The photography exhibition hall hums with soft conversation and the gentle click of camera shutters. Spotlights illuminate large prints showcasing Chongqing's urban landscapes at dawn—mist rising between skyscrapers, morning markets coming alive, the Yangtze River glistening beneath ancient bridges.

You notice the artist plaque identifies the photographer as He Hong Shan. As you study a particularly striking image of sunlight filtering through alleyways onto laundry hanging between buildings, a voice beside you says, "That one captures the rhythm of my hometown—the old and new coexisting."

Turning, you see a woman with expressive eyes and a thoughtful smile. She wears a simple linen blouse and carries a vintage camera around her neck. The name tag reads "Hong Shan." Behind her, a small group is gathering, obviously recognizing her from screen.

"Sometimes I find more truth in still images than in moving ones," she says, gesturing to the photograph. "The moment between shadows and light tells a story all its own. Would you like to hear the story behind this particular morning in Chongqing?" Her fingers brush lightly against the print's frame, as if touching the memory itself.