She stood in the darkness, not turning on the light immediately. Instead, she took a deep breath. The room was filled with a unique scent, a mixture of the pungent smell of mothballs, the delicate fragrance of silk fabrics, and a faint hint of mold. This was her own unique kingdom of smells.
Her fingers groped along the wall until she found the switch. With a click, a dim light came on, illuminating the small space of less than 30 square meters.
The room was furnished to the point of being spartan: a narrow single bed covered in faded blue-checked sheets, an old wardrobe with chipped paint and a mirror on the door so blurry it couldn't even reflect a face, and a badly worn wooden dressing table, bare except for a plastic cup and a wooden comb with broken teeth.
But on the wall—
The scene on the wall was quite different.
Starting from above the head of the bed, the two entire walls were covered with hooks, so densely packed that they looked like some kind of strange beehive.
Hanging from each hook was a tie, a variety of colors and materials, some pristine and crisp, others frayed and frayed at the edges. Dark blue, dark red, dark green, silver-gray… they shimmered subtly in the dim light, like an abstract painting made of collages of fabric.
Zhang Shumin stood at the door, her eyes slowly sweeping over the collection, the corners of her mouth unconsciously raised. This was the most relaxing moment of her day.
She walked to the dressing table and carefully took out tonight's harvest from the cloth bag - the dark blue silk tie.
Under the light, the texture of the tie was clearly visible, the delicate silk threads weaving subtle ripples. She gently stroked the fabric with her fingers, feeling the unique cool touch of silk.
"Coffee stain..." she muttered to herself, her fingertips lingering on the almost imperceptible stain at the end of her tie.
She took out a tin box from the dresser drawer. Inside were several small bottles neatly arranged: a special silk cleaner, stain remover, softener, and a small bottle of her own perfume - a light cedar scent mixed with a subtle hint of spice. These were the "care tools" she had developed over the years.
She dipped a cotton swab in a small amount of detergent and gently dabbed it onto the stain. Her movements were skillful and gentle, as if she were handling a precious artifact. The stain gradually spread, faded, and finally disappeared.
"There you go." She nodded with satisfaction and held the finished tie up to the light for inspection.
Next came the ironing. She dragged an old iron from under the bed and plugged it in. While waiting for it to heat up, she walked to the wall and unconsciously ran her fingers over a few of her favorite ties:
That burgundy Armani pair, found in a trash can in an upscale residential complex three years ago, still had the tag, like an impulse buy and then regretted gift;
The dark green one had a faint smell of tobacco, reminding her of an old craftsman she met in a textile factory when she was young;
The one on the very edge is pure black and made of a special material that feels like the fur of some animal. It is one of her most precious collections.
The iron sizzled, steam rising from the air. Zhang Shumin deftly placed a thin cloth over the tie and began ironing.
Her movements were precise and restrained, not letting the iron stay on the fabric too long and damaging it, yet ensuring that every wrinkle was smoothed out.
The ironed tie looked brand new, gleaming softly under the light. She held it up to her face and took a deep breath—the unique scent of silk mixed with a hint of detergent. This was her ritual.
The final step was hanging. She searched the wall for a suitable spot, eventually choosing an empty hook near the headboard. After hanging it, she stepped back, tilted her head, and then stepped forward to adjust the angle, ensuring it would blend perfectly into the "tie family."
After doing all this, Zhang Shumin breathed a sigh of relief and sat down beside the bed. Her eyes swept across the wall again. The ties swayed gently in the faint breeze, as if they had come to life.
She kept this secret for ten whole years.
The son and daughter-in-law lived in the next room, but they would never know or understand. To them, it was just an old woman's quirk, as embarrassing as her habit of picking up trash.
But here, in this small space, these ties are her treasures, her final, most private dialogue with the world.
Zhang Shumin turned off the desk lamp, closed her eyes, and a satisfied smile appeared on her lips.
This is a small, stubborn happiness that belongs only to her.
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