Jiang Yue is dead.
He died in the office at the seafood market, while reading the report. When I woke up, I became a little widow on the island in the 1980s.
Three days after the original owner came over, her husband disappeared at sea. Her husband's family said she was a traitor and wanted to sell her house to her husband. The villagers watched the excitement, waiting for her to starve to death, freeze to death, and be dragged away by traffickers.
Jiang Yue smiled.
She picked up the scale and beat the troublemaker out. She backhandedly reported the speculation and sent her cousin who wanted to sell her to the bureau for tea. Then he picked up the hoe and walked towards the despised desert beach.
To others, it is muddy ground.
In her eyes, it was a cornucopia of gold.
She met Lu Yangui, the man covered in blood, lying in the crevices of the rocks waiting for death. She dragged him back and kept him as a laborer. Later I learned that he was her husband, a veteran and a survivor of seven comrades who sank at sea.
She was involved in a conspiracy that lasted forty years.
Shipwrecks, gold, ledgers, moles.
Those people wanted her life.
But behind her, a group of people stood up.
Aunt Xu, Third Aunt Wang, Aunt Li, Old Man Zhou, those folks who were once extremely poor.
She took them from thirty acres of tidal flats to one hundred acres, from self-employed to the company, from survival to passing on.
She gave birth to a daughter and named her Niangui.
She inserted Lao Jiangtou's knife in front of his grave and tied the pocket watch.
She stood on the beach, looking at the sea that she had guarded for eight years.
The sea is still the same sea.
But people are different.
