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Forty years, a muddy yellow river, an old wooden boat brushed with tung oil three times. The ferryman Zhou Shuigen was illiterate and could only recognize his own surname written backwards. He untied the cable at 5:40 every morning and ferried countless people from one shore to the other - there were vegetable vendors going to the market, young people who went south to work, and mothers who committed suicide with their infants in their arms. He never asked about the coming and going of his guests, but only kept the eight words written in charcoal by his father before his death: The water is the water of the Qingjiang River, and the roots are the roots of the roots. Until a woman wearing a navy blue trench coat appeared at the ferry. When she paid for the boat, the coins carried her body heat. She said she owed 1,300 yuan. She said her daughter loved painting. She said the stationery store with a red sign on the other side of the river had the cheapest beech wood drawing boards. She didn't say she was sick. There are no miracles in this story. There are only debts to be paid off one by one, a painting under the ship's plank, and a young man walking from the other side reading out the last words left by his mother under the moonlight - "The river won't collapse."