Chapter 18: Jiang Chaozhou’s Home

Jiang Chaozhou dragged his weary body into the classroom, having just rushed back to school after delivering takeout. Sweat drenched his face, trickling down his cheeks relentlessly, strands of hair dampened and clinging to his forehead and temples. His once-white school uniform, now faded and stained, was soaked through with sweat, emitting a faint sour odor.

His gaze immediately fell upon a lunchbox resting on the desk, left there for quite some time, its steam long since vanished. Jiang Chaozhou knew silently that it was a gift from Xu Zhixing. A flicker of gratitude lit his eyes as he quietly approached his seat, drawing from his bag a scrap of paper on which he carefully penned the words "Thank you." His fingers, roughened from hours of delivery work, trembled slightly as he wrote, yet the characters remained neat and legible.

Xu Zhixing was intently taking notes, her eyes fixed on the textbook, her pen swiftly capturing key points. She seemed to notice Jiang Chaozhou's gesture but only lifted her head lightly, giving a subtle nod before resuming her focus on the notes. Her expression was serene, devoid of excess words or emotion, as if this act of kindness were simply natural and expected.

Observing her reaction, a complex wave of emotion stirred within Jiang Chaozhou. He understood well that Xu Zhixing was always this kind-hearted yet reserved soul. He gently placed the note at the corner of her desk and carefully opened the lunchbox. Though the food had cooled, to him it was a feast, a delicacy. He picked up his chopsticks and ate slowly, cherishing every bite.

After a long day’s toil, Jiang Chaozhou trudged home with heavy, sluggish steps. His figure, bathed in the fading glow of the sunset, appeared especially lonely. The faded, slightly oversized school uniform hung loosely on his thin frame. His shoulders drooped under the invisible weight of life’s burdens. Each step struck the ground with a faint scrape, stirring up small puffs of dust.

At last, he reached home—a dilapidated shack with walls mottled and worn by time. Cracks yawned in places, and the chill wind howled through, whispering tales of hardship and struggle.

Inside, the dim light made his eyes squint, his gaze clouded with exhaustion and resignation. He headed straight for the outdoor kitchen, a makeshift shelter constructed from broken planks and rusted tin at the back of the house. Standing before the rudimentary stove, he retrieved a handful of leafy greens from a battered basket. The leaves were yellowed, clearly not fresh, yet to him they were precious ingredients.

Rolling up the sleeves of his uniform, revealing slender, sun-darkened arms, he turned on the faucet. The water gushed out with a murmur, tinged with a faint cloudiness. Methodically, he rinsed the vegetables, the cold water splashing against his hands and face, though he seemed untouched, his eyes vacant, fixed on the greens.

After washing, he grasped a slightly rusted knife and began chopping on the uneven cutting board. His movements were somewhat awkward but earnest, slicing the vegetables into small pieces. Then he lit the old stove; the flames crackled, casting flickering light over his pale face.

He poured a bit of oil into the pan; it hissed and smoked as the greens hit the heat. He stirred swiftly, the color of the vegetables brightening, though their fresh aroma was swallowed by the smoke. Sweat beaded on his forehead, sliding down his cheeks, yet his lips remained tightly pressed, his expression unreadable.

This simple meal of greens might be the scant sustenance he and his parents could afford that day, but he strove to prepare it well, as if it were the sole thing in this harsh life within his control.

As dusk deepened, just as Jiang Chaozhou set the dish on the table in the open kitchen, footsteps echoed at the door. He glanced up to see his parents entering, their bodies weary and worn.

Jiang Fuhai, broad-shouldered but stooped from years of toil, bore dust-laden hair and a face marked by streaks of mud—as if time itself had carved deep furrows there. His worn work clothes, soaked with sweat and smeared with construction grime, clung tightly, outlining his lean frame shaped by labor.

Helan was small and frail, her features aged beyond her years, strands of hair tangled and dirtied, framing a face etched with fatigue. Her steps faltered, as if a mere gust might topple her.

Without a word, they moved directly to the rough wooden table. Their coarse hands dipped briefly into a bucket by the door to wet themselves, hastily scrubbing before eagerly grasping their chopsticks.

Jiang Chaozhou stood quietly aside, watching his parents devour the greens with ravenous hunger, his heart aching. Helan took a few bites before noticing Jiang Chaozhou’s untouched chopsticks. She raised her head weakly, her hoarse voice coaxing, "Chaozhou, eat more."

Her lips were cracked and peeling, a small fragment of vegetable clung to her teeth. Jiang Chaozhou shook his head gently and whispered, "Mom, I’m not hungry." His voice was soft but rang clear in the silent room.

Jiang Fuhai paused mid-bite, looking up at his son with bloodshot eyes filled with concern and confusion. "What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?" he asked, reaching out with his calloused hand to touch Jiang Chaozhou’s forehead.

Jiang Chaozhou stepped back slightly, avoiding his father’s hand, forcing a faint smile. "Dad, I’m really fine, just not very hungry. You two eat."

His smile, faint in the dim light, bore a hint of bitterness, yet his eyes shone with quiet strength. Jiang Fuhai seemed about to say more but sighed instead and lowered his head to continue eating.

Helan silently pushed some greens onto Jiang Chaozhou’s plate. "Just eat a little, you’re still growing."

Jiang Chaozhou stared at the humble greens before him, a flood of emotions swirling inside. He knew it was his parents’ care, but he couldn’t bear taking more of the precious food from them.

Slowly, he sat down at the table, picked up his chopsticks, and idly stirred the greens in his bowl, hesitating to bring them to his mouth. His gaze lingered on his parents’ weathered faces—the only warmth left in this world was right here, in this home.