He saw the man who was always silent and taciturn.
They were carefully wrapping an old teacup with peeling paint, layer by layer, in newspaper.
Then he carefully tucked it into the pocket in his bosom.
That was the first and only Father's Day gift Lin Que made in his elementary school craft class.
Lin Jianguo noticed his son's gaze, paused, and looked up.
The father and son's eyes met in the air, but they remained silent.
But in Lin Jianguo's always stern eyes,
At this moment, however, flowed a kind of clumsy warmth that her son understood.
He looked away somewhat awkwardly and cleared his throat:
"What are you looking at? Get back to work!"
Lin Que smiled and didn't say anything, but silently helped move the things.
This is probably the tacit understanding between father and son, a tacit understanding between men.
Lin Que looked at the furniture in the room, which was both strange and familiar.
Compared to his parents' nostalgia, he didn't have much attachment to this place.
This place holds memories of his troubled childhood, but even more so of his past life: the increasingly hunched backs of his parents struggling to make a living.
He just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
"Xiao Que, come and see what this is!"
Wang Xiulian pulled out a photo album from an old box under the bed.
She patted off the dust and turned it over.
A yellowed photograph appeared before the three of them.
In the photo,
He was a chubby-faced, five- or six-year-old boy wearing ill-fitting overalls.
Her face was covered in smears, making her look like a little kitten.
He held a "Three Good Student" certificate high in his hand, grinning from ear to ear.
"Pfft."
Wang Xiulian was the first to laugh out loud.
"Look at how silly you were when you were a kid. You got a 'Three Good Student' award and you were so happy that snot bubbles came out of your nose."
Lin Jianguo's lips couldn't help but curl upwards, and the sternness in his eyes softened:
"At that time, he was holding this certificate."
He ran around the yard all afternoon, bragging to everyone he met.
Lin Que looked at the unfamiliar "himself" in the photo and smiled.
This feeling is wonderful.
It's like peeking into a past that doesn't belong to you, yet is connected to you by blood.
"Alright, alright, stop looking and hurry up and clean up. You're wasting the workers' time."
Lin Jianguo urged him on, but couldn't help glancing at the photo a few more times.
A worn-out truck, carrying all the belongings of a family.
With their farewell to the past and their hopes for the future, they slowly drove away from this old alley.
When the family stood in that 140-square-meter room of Xisheng Mansion
When Wang Xiulian arrived at her bright and clean new home, she couldn't hold back her tears once again.
"It's too...too bright."
She stroked the spotless wall, her voice trembling.
Lin Jianguo stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window for a long time.
Looking out at the expansive river view, he suddenly turned back and said to Lin Que:
"Son, how's your... studio coming along?"
"Everything is set up, and all the equipment is ready."
Lin Que said.
"Um."
Lin Jianguo nodded, his eyes filled with a solemn entrustment.
I wanted to say more, but I couldn't bring myself to say it.
That night, Lin Que lay in his spacious and bright new bedroom.
This room is more than three times larger than his previous small room.
A soft, large bed and a separate walk-in closet.
There is also a small balcony with a view of the river.
But he was having trouble sleeping.
Two images flashed back and forth in his mind.
On one hand, there's "Human World is Like Prison"...
In the deathly silent stairwell, the protagonist Yang Jian faces the knocking door, his eyes filled with nothing but cold calculation.
On the other hand, in *The Miracles of the Namiya General Store*,
Grandpa Namiya wrote a reply to the troubled girl under the lamplight, his pen flowing with tenderness.
Fear and healing, destruction and redemption.
He picked up his phone and logged into the author backend on Hongguo Novel Network.
The bright red "99+" notification is still glaringly obvious.
The top-ranked ID on the donation list, "Specialist in Curing Low Blood Pressure," remains firmly at the top.
Lin Que smiled, withdrew from the noisy battlefield, and opened another email address.
An email from Xu Lan of "New Tide" lay quietly in the room.
【Dear Professor Jian Shen, hello.】
After the magazine was released, the editorial department was overwhelmed by readers' enthusiasm; phone calls and letters piled up, all searching for the person who had lit a lamp in their hearts to help them through their troubles.
Your story has warmed this autumn.
[Also, I have a favor to ask.]
Many readers have written in hoping to receive a reply from "Namiya General Store." Would you be interested in occasionally selecting a few and sending them via email to continue this warm connection?
Should we select reader letters to reply to?
Lin Que's fingertip stopped on the screen.
This is an interesting suggestion.
A real-life version of the Namiya General Store seems pretty good too.
He pondered for a moment and typed a line.
[If this can help others resolve their doubts, I would be extremely fortunate. Please forward this letter.]
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