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1969, Kunming. Su Wanzhou graduated from medical school and was assigned to Xishan Commune Health Center. Six beds, two doctors, penicillin per tube. Poor jingle, Curry walks the mouse. My grandfather passed away the year before last, leaving behind a copper key and an old house at the foot of the Western Mountain. There was a garden behind the house with some flowers and plants. She had been there when she was a child and didn't think there was anything strange about it. Until one day, she opened the door. Behind the door is a thousand-year-old garden-not a fairy palace, not a secret realm, just a garden. A garden full of medicinal herbs, silkworms, cloth weaving and paste making. The Panax notoginseng stewed chicken in the garden is so thick that it sticks to your lips. Green vegetables from the spring are sweet even when stir-fried. There are piles of medicinal herbs and ointment made of jade snow. But she dared not speak out. In that era, everything had to be voted for and approved. She could only take things out of the garden bit by bit - today she would take a pack of herbs and tomorrow she would hide a piece of cloth. No one doubted that it was "picked from the mountains", "brought from my hometown" or "sent from my classmates from the provincial capital". During the day, she sees doctors, changes dressings, delivers babies, and performs operations at the health center. In the evening, she went back to the garden to plant medicine, feed silkworms, make ointment, and read. From the commune health center to the county hospital, and from the county hospital to the provincial capital. She brought interns one after another, she wrote papers one after another, and she saved people one after another. Some people say she is lucky. Some say she hides deeply.