The ivy of the old bungalow covered the mottled walls, and Chen Yan's plane dropped sawdust in the morning light - he was a carpenter who was described by others as "without a house, a car, and a stable job." He guarded the old house left by his grandfather and lived by odd jobs and renting out attics. Until Su Nian stood at the door dragging a small suitcase, her off-white skirt warmed by the wind, and asked him, "Is this place still open for rent?"
The fragrance of millet porridge in the morning spreads through the stairs, the coat on a rainy night is wrapped in warmth, the woodcut hairpin hides thoughts, and the butterfly in the painting rests on the top of a locust tree. He was always afraid that he would be like rough sandpaper and would wear away the shine on her body; but she held his calloused hand and said, "What I want is not a big house, but the days of watching the morning light with you."
It turns out that love is never the panic of clutching butterflies, but the unspoken tenderness that is carried in the wind when we are side by side under the locust tree.
