In the autumn of the 16th year of the Republic of China, the wind in Shanghai carried the salty smell of the Huangpu River and the scorched smell of fallen leaves of the French paulownia tree. This city is like a piece of silk that has been forcibly pieced together. The neon lights in the concession are bright and bright, and the kerosene lamps in the old city are as dim as beans. People shuttled through this fragmented scene, some wearing high heels, some wearing mille-layer bottoms; some talking about Mr. De and Mr. Sai, and some still kowtow to worship their ancestors in the ancestral hall.
This is the best of times, the worst of times - this sentence has been said badly, but it is still as relevant as a newly cut cheongsam wrapped around the body. New trends of thought are like the tide crashing on the shore, but old traditions are stubborn like rocks. The men cut off their braids and the women had their feet loosened, but the things in their bones can be broken with a knife.
Su Qingwan is a leaf in this tear. When she returned to the Huangpu River from the Thames River on a cruise ship, she held a diploma from the London Medical College in her hand. The box contained the Hippocratic Oath and a telegram that her father was critically ill. She thought she was a swallow returning to its nest, but she didn't know that the nest was no longer what it used to be.
When Gu Xichen saw her on the dock, she was bending down to pick up the boat cap that had been blown off by the wind. The setting sun dyed her white coat into light gold - she was actually still wearing a doctor's robe, as if she bore the mark of another world. He subconsciously took half a step back and hid in the shadow of the pillar. He was on a mission, so he couldn't admit it. What's more, they have never been on the same journey.
Two paper kites were blown up into the same sky by the strong wind of the times. Who holds the line? Where is the wind going? No one knows.
All they know is that after this fall, everything will be different.
