Lin Wanxing dragged her suitcase and fled from the neon-lit first-tier city back to the sleepy southern town.
She was once a social animal squeezed into a cubicle, overwhelmed by KPIs. It wasn't until she fell seriously ill that she suddenly woke up - it turned out that the glory she was chasing was never what her heart wanted.
After cleaning up the dusty old house and digging out the dusty painting tools, she regained her childhood dream of painting in the smoke of fireworks at the breakfast stall in the alley. Selling paintings at a stall in the night market, I met Jiang Yu, my gentle and gentle senior in high school; I submitted submissions for art exhibitions, anxiously waiting for an unknown result; I chatted with my enthusiastic neighbor's aunt, and tasted the long-lost stability in a bowl of hot noodle soup.
The days are like the pendulum of an old clock, slow and long.
From a night market stall to owning her own painting shop, from being alone to having someone waiting for her with an umbrella around her on rainy nights, Lin Wanxing gradually understood that happiness is never something out of reach.
It is hidden in the cup of hot tea handed over by the neighbor when renovating the old house, hidden in the clumsy but sincere confession of the senior, hidden in every ordinary night when the evening breeze blows on the old window sill and the lights are friendly.
Life is like a cookie, healing slowly, without sadomasochism, only the fireworks and gentleness of the world.
Intention: Happiness lies not in the distant pursuit of fame and wealth, but in the present moment where fireworks are common.