When Xu Qinghe was seventeen years old, he stood at the door of Shen Yan's house holding a half-rolled handkerchief. His fever reached 40 degrees and he fainted on the way. When I woke up, he had already transferred to another school and left without even saying goodbye. Eleven years later, she became a craftsman of ancient homespun cloth and returned to her hometown in Huizhou as a study instructor with a gold medal. She saw Shen Yan's name on the list of students. He was still the same, everything he did was accurate to the decimal point, but he was as silent as a crushed piece of cloth towards her. In the study camp, the two faced each other to teach people how to embroider. If the pressure is light, the pattern cannot be retained, but if the pressure is heavy, the fibers break into dead knots, just like the way they used to be when neither of them dared to speak first. The humidity in the workshop returned, causing blurred lines on the half-handkerchief that had been hidden for eleven years; the pressure roller fell unevenly, and the missed time was squeezed into the fabric inch by inch. Xu Qinghe finally understood that no matter how delicate the cloth pattern is, it cannot withstand repeated wear and tear, and no matter how sincere the heartbeat is, it cannot withstand the timidity of youth - but as long as there is still a fiber that is not broken, there is still time to fall off the roll again.
