Song Qing said goodbye to the old grannies. Under the worried gazes of the old grannies, he returned to the security booth at the back gate. He hadn’t registered his fingerprint, and originally thought he wouldn’t be able to get in, but unexpectedly, the grandpa inside the security booth directly lifted the gate bar for him and let him in.
From inside to outside, there was a slight slope. When the wheelchair went halfway up, it would slide down. After pausing for a while, he heard the door of the security booth being opened by someone, and afterward, a young guy was directed out by the grandpa, pushing the wheelchair over that slope and stopping at a stable spot.
After helping him, that guy didn’t say a word, just wandered back to the security booth to play on his phone.
The grandpa wasn’t playing, nor did he look at him, lazily curled up in the old man’s chair. After pressing a button, the gate bar slowly descended.
Song Qing turned his wheelchair to directly face the back gate, saw those few old grannies’ kindly smiles, saw the young security guard who was casually burying his head playing games, and the grandpa rocking leisurely in his rocking chair.
He suddenly lowered his head a little and gave a shallow bow to express thanks.
There are still more good people in this world.
Perhaps it was because he had previously been in an environment that wasn’t too good—so bad that it made him mistakenly believe everyone was a bad person, that all people carried more or less malice, like twisted evil spirits baring their ugly faces at him. And yet he was weak and alone, filled with concerns, no money, no capital, couldn’t do anything—could only endure.
Only after changing environments did he discover: the sky is blue, the clouds are white, the air is fresh, and people—are also good.
Maybe it had always been like this. He just hadn’t realized it.
He pushed his wheelchair toward the elevator. When passing by the parcel pickup point, he queued up and reported Nan Zhi’s phone number’s last digits to collect her parcel—a small item, no idea what it was.
Song Qing placed it into the pouch beneath the wheelchair and brought it into the elevator. There was a small threshold between the elevator and the ground. When the wheelchair passed, it got stuck a little, startling a young girl already standing in the corner of the elevator.
She quickly pressed the open door button, not letting the elevator close during that time, and even reached out to pull the wheelchair so he could smoothly enter.
Song Qing gave his thanks. The other party nodded and responded, “It’s nothing.”
When speaking, her gaze inevitably paused on his legs. Song Qing didn’t avoid it either and calmly accepted it.
Didn’t matter anymore.
That young girl’s floor was lower. After she left, he moved his wheelchair forward, pressed his fingerprint just like he had tried before. The floor button that belonged to Nan Zhi’s home lit up automatically and took him there.
Song Qing exited the elevator and smoothly opened the house door, entering the home that had taken him in.
He turned on the lights, illuminating the whole house brightly.
While putting the stool back into the storage room, Song Qing looked at the bright home and thought—
It was here that he healed himself.
During those days staying in the hospital hallway, being blown on all day by the through-draft wind, his nerves were so fragile that even a slightly big movement would hurt. He also had a mild cough, his throat would suddenly itch fiercely. Because coughing would tug on the nerve pain, he just suppressed it.
That corridor was really small—neither blocking the wind nor blocking the wind gossip \[风言风语, literally “wind words wind talk,” meaning rumors or gossip]. He often heard others quietly discussing him with pity.
No one brought him food or drink, no one took care of him, no one paid for his medicine. He couldn’t get medicine or IVs—how was that different from waiting to die?
It was actually just waiting to die. Once the wound worsened, with no money, no medicine, it would be watching himself rot away, dying bit by bit.
Luckily, he didn’t end up dead—someone brought him back. In a warm home, inside a thick quilt, with someone’s care, he slept with his head covered with blanket.
When he was lying on the bed, facing the tightly closed door and windows that person had shut, not a single breeze came in. The room was extremely quiet.
A cheap life, it was just one night. The headache and nerve pain were cured, he wasn’t coughing anymore, his body had also improved a lot, the wounds didn’t hurt as much. After working a whole day and pulling through, sleeping one more time—he was already almost all better.
His body had recovered seven or eight parts out of ten.
Song Qing pushed the wheelchair into the kitchen, opened the fridge, patted the tofu and green vegetables bought last night, and told Nan Zhi—if not eaten soon, they’d go bad.
—
Nan Zhi was still busy. She didn’t know what was going on today—patients were especially many, one after another, nonstop, barely any free time. All afternoon running back and forth, so tired her legs were going soft, her feet hurt terribly, terribly.
When she finally had time to go drink her milk tea, the cup felt cold to the touch.
Her teacher was the same as her. The two of them looked at each other and both gave a bitter smile.
But since she rarely treated her teacher to milk tea, the teacher drank happily anyway. Close to the end of shift, the teacher reminded her—catch the right moment to slip away, don’t get caught for overtime. In the end, something still came up.
Nan Zhi opened WeChat, originally intending to tell Song Qing that she was probably going to be very late today. Before she even typed a word, she saw his message first.
She raised an eyebrow.
This person got addicted to doing chores?
Never seen someone scrambling so hard to do work—but after one glance at the tofu in the picture, she could only agree.
It was water tofu that had been weighed out, very tender, and indeed easily spoiled. It had already been kept for a day, leave it longer and it really couldn’t be eaten.
Nan Zhi had a habit—no matter how expensive, as long as it’s edible it can be eaten, but it can’t be wasted. Even the cheapest things can’t be wasted.
Since things were urgent on her end, she didn’t have time to say much. Nan Zhi could only copy-paste her usual phrase and reply to him: Just mind your limits and don’t tire yourself out.
Also told him that she was doing overtime, would be back a little late.
—
In an apartment building facing the street in the old district of Puxin Road, Song Qing received the message, opened the fridge again, and took out the tofu to cook.
If he were eating alone, one block of tofu would already be max spec. But with Nan Zhi added in, that wouldn’t do. He rummaged in the fridge again and picked out things Nan Zhi liked to eat.
Nan Zhi liked cauliflower. Cauliflower could be stir-fried with pork belly. She also liked pork ribs.
When buying, he had gotten four portions in one go. Song Qing planned to use a clay pot to stew her some corn and pork ribs.
Tofu, pan-fried a bit—Nan Zhi, when eating, would chat with him, occasionally play on her phone. Last time she came across a food video and shared it with him.
It was baked baojiang tofu, cut open and filled with chili powder.
Actually, pan-fried tofu was also very fragrant, and dipped in chili powder, it wasn’t any worse than that.
Song Qing washed his hands and started cooking, beginning with the dish that took the longest. He cleaned the ribs, blanched them in cold water, then slow stewed them on low heat.
Then came cooking rice—it would be done in about forty minutes. Lastly, stir-frying the vegetables.
After everything was done, he left them on the stove to keep warm, then sat at the table calculating the time.
Nan Zhi got off work at five. It took about fifteen to twenty minutes to get home. Now it was already more than twenty minutes past, and she still hadn’t returned.
He stared at their chat window for a while—no reply.
Around 6:30, Nan Zhi sat collapsed in the driver’s seat, body and mind exhausted, staring at the empty parking lot and the gloomy flowerbeds, so tired she didn’t want to move even a single finger.
She rubbed her eyes. Worn out to the bone, even the strength to complain was weak—but she was so angry, she still couldn’t help but think:
How could there be such a person—throwing poop all over the place?
When she and her teacher were happily getting ready to finish work, a patient undid the restraint straps and claimed they were trying to harm him, reached into his pants and grabbed a handful, and said—whoever comes close, he’ll fling it at them.
The entire department’s medical staff gathered around, spent a long time before subduing that person again, re-tying the restraint straps, giving him an injection, and cleaning for over an hour.
On the ward’s wall, on the bed, on the table, on the floor—everywhere—it was all over. The whole room was filled with a foul smell. Truly enough to make someone break down.
Yesterday, she had already received a diabetic foot case preparing for amputation—that was already enough to make one despair. And today, this again.
Nan Zhi, thinking of that scene now, still couldn’t help but gag dryly. She felt as if her entire body had been soaked through, and it stank.
She had already washed her hands and all exposed skin repeatedly many times, but still felt like that stench hovered under her nose.
Nan Zhi lay flat on her back, looking at the pitch-black sky through the gap in the never-closed window, and thought:
She’d probably sit for a long time under that crystal lamp again tonight.
Emotions were like water locked behind a floodgate—once a corner was broken open, all the negative emotions would surge out one after another, making her feel this world really had no meaning at all.
No meaning at all.
Just as Nan Zhi was still staring at the pitch-black sky, the ringtone in her pocket rang. She mechanically took out her phone to check—it was a WeChat call, and the caller was Song Qing.
Song Qing didn’t wait for her to pick up before hanging up. Nan Zhi opened their chat page and saw that Song Qing had sent her a photo.
Under the light, on the table that normally looked unremarkable to her, were a few dishes: tofu, fried golden on both sides but tender and moist inside; stir-fried cauliflower with pork belly; and a corn and pork rib soup.
Just one look at the soup, and you could tell the ribs were very tender—not dry at all.
Nan Zhi finally sat up, remembering that the crystal lamp at home had already been replaced by her—with a warm-toned one.
She had raised two kittens at home, and had a virtuous, diligent, and couldn’t-sit-still wife.
Nan Zhi closed the photo, just in time to receive Song Qing’s message:
[Green Grass: Are you back yet?]
Nan Zhi replied: [I also want to sniff Hakimi: On my way.]
Nan Zhi put down her phone, fastened her seatbelt, started the engine, stepped on the gas, and drove off.
It was only ten-something minutes. She had already arrived downstairs at the apartment. Before going upstairs, she checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.
Still okay.
She couldn’t let them know that the head of the household had been “out hunting” and came back wronged. Too embarrassing.
And she couldn’t bring negative emotions back home.
When Nan Zhi was about to go upstairs, she suddenly remembered—took out her phone to check if she had any deliveries. Sure enough, there were two. One was the dried pear infusion she bought before to brew and drink, and the other was the clothes she bought yesterday for Song Qing.
They had arrived so fast. Just finished delivery. Nan Zhi was lucky enough to grab them on her way home. She opened the door—and what greeted her was the sight of her “wife” and their “children” sitting in the living room waiting for her.
On the side table, there were still steaming hot dishes.
Nan Zhi’s heart warmed. Carrying all the cold frost on her body, she stepped inside happily and said:
“I’m back from hunting!”