Zheng Lan's hands were accustomed to the coldness of the stove and the soil of the fields when she was ten years old; when she was twenty, for the sake of "security", she let go of her sweetheart's hand and took a stranger's hand. She thought she was married to a guarantee, but she didn't expect that the torrent of time would easily wash away this guarantee. From a girl to a mother and then to a grandmother, she was like an ordinary weed, bent over and over again by the wind and rain of fate, but she stubbornly blossomed in every gap. Her life is neither a legend nor a poem, but a silent dialogue between a woman and an era with her hands and wrinkles. When prosperity comes to an end, does this count as an epic that is not in vain?
