Twenty years ago, poor painter Lin Shuan fell in love with Meng Ying, the only daughter of a real estate tycoon. He relied on scholarship money to buy paint, while she was the daughter of a wealthy family. Holding hands under the sycamore flowers, relying on each other in the piano room and studio - that was the best time she had ever given him.
An anonymous whistleblower letter alleged that he had stolen Meng's trade secrets. At the school-wide briefing meeting, he "confessed" in public and disappeared from the world. Three months later, Meng Ying put on a red wedding dress and married a man she had never met.
Twenty years later, Meng Ying passed away. My daughter promised to find an iron box under the bed - sixty-nine letters, written from twenty years ago to three months ago, none of which was sent. The last letter only had one sentence: "Xiaoying, I am painting you, one hundred and three paintings, each one is how you looked when you were eighteen years old."
All he promised to find was a lonely grave. The suicide note read: "Your father said that if you don't plead guilty, you will disappear 'accidentally'. I will give you a clean life in exchange for your peace."
At the book signing, a young man gently put down his book: "My name is Lin Chen, and Lin Shu'an is my adoptive father. He... Did not go alone."
Outside the window, the sycamore flowers are blooming.
