My mother died in the river on the eve of the lantern festival. The government said it was a mistake. Jiang Zhaoxue didn't believe it and couldn't find out. She could only keep a small embroidery workshop and make a living by mending wedding dresses, changing costumes and collecting old curtains. Until a fragment of a wedding dress fished from the bottom of the river was brought to her door, and she touched a stitch that should not appear in ordinary wedding clothes. Those were her mother's hands.
She followed the needle and searched, and what she found was not an old murder case, but a whole set of work that had been done for many years: using women's hands to sew things that should not be said, using beautiful patterns to stand guard for scandals, and using decent weddings to press disappeared names into the lining. It's not that no one in this city knows, everyone only knows half a stitch and half a thread. The whole truth has been taken apart and sewn into the hands of too many people.
The more she checked, the harder it became for her shop to hold on and her hands became worse and worse. But once your hands touch it, you can't pretend you haven't touched it before.
