公元一千九百四十四年酷冬。一个北风凛冽,滴水成冰的早晨。琅琊古城西关一片空旷的荒野里,有个七八岁的男孩,正弯腰曲臂用他那瘦骨嶙峋的小手,拨拉开一堆堆垃圾,将一些废字纸、破烟盒一一收集起来,掸掉尘埃污垢,小心翼翼的放进打着补丁的书包里……端详着嘴唇冻的发紫的儿子,父亲用发抖的手心疼 One thousand nine hundred and forty-four years of winter cool. A windy, dripping ice morning. Langya ancient city west of an open wilderness, there is a seven-year-old boy, is bending over his elbow with his small hands, pulled open a pile of rubbish, some scrapped paper, broken cigarette packs collected one by one, Dust off the dirt, carefully placed in a patch bag ... ... looked at his lips frozen purple son, his father trembling hand trembling