Among grandpa's belongings, there is a brown paper envelope that no one knows about.
There was no name, no date, just five crooked words: "My eldest granddaughter." In the envelope were twenty photos - from the time she was full moon to when she went to college, every moment that she had forgotten was secretly photographed, printed and treasured. There is a line of clumsy small words on the back of each photo, like a long letter written twenty years ago.
But on the last page, there was an old black and white photo that didn't belong to her. The woman in the photo is holding a baby, and there are also two lines of words on the back: "My mother."
A young man who fled from the locust trees in Hebei to the Gobi sealed two generations of women in the same envelope, closely connecting the source of a bloodline with the mouth of the sea. He spent his life proving that some love never needs to be seen; some tenderness only slowly appears after the person is gone.
And the granddaughter who had been loved by him for twenty years without realizing it, after he left, finally sent the only reply letter in his life that could not be reached but had to be sent.
Intent: A true farewell is not about sadness, but about understanding a person's silence and responding in your own way.