1977, Qingdao, the summer of eighteen years old.
Zhou Zheng came from Beijing, wearing a white shirt, green army pants, and a camera hanging around his neck.
Chen Xihe was at the canteen beside the trestle, guarding the shell wind chimes and orange soda.
The sunset at Signal Hill and the boat ramp at the beach.
They shared an old popsicle and kissed under the rainy roof.
They talked about the ice in Shichahai, the waves on the trestle, and everything else.
Just don't talk, after summer.
Intention: focus on the present