The short film begins with a vast ocean, boats passing by, whistles sounding, vast, empty and lonely. The old man lived alone in the only house in the world of the sea that was exposed to the sea, and the wall clock on the wall walked for a second.
The old man may look at the vast sea from the railing, or stare at the TV and pour a glass of red wine to kill time. The water level is still rising, submerging the layers of buildings, and the elderly can only continue to build houses, like building blocks. After all, the old man was reluctant to move away from the old house in search of a new land, because there were his most precious memories beneath the sea.
The old photos on the wall are embedded in the picture frame, the face in the old time inside is still alive and has not faded, these picture frames are moved up from the first floor layer by floor, the old man has lost a lot of things in the silent years, and the only thing that cannot be lost is his own free memories.
Frame after frame of hand-drawn comics are presented on the screen, and I can't help but think of some postcards sent far away. Those vague fragments of impression dripped on the rice paper of memory, and the colors spread out like a mist of light rain. The water at the door floated and floated, the world was still very empty, and under the sea loomed a long-flooded house, and people went to the house empty. The old man quietly rowed up the narrow boat to bring bricks. Even at the end of the world, there will be some people who insist on reinforcing the edifice of memory that has been submerged by the sea of time.
While carrying furniture up from a submerged floor, the old man's pipe accidentally fell into the water, and even more fell down the passage between the layers. The old man's pipe burned the heat he and his wife shared, inhaling a different feeling in the lungs; the old man's fingers touched the pipe like holding his wife's hand.
The old man decided to dive to retrieve the pipe, and the cover between the floors was opened, along with the floodgates of the old man's memory. Unable to help himself, the old man dived down layer by layer, looking for the precious memories that had long been sunk on the bottom of the sea. The world is old, and the first acquaintance you have left me is the whirling circle dance under the big banyan tree, a crimson flower floating on your cheeks. We built a hut together, and then the children are growing up, and I am accompanying you to grow old. You're gone, and I'm still guarding our memories.
The happiness of the old man is like a building block, layer by layer, no matter how big the wind and waves do not want to collapse. If you are here, I will not go, even if the world is all oceans, even if only one person insists.