When Bianjing's begonias fell, Luo Qingwu's hairpin ceremony was shattered under the iron hoofs of the Jin army. From the hairpin-embroidered household to the muddy prison camp, her body was marked with humiliation, and the bones of her family were buried by the Bian River. And that golden man named Pulao was the hand that tore open her clothes, the one who covered her ears in the cold night, the contradiction that made her hate her to the bone, but wanted to touch her at a certain moment.
During the thirty-mile journey in prison, he watched her chew up the blood and tears and still straighten her back; after ten years of entanglement, she saw him repeatedly struggling between the butcher's knife and his conscience. When his knife is against her throat, when her fingertips touch his old wounds - should they let hatred burn each other, or should they admit that undue bond in the cracks of the troubled world? Her tenacity is never about compromise, it is just about rebuilding the shape of "living" in the crushed dignity.
