When I got the call, I was debating whether to eat dinner at the malatang joint downstairs, the one likely using gutter oil, or go home and boil myself a bland bowl of instant noodles. On the other end, my mother's voice sounded like it had been sanded down – rough, dry, carrying an unnatural calm. She said, "Your brother... he's gone."
The old accountant at the university was surnamed Liu, named Liu Wenhe. His name was refined, but he himself was stout, like a freshly steamed white bun. He had managed the university's finances for decades, seeing people come and go, his hair turning from black to salt-and-pepper, ledger books replaced stack after stack. He kept a living ledger of the personnel changes within the university in his mind.
Every year come May, when the climbing roses were in full bloom, covering the red brick walls of the old administration building, and bees buzzed about, Liu Wenhe knew: Professor Qian's money would be arriving soon.
In 2000, the dawn of the new century pierced the sky. Amidst the silence, a baby's cry announced the arrival of a new life. He was born under the spotlight, crowned the "Century Baby," seemingly carrying the blessings and expectations of the entire era. The media's flashbulbs followed every moment of his growth; his life was preset on a bright and smooth path.
Night falls, and it is not starlight, but the shimmering light of countless screens that illuminates the city. These lights, like the bars of a cage, imprison young souls within.
Yao Ming, this giant, his voice once resonated throughout the basketball court, but now, with a hint of helplessness, it echoes in the empty conference room: "24 hours without screens, give the children a chance..." This voice is like a giant wave crashing against a reef, trying to awaken a sleeping society.
Old Li increasingly feels like a caged bird.
Lao Wang hadn't been sleeping soundly lately. It wasn't due to physical ailments or neighborly disputes; what troubled him was something intangible yet weighty – gold.