There is a small village living in a small northern city, surrounded by mountains and rivers. The sunshine is entangled in the years.
The small village is like an old man with a strange temper. His big withered hands hold the moonlight of the village. In the palm of his hand, there is a winding small stone road, with patches of spring flowers and summer trees, and there are silent houses.
The cicadas chirped under the shade of the old trees, and Zhao Qingshu stole a pot of wine from the small village. He babbling and told the story of the small village, and the group of skinny children in the hands of the small village, fishing for fish and shrimps, going up the mountain to steal melons, and doing all kinds of evil.
After drinking for three minutes, Zhao Qingshu rambled again: The sun was setting quickly, he took off his cotton-padded jacket and put it on again, and all the leather children in the small village went to pursue their future, and in a flash they were on the green leather train.
Outside the train station, Song Tunan took away a handful of soil from the small village. In distant Beijing, an acacia tree grew out of the soil. He counted the leaves on the tree, thinking about the moonlight in the small village, and thinking about when the girl in the small village would be able to put a red gauze like the sunset on him. Size=No. 5