The gangster who once wielded a knife and drank blood now guards an ice room that smells like strawberries. When heavy rains bring back old grudges, and when strawberry vines entangle scars and worries, those swords and sword shadows hidden in the annual rings will eventually boil into indescribable warmth in a bowl of hot milk tea. There are no grudges here, only reconciliation in the strawberry jam, protection among the vine leaves, and a group of people who spend the rest of their lives proving that the hardest world is no match for the softest world.
