The tide of a city never stops. On the Shanghai Bund in 1931, the typefaces in newspapers were still warm, and the sacks on the pier smelled of salt and blood. Shen Yuying, a female reporter from a small town in the south of the Yangtze River, stubbornly wanted to write what she saw in the newspaper, but every time she stopped, she discovered that the truth was unwilling to be printed in black and white. Lin Qishan, a pole bearer on the Huangpu River, from the pier to the work shed, from shouting to silence, carries not only sacks on his shoulders, but also the family's rice bowl, and the weight that cannot be relieved by the times. Zhao Jingyuan, the son of a banker, wandered between the Western-style salon and the account book. He saw his own cowardice in looking at each other again and again, and also saw how interests changed shape in the wind. Wei Lian, a famous opera singer, the sadness in his sleeves is intertwined with the sounds of the city. On stage, every word of his lyrics is clear, but off stage, he uses another voice to keep the fire going. The war pushed the city into the mud, and the fall and resistance, cooperation and betrayal, love and separation chased each other in the smoke and dust. The bombings, the mimeographs in the darkroom, the skyrocketing ticket prices before liberation, and the lack of food stamps all became the grit in their hearts. The tide goes back and forth, and their choices determine their respective shores. Many years later, people listened to the sound of the tide again at the ferry. They were still the same, but they were no longer the same people.
