In the early morning, the sunlight was like crushed gold, squeezing through the gaps between the mottled leaves and pouring into Chen Qiao's rental house in the old town. It was a room of less than thirty square meters. Although it was small, it was filled with the atmosphere of life. The walls are pasted with movie posters that Chen Qiao has collected since college. The corners of the posters have been slightly rolled up, telling the passage of time; a corner of the room is filled with various books, from literary classics to best-selling novels, stacked chaotically like a small mountain of books; a slightly shabby desk is placed in front of the window, with manuscript papers full of handwriting scattered on the table, which are traces of Chen Qiao's hard work for his dream.
