When the wave of reform and opening up swept across the coastline, this machinery factory carrying glory and dreams was like a stubborn gingko leaf, drifting down along the monsoon of the times in the misty and rainy town of southern Shaanxi. My parents, who had been trained in the movement of educated youth going up and down the countryside, planted a wutong tree on the roadside of the workshop with their palm stained with engine oil, and engraved my childhood in the morning and evening when the gears were engaged. In my memory, the years of peeling red brick walls in the factory area piled up layer by layer into dust, and the roar of lathes gradually drowned out the hustle and bustle of the city. I thought it would eventually become a dusty specimen in the industrial museum, until one sunny afternoon, I returned with the bicycle tracks from twenty years ago. The moss on the wall whispers in mottled tones, the rusted gears echo in silence, and the sunlight is passing through the glass curtain wall of the intelligent workshop. The third generation of workers, dressed in work clothes, orderly operate the CNC machine tool - it turns out that time has never died here, it only turns rust into osmanthus honey, allowing new annual rings to grow every morning and evening.