April in Chang'an, the spring rain is still heavy, and the streets are not yet dry.
The woman holding an umbrella, embroidering her shirt and skirt, has lotuses growing as she moves.
The eyebrows are clear and sparse, the expression is calm, and the beauty is beautiful.
The years of previous lives, the glory of a lifetime, have turned around and gone.
A pot of apricot wine, a piano song, and a dream.
Over the years, things have changed and people have changed, and Chang'an has been confused.
This city of Chang'an is never short of stories.
You see, everyone who passes by Xinghuaju's door may be smiling, angry, sad, or anxious. They all have their own story, but you don't know it.