The Wheat Waves Are Silent

Under the barren Woniuling, 16-year-old Lin Maisui carried his dilapidated home on his thin shoulders. When the mine owner's bulldozer rolled over the land cultivated by ancestors for generations, when the warmth of childhood sweethearts turned into poison wrapped in honey, and when the flash flood on a rainy night washed away the last field ridge, this girl with her palms pierced by wheat awns could not wait for her own spring after all.