In the seventeenth year of the Republic of China, she entered the hustle and bustle of Shanghai from the countryside in the south of the Yangtze River. She squeezed into a cramped attic in a Shikumen alley, watched the tram roll through the soot, and listened to the bells of foreign companies mixed with hawking. Under the mottled wall, she carved out a square foot of land, dug soil, buried seeds, poured water, and allowed vegetables to germinate and roses to sprout. The dust and smoke filled the window lattice, and the burden of livelihood was weighing on her shoulders. However, when she was tending to the plants, she saw the stubbornness of the seeds breaking their shells and felt the calmness of the flowers and leaves withering. The warmth and coldness of the neighborhood and the gentle fluctuations of the current situation are all transformed into the temperature of the soil on the fingertips. The desolation and prosperity in the heart all reflect the desire for the authenticity of life. She uses plants and trees as her pen and her heart as her ink. In the reinforced concrete of the city, she plants a piece of tranquility against the hustle and bustle, and also plants a monologue about life and love.
