Jiang Mu has been singing in Chongqing for ten years. My vocal cords are almost gone, my mother is paralyzed in bed, and I haven't finished writing a song for seven years. Until a woman named Shen Yang handed over a note: You wrote it wrong, the intersection of the two rivers is not gray. She said she played the piano, and she said you couldn't see the deep blue when standing on the shore. After changing that sentence, his decade began to turn around again. Four women came into his life from different directions, and each of them blocked a storm for him where he couldn't see it. But he didn't know that the fog in Shancheng was writing down the debts he owed one by one for him.
