch in the moonlight: "Look, new roots have grown from the break."
When the childhood sweetheart's civil servant proposed with a rose, and when the Zhong family's check tore up the spring flower wall, Jiang You held the boy's trembling hand tightly: "We plant our own flowering period." Those abandoned seeds will eventually break through the frozen soil, and bloom in the ruins burned by lies, an eternal spring that stays silently.
