Her name is Wen Jiming, and her name comes from "Ji Ming and Zhi" in "The Book of Songs".
I worked as an investigative reporter for six years, but because of a report I was blocked, my press card was revoked, and I was reviled all over the Internet. She hid in an ancient town called Qintong in the south of the Yangtze River, bought a leaky old bookstore, and named it "Jiming Bookstore".
His name is Shen Yanqiu, a former architectural designer who took the blame for a project accident five years ago. He was expelled from the industry and his wife left. He hid on the same street and opened a carpentry workshop, working with wood every day.
He carved a new plaque for her and she gave him an old book. Her cat likes the cat nest he made, and he drinks the coffee she makes every time.
Both of them were knocked down by the same company and met at the same place.
She writes anonymous articles, he oversees renovation standards, lawyer friends handle the law, the former product director advises on strategies, a depressed girl who runs a silent teahouse contacts residents, and a seventy-eight-year-old grandma stands in the alley and scolds the developer.
No one saves anyone, it's just a group of people who have been rubbed by life on the ground, dusted off the dust, and guarded a home together.
The sweet-scented osmanthus cake in the ancient town has been passed down for four generations, and the mortise and tenon joints of the old houses have been made for thousands of years. Some things are really gone if they are dismantled.
A bookstore, a carpenter, a group of lovely people, and an ancient town that is slowly getting better.
"Although the rain from the sky is broad, it cannot moisten the grass without roots."
But once you take root, you have nothing to fear.
