The numerologist said to the eighteen-year-old Zhang Mocun: "You will meet her when you are twenty-seven years old. Her surname is Lin, and her name contains water."
At that time, he smiled and thought: Who knows.
From Shiyan to Beijing, from the partition room in the urban village to the south-facing master bedroom of Lishuiqiao, Zhang Mocun is a silent northern drifter, always focusing on the left side of his paintings. From Yangzhou to Beijing, from partitioned rooms to shared houses, Lin Wanyin is a quiet financial man who was born in the wake of awakening and has water in his name.
They were in the same company but never crossed paths. Until a boring training, she pointed at his graffiti and said: "The proportion of this icon is wrong, the center of gravity is to the left."
An unintentional word started a long journey between two souls.
This is not a grand love story. No running in the rain, no confession on the beach, no thousand roses. Here are only the morning rush hour subway in Beijing, a bowl of instant noodles after working overtime late at night, braised pork ribs after an argument, green radish on the balcony after marriage, daughter Lin tide's first cry, and the remaining snow in Wudang Mountain when her hair is gray.
This is the story of an ordinary person. About the loneliness of Beidiao, about the patience of waiting, and about those trivial, daily moments that are ignored by most people but constitute the entire life. Zhang Mocun is not good at words, and Lin Wanyin is cold on the outside and hot on the inside. They are like two parallel lines, living at opposite ends of the city until fate gently pushes them together.
They have been together for half a century. There are no earth-shattering turns, only staying together day after day. It is this staying together day after day that makes the four words "center of gravity left" become a lifelong commitment.
