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The days are long, and it's February again before I know it. The Jiangnan described by the poet is probably already spring, the flowers are blooming, the grass is growing, and the orioles are flying, right? It's so far away, almost like a dream. For the small mountain village of Shanghongyu on the Loess Plateau, it seems to have nothing to do with all that. The sky and the earth are as yellow as ever, and the willow trees stand skinny on the edge of the cliff, without a trace of life. Leaves are the clothes of the tree. Only when the clothes are worn on the body can the person look like a person and the tree look like a tree. Only when the clothes are on the body can the person become alive. Now they only have bare limbs, and they creak and groan when the wind blows. The tree also knows pain, it just doesn't know how to say it! Alas - even the sparrows are no longer so alert. The old withered poplar trees are full of fallen leaves, chirping all day long and all night long. They are holding a general meeting to discuss solving stomach problems. How many more miserable days are there!

A boss who loves to play mahjong; a cook who wears Taoist robes all day long; an obese lolita; a woman with tattoos of various faiths; a pair of taciturn siblings; a cat who loves tea and hates eating fish; and Li Ji, who is like a passerby, welcome to a teahouse. There is only one rule in the teahouse: the customer is God, and God also has to pay.