The wind and snow in Changbai Mountain fell into the smoke of Yucun. Zhang Qiling was no longer a stuffy oil bottle walking in the tomb passage. Wu Xie also relieved the burden of the nine gates and became just an ordinary person guarding the small courtyard. Picking vegetables in the morning mist, making tea under the sunset, occasionally the fat man shouts that he wants to eat West Lake vinegar fish, and the Iron Triangle makes a fuss around the stove. There are no cunning institutions, no choices of life and death, only the trivial matters of daily necessities, and the stability hidden in the smiles at each other. The hands that were clenched at the bottom of the tomb all those years are now holding hands walking through the fields of Yucun. The years have smoothed the edges of the dangerous road, but made the bond between each other warmer. This is their daily life in the world, the fireworks outside the bronze door, and the gentleness of the flowing water.
