Under the tulip tree in spring, the painter wearing a light shirt paints the figure of a model in a suit onto the painting paper. Wherever the brush sweeps, not only the outlines and colors are seen, but also the fruit pods hanging from the branches and the paint stains on the apron - these tiny traces of life hide the tenderness and tacit understanding of time.
Their stories are about the honey-soaked fruit jars under the locust tree in the back mountain, the rubbings and star charts on the bamboo shed, the hot tea they drank together on a snowy winter night, and the morning light of tending to the saplings side by side in the spring. There are no ups and downs of the plot, only daily life like the growth rings of a Luan tree: a crooked veil embroidered with each stitch, jars of sweets hidden in jars, and pages filled with time.
Luan branches sway gently in the wind, and the people inside and outside the painting are weaving the promise of "sharing life together every year" into every warm and sweet day. This is a story about Luan Shu, about companionship, and also about life itself, which is "full of tenderness hidden in the ordinary".
