In the autumn of the 20th year of the Republic of China, the Northeast fell. Gu Zhongtao fled to Nanjing with his family portrait on his back and lived in the courtyard of his old friend Shen Yanqing.
There is a pomegranate tree in the yard. He peeled pomegranates and ate them; he stayed with him when he couldn't sleep; when he cried on rainy nights, he held him and said "I am here".
After six years of staying together in peace, he thought he could get by.
Until the gunshots at Marco Polo Bridge rang out.
"I want to join the army," he said.
Shen Yanqing didn't stop him. Only on the day he left, I climbed up a tree, picked a few pomegranates, and stuffed them into his bag: "Take them with you to eat on the way."
He waited eight years. Waiting for the letter, waiting for the person, waiting for the words that were never spoken.
When the man finally came back, he stood in the snow and smiled at him.
"Idiot." Shen Yanqing said.
"I've been waiting for you for eight years, do you know?"
