In the winter of 1984, the rain and fog in the mountain city were bitingly cold.
Cheng Xiaofeng dragged her broken life after divorce and staggered forward on the slippery slope; Zhang Jianguo, an ordinary worker who had climbed out of the quagmire of life, reached out to steady her slipping rice bag.
A bowl of red oil and a dim light bulb brought two wounded hearts closer to each other.
From night market stalls to fixed facades, from neighborhood rumors to going through hardships and hardships, they built a home of their own with perseverance and goodwill among the slopes of Sichuan and Chongqing.
This is a history of fireworks in the world that spans more than ten years - the smell of briquettes, the heat of hot pot, and mutual warmth on a snowy night.
When the lights of thousands of houses came on, they finally understood:
If there is a home, there is a light; if there is you, there is a home.
