In the twenty-sixth year of the Republic, Qingxi in Jianghuai. Embroiderer Su Wan bids farewell to the scholar Shen Yan at the mouth of the alley as he heads south for the imperial examinations. He said, 'Wait for me to return and marry you.' This wait lasted thirty years. The flames of war blocked the roads, telegrams broke their lines, and her family urged her to remarry, but she pressed her marriage certificate under her pillow and left a crack in the courtyard door—fearing he wouldn't be able to push it open if he returned at night. Thirty years later, her temples were white, his legs were crippled, separated by thousands of miles of rivers and mountains. On Mid-Autumn night, beneath the same moon, she sat before the old stone table tracing that carved mark, while he sat at the doorway of a dilapidated southern temple picking wild flowers. Neither said the words, 'I miss you.' Yet the flowers he picked were year after year the kind she loved.