Going home for the Chinese New Year with a year-end bonus of 100 million

At 7:10, everyone sat down at the table.

The table was laden with dishes—chicken soup stewed by Lin Che, lotus root and pork rib soup cooked by Su Jing, several plates of cold dishes and cooked food, plum wine brewed by Shen Wei, and beer brought by Yang Fan. The bowls were handmade tableware brought by Zhou Jin, and the cups were a mix of various shapes, some were stemmed glasses, some were mugs, and some were handmade teacups from Su Jing's studio.

"Come on," Yang Fan raised his glass, "let's have a drink first."

Everyone raised their glasses.

"The first toast is to Lin Che's new song," Yang Fan said.

"Let's sing a new song!" the crowd responded.

Lin Che held the wine glass, paused when the rim touched his lips, and whispered, "Thank you."

After finishing their first drinks, the atmosphere gradually warmed up. Everyone ate and chatted—Shen Wei talked about the progress of the "Autumn Harvest" market preparations, Su Jing shared some interesting stories about the custom orders she had recently received, Chen Mo (Cultural and Creative) showed the sample of the seed postcards, and Zhou Jin said that the number of applicants for the second phase of his workshop had already exceeded the limit.

"And you?" Shen Wei turned to Lin Che, "When are you planning to let us hear your new song?"

Lin Che put down his chopsticks and remained silent for a few seconds: "Let's finish eating. Eat your fill first, otherwise you might lose your appetite after hearing this."

"What are you talking about?" Su Jing smiled and rolled her eyes at him. "We're not here to listen to you cry."

"What if you cry?" Lin Che laughed, but his laugh wasn't so relaxed.

"It's even better that she cried," Yang Fan said. "It means the song was written correctly."

four

At 8:20, we finished eating.

Su Jing and Shen Wei cleared the dishes, Chen Mo (Wenchuang) helped wipe the table, and Zhou Jin sealed the remaining food with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator. Lin Che stood in the center of the living room, picked up the guitar from the guitar stand, and tuned it.

The door to the next room was pushed open.

The old lady stepped out, supporting herself on the doorframe. She wore a clean floral jacket and her hair was neatly combed. She glanced at the room full of people and smiled somewhat shyly, "Oh, so many people?"

"Mom," Lin Che put down his guitar and went over, "Why did you come out? Didn't I tell you to lie down and rest?"

"Sitting here is fine anyway, let's come out and sit for a while," the old lady said. "Didn't you want to hear Xiao Che sing? I'd like to hear him sing too."

Shen Wei quickly moved a chair over, laid out a cushion, and helped the old lady sit down: "Auntie, please sit here."

After the old lady sat down, she looked around at everyone in the room, her gaze lingering on each person's face for a moment before finally settling on Yang Fan: "Teacher Yang is here too."

"Coming, Auntie." Yang Fan nodded. "Come listen to some music."

"Okay." The old lady nodded and turned her gaze to Lin Che. "Sing, Mom is listening."

The room fell silent.

Lin Che stood in the center of the living room. The fluorescent lights were off, leaving only the floor lamp in the corner lit. The light shone on him from the side, casting a long shadow on the floor. He held his guitar, looked down at the strings, and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he looked up at his mother.

The old lady sat in a chair, her hands clasped together on her knees, quietly watching him.

Lin Che took a deep breath and plucked the first chord.

Without any intro or build-up, he started singing right away.

The streetlights at the alley entrance are still on. You ride your bicycle through the twilight, and I, on the back, hold your waist and ask you if you're going to work overtime tomorrow.

His voice was a little more steady than that afternoon, but it still lacked any particular technique; he was just singing very plainly. The words fell from his lips one by one, into the quiet air, like autumn leaves falling to the ground.

"You always say 'I won't work overtime anymore,' but you always sit in front of the sewing machine until very late. When I do my homework, you sit next to me, and the sound of the stitches falling on the fabric is like a song."

Shen Wei picked up the wine glass on the table, took a sip, and didn't put it down.

Su Jing lowered her head and looked at the table in front of her.

Zhou Jin took off his glasses and slowly wiped the lenses with the corner of his clothes.

Chen Mo (Cultural and Creative) leaned against the wall, motionless.

Chen Mo (security) stood next to the speaker, his hands in his pockets, his chin slightly tucked in.

"Later, I grew up and went to a very far place. Every time I called you, you would say 'You're doing well,' but I knew you didn't really say anything."

Lin Che's voice began to tremble slightly, but he didn't stop. He looked down at the strings, his fingers moving across the fretboard as if walking along a familiar path.

"What I owe you is the distance of a train ticket; what you owe me is the permission to say 'I'm tired.' We've both been lying to each other, hiding our longing in the busy tone of the phone."

Hearing this, Yang Fan felt a slight stirring in his heart. This version was different from that afternoon's. The phrase "I owe you" was still there, but it was followed by an additional line—"You owe me permission to say 'I'm tired.'" He recalled the old lady sitting by the bed saying, "I'm afraid of being a burden to him," and suddenly understood the weight of those words.

I wrote a song for you, you may not understand it, but I still want to sing it, just like that year when you sat in front of the sewing machine and stitched all the unspoken words for me.

The lingering notes of the last chord slowly dissipated in the air.

The room was very quiet.

It was so quiet that you could hear the ticking of the second hand on the wall clock.

Then, the old lady spoke.

"I understand."

Her voice was soft, but in the quiet room, every word was clearly audible.

"Mom understands."

Lin Che stood there, his fingers still trembling slightly as he held the guitar.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn't say anything.

In the end, he simply said, "Mom, this song is for you."

The old woman's eyes reddened, but she didn't let the tears fall. She nodded and smiled, saying, "I received it."

五

That night, everyone stayed up very late.

Shen Wei opened another bottle of plum wine, Su Jing mixed a plate of cold dishes with the dipping sauce she brought, and Chen Mo (Cultural and Creative) took out samples of seed postcards to show everyone—each postcard contained a different seed, some were mint, some were lavender, and some were sunflower.

"This one's for you," Chen Mo (Cultural and Creative) said, pulling out a sunflower one and handing it to Lin Che. "Sunflowers grow towards the light, they're very resilient, and they suit you perfectly."

Lin Che took it, flipped it over, and saw a line of small print: To everyone who chose to come back.

He smiled and said, "Thank you."

The old woman sat in the chair, not going back to her room to sleep. She remained there, watching the group of young people chat, laugh, and clink glasses. Her gaze moved from one person to another, a faint smile always playing on her lips.

Occasionally, someone would come over to pour her tea, and she would nod and say thank you. Occasionally, someone would ask her a few questions, and she would answer them. Most of the time, she would just sit quietly and listen.

She looked at her son, smiling among these people.

She hadn't seen him smile like that in a long time.

At 11:30, everyone got up one after another to say goodbye.

Shen Wei walked last. Before leaving, she turned around, glanced at the old lady still sitting in the chair, and then at Lin Che standing at the door seeing the guests off.

"I'll bring some tea next week," Shen Wei said. "Does Auntie like tea?"

The old lady smiled: "I like it. I drink all kinds of tea, I'm not picky."

"Then I'll bring something nice." Shen Wei waved to Lin Che. "I'm leaving now. You should get some rest."

After the door closed, the room became quiet.

Lin Che stood in the center of the living room, looking at the mess of cups and plates on the table, and then at his mother sitting in the chair.

"Mom, are you tired? Let me help you to rest."

"I'm not tired," the old lady said. "Your friends are all very nice."

"Um."

"That Xiao Shen, and Xiao Su, and those two Xiao Chens, and that Teacher Zhou... they're all good people." The old lady paused. "Now that you have these people in Chengdu, I'm relieved."

Lin Che squatted down in front of his mother and held her hand.

Those were hands that had toiled their entire lives, with large knuckles, rough skin, and nails deformed from years of needlework. But in his memory, those hands had once been so skillful—walking thousands of stitches on the sewing machine, conjuring up hot meals in the kitchen, and mending holes in his school uniform under the lamp.

"Mom," his voice choked with emotion, "Don't worry. I'm here, doing fine."

The old lady looked at him, reached out, and touched his hair—her touch was very gentle, as if he hadn't done it in a long time.

"Mom knows."

六

Yang Fan returned to his residence after midnight.

He didn't go to sleep immediately, but sat on the balcony and smoked a cigarette. The late autumn night wind was a bit chilly, brushing against his face like fine sandpaper. The street below was empty, and the streetlights cast patches of orange light on the ground.

He recalled how Lin Che had sung earlier.

Unlike that afternoon, tonight's version has an extra sentence—"You owe me permission to say 'I'm tired'."

That sentence changed the whole song. It was no longer just the son's guilt and confession, but a two-way understanding—he understood his mother's silence and gave her a chance to speak.

Yang Fan stubbed out his cigarette, took out his phone, and wrote a line in his notes app:

"The stitches of the sewing machine mend not only clothes, but also unspoken words."

He looked at it for a few seconds, turned off his phone, and went back to his room.

The wind was still blowing outside the window. The ginkgo leaves rustled in the night breeze, like countless tiny voices whispering something.

In another corner of the city, a young man sat by his mother's bedside, holding her hand, waiting for her to fall asleep.

On the bedside table was a sunflower seed postcard.