That summer seven years ago, Nan Xu lost the love letter Wu Fang stuffed into the tool box while working the night shift in the school-run factory. The next day she rushed to the playground, leaving only half a note covered in wax residue and shredded paper on the ground. He didn't know that she had been here, and she didn't know that he had been waiting.
We met again seven years later. She was a fruit wax preservation designer who could sense an error of 0.01 Mm in the palm of her hand; he was a capital investor who had returned from across the border, bringing with him a cold chain and sorting line, and knew nothing about wax coating—or pretended to know nothing about it.
She wants to prove that the coating must be extremely thin to make the fruit remember that it is alive. He wants to bet that an "imperfect living method" is more valuable than a standard beauty. After seven years of misunderstandings, technical battles and a love letter that was never completed, the two people re-identified the curve of each other's breathing on the unevenly thick wax lines.
Fruit wax can be kept fresh for forty days, but some answers took seven years to come to light.
