In 2006, amid the chirping of cicadas, six-year-old Zeng Jinjin squatted in the cracks of the grain drying field, using locust tree branches to measure the moving trajectories of ants. In this northern village blackened by coal mines, her childhood was filled with the sourness of the pickle jar breaking, the harsh sound of her father's aluminum prosthetic limb scraping against the gravel, and the half-part of a butterfly wing stuck in her mother's wooden prosthetic leg under her empty trousers. When children of the same age were still counting stars, she had already learned to use soot to solve equations on the wall - those crooked numbers were the survival code taught to her by her lame father using paper boats made from lime bags.
Those heartbeats that I thought were secret when I was young turned out to be hidden in the gaps of mathematical formulas, hidden in the mint smell of frostbite cream, and hidden in the dust raised every time he fought for me.
Concept: If I am the afterglow in the autumn evening wind, then you are the rising sun in the clear summer sky.
But when the afterglow dyes the clouds red, it is more magnificent than the rising sun