In the twilight of a northern town, old craftsman Zhao Guohua gazed silently at the successfully woven mesh before his handloom. Amidst the nationalization wave of metal factories, he stubbornly carved ancestral wire-weaving techniques onto the signboard of the newly founded "Jin Zehong Metalwork Cooperative". "Metal should not only wear a stern face," he wrote in his yellowed work journal, "When 0.2mm steel wires dance at fingertips, warmth can grow within cold warp and weft."

The glass curtain wall of Shenzhen's International Trade Tower reflected the silhouette of second-generation heir Zhao Qiming. Carrying his father's handcrafted wire mesh samples, he lingered outside the Canton Fair pavilion for three days. When German client Schmidt was astounded by artistic partitions that filtered sunlight yet welcomed breeze, this township enterprise first touched international standards. "We sell not wire mesh," Zhao Qiming annotated on the first foreign trade contract from the fax machine, "but Oriental artisans' poetic deconstruction of space."

In the factory lab, third-generation successor Zhao Zixiang observed coating particles under microscopy. A decade ago, typhoon-ruined sculptures in Dubai's salt spray. Now, the coating technology made metal meshes glow in both Sahara deserts and Arctic stations. "Grandfather wove shapes, Father wove light," he raised a rose-gold mesh filter at the annual meeting, "and we weave time."

"Grandfather warmed steel with body heat," Zhao Zixiang's voice echoed through time, "Father captured wind's contours on blueprints, while we're proving algorithms can't compute humanity's tenderness to metal."