When Lin Jianwei was hired as a trainee at a border rehabilitation center, all she wanted was to pass her internship and transfer back to a safe region.
She made a mistake during her very first treatment.
Afraid of being disciplined, she left those few seconds out of her report. The next day, the patient, who had been eager to go home and see his daughter, hid his hand under the blanket and wouldn't let her touch him again.
Some patients at Gray Bay Station can't sleep. Some can't listen to a whole song, and some can't make it to the other end of the corridor. Their files say there's little hope of recovery, yet they still want to make it to dinner, repair an old boat, or hear a family member finish a performance.
Lin Jianwei has no remarkable talent, and even that subtle rhythm takes endless practice. She takes the scolding, admits her mistake, practices until she can keep it steady for four minutes, then reaches out again.
As for the man next door who insists on going back to repair the sea route, at first she only wants to persuade him to stop overdoing it.
Later, she stays with him to listen to half a song. He offers her an unopened pack of ear cushions and asks if she can take a nap that afternoon.
