When the wasteland at the end of the village was finally assigned to Amu's name, no one believed that this poor boy, who was as thin as a bamboo pole, could make waves. But he didn't believe in fate. He was covered in mud during the day and only used a lamp at night to dig green out of the stone ground.
During the first harvest, the fragrance of his vegetables floated in the market, like the spring breeze blowing into the winter stove. But the good times didn't last long. Gou Sheng and others smashed his stall, as if even God was testing his bottom line. Amu swallowed this breath, turned around and plunged into the back kitchen of the big restaurant in the town, and exchanged a few baskets of greenery for the first order in his life.
That year when grain prices plummeted, the grain in the warehouse became a hot potato. The villagers opened their mouths waiting to be fed. Amu stood on the ridge of the field, like an old tree that had been struck by lightning. He gritted his teeth and found a way through the Internet, crossing mountains and ridges to open up the door to processing enterprises, and also opened up his own way of survival.
Now Amu's name hangs on the lips of the villagers, like a flag planted in the field of hope. Agricultural experts came, a cooperative was established, and even Ahua quietly entered his life. But when the harvest wind blew through the golden waves of rice, a question lingered in his mind: When the land is no longer silent, how should humans respond to its gifts?
