1996, Beijing Capital Airport.
Jiang Hao stood in front of the duty-free shop window, wanting to choose a gift for his mentor. Through the glass, he saw a girl tilting her head to look at a necklace, her fingers gently drawing a square frame on the glass.
She doesn't know him. He looked at her for a long time.
He pretended his watch had stopped and asked her what time it was. She said it was about half past eight. He is wearing a watch.
Some confessions don't need to be said - they are hidden in that watch that pretends to have stopped, in the morning when a swan pecked my hand in Hyde Park, and in the following twenty years. Jiang Hao said that she was different and took her time, since she had plenty of time anyway. Later, he really spent half his life to fulfill this sentence.
You are the grace of creation and the prisoner of time. Who can make up for all the years we owe each other inch by inch.
