In the quietest corner of my living room, it stays quietly, like a watchman accustomed to silence. It was an old bathtub, a "relic" that seemed a bit out of place in the modern home layout. Its white enamel has long lost its former luster and is now tinged with a faint yellow color. A few fine cracks have crept up along the edges, resembling the blue veins on an old man's back or the scars left by time without notice. Every time the afterglow of the setting sun passes through the window lattice, gently caressing its mottled surface, I can always read from it a complex emotion that is hard to describe, mixed with nostalgia and a hint of loneliness.

The moment one steps into the bathtub factory, the sense of industrial order and the warmth of life interweave into a picture before one's eyes. On the iron-gray exterior walls of the factory building, climbing plants are quietly climbing up, creating a wonderful balance between the greenery and the coldness of the metal. Pushing open the heavy soundproof door, the roar of machinery and the soft rustling of metal are no longer noisy; instead, they compose a concerto about craftsmanship. Here, it is the intersection of industry and life, the place where cold hard metals meet warm flowing water.