There Are Monuments in the Mountains and Rivers, and the Fire Is Passed Down from Generation to Generation.

When the rain falls during the Qingming Festival, the monument stands silently, and a bouquet of white chrysanthemums carries the concerns that span more than eighty years. Lin Xiaotang held her son's hand and stepped into the tomb. The unfamiliar names on the tombstone and the old things collected by her great-grandfather quietly revealed a red past that has been remembered by the years.