In 1952, the cold wind in Peiping rolled up paper scraps, and the smell of kerosene mixed with fishy smell in the small bungalow was pungent. On the bed, his face was as white as paper, his lips were purple, and the sound of crying in his ears suddenly rose like a needle pricking his consciousness. The front foot is still the company's top executives, but the back foot has fallen into the shell of the poor boy with the same name in 1952. The moment he struggled to open his eyelids, Yi Zhonghai's voice came from outside the door. He said that if there were no more people in this house, the house would be collected by the courtyard.
