When art student Su Wanqing met Fu Yanshen in the studio of his old house in the Republic of China, paint was flowing down the wooden stairs. The sixty-year-old man is a legend in the industry and the one who holds her captive in light and shadow - the smell of turpentine mixed with sandalwood hides his obsession with his deceased daughter and her involuntary sinking. The locked door, black velvet curtains, and the white skirt that always fits her feet constitute her prison, but they also blur the entanglement between the wolf and the young deer in her sketchbook late at night.
At the same time, post-00s fan Lin Xixia clutched a homemade tape and bumped into her idol Cheng Yian backstage at the concert. The distance of eleven years apart was quietly shortened by the mint-flavored evening breeze: the good night on the pager, the sound of the guitar under the banyan tree, and the Walkman with the name engraved on it made the taboo heartbeat grow wildly in the neon. When she played the adapted version of "Broader Sea" under the stars in Hong Kong, she realized that there was some freedom. It turned out that someone had shielded her from the wind and rain.
The two stories are like twin mirror images, one is the confinement of the pine smoke, and the other is the stretch of the stars falling on the shoulders. Hidden in the gap drawn by the age difference is the same kind of surge - about possession and letting go, substitutes and self, and all the unspoken tides called lovesickness.
