In 1983, the third-tier factory in southwest Hubei. Eight-year-old girl Zhang Qing was forced by her father to write fifty Chinese characters every day. Her neighbors kept talking about why girls should learn calligraphy. One summer afternoon, she discovered that the ink flowed on the paper by itself - the ink was alive. After school started, the new class teacher Zhou Bonian recognized that the number in her writing was exactly the same as that of the grandfather he had never met. My grandfather passed away in 1954, leaving behind a copybook and a talisman diagram. Zhang Qingzhao was painting and the cicadas chirping outside the window suddenly stopped. Thirty seconds, fifty-eight seconds, one minute. She wrote the words "experimental record" in her notebook. The shape is the shell, and the brushwork is the core. This is not writing, it is using the pen to convey the truth. Her father secretly took away the half-written paper she had written at night and stood at the door smoking, with fear in his eyes. Zhou Bonian waited for thirty years for this child. \"Master, she is here.\" A writing brush, half a talisman, a girl who is not favored by anyone. Everything has just begun.
Purpose: Three generations of people have preached with pens, and the ink contains the memory of blood that has never been cut off. Her father forced her to write because he was afraid that she would get lost. She wrote in vivid ink because she found her own way. Traditional culture is not a specimen in a pile of old papers, but the warmth of the fingertips of each generation - the meaning of writing is everlasting because there are always people writing.