When she was eighteen years old, Chu Huining was waiting at the pier with two ferry tickets in her hands. The sea breeze filled her school uniform jacket, but Shen Tinglan did not come. His father stopped him at the alley and said, "You are not worthy of our family" and pinned the boy to the spot. Ten years later, she landed in her hometown as a designer of thin and thick coatings for coastal anti-corrosion wooden fences and was responsible for the renovation of the entire viewing wooden fence. Shen Tinglan became the contact person of the Culture and Tourism Bureau, and her fingertips were shaking when handing over the helmet.
If the wood oil is thick, the sand and dust will stick to it and form scabs; if it is thin, the sea salt will corrode and crack. She competes with micron-level thickness every day, just like herself who competed with the world back then. Canceled shipping tickets are locked in his drawer, and unsent letters are buried at the bottom of her tool box. The coating can be shoveled off and redone, but do those scabs on people's hearts hurt when they are scraped off?
Typhoon night, acceptance check, dripping rain, and wet facial oil. When Shen Tinglan embedded the word "eloped" into the conch shell and sealed it into the wooden fence, Chu Huining finally understood that wood oil can only delay decay, and love can only postpone reality. But if you can slow down for a second, take one more look at the sea.
