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

Saturday morning, the sky cleared up.

Shen Wei stood in the center of the university town's central square, looking at the emerging market in front of her, and took a deep breath.

One by one, the sunshades were erected, their pale blue tarpaulins stretching out in the morning light, like a huge canvas billowing slightly in the wind.

The vendors were arranging their goods in front of their respective stalls; some were carrying wooden crates, some were hanging cloth curtains, and some were adjusting a retro kerosene lamp.

The air was filled with the smells of wood, fabric, fresh vegetables, and toasted bread.

She thought, this is the kind of excitement I've been looking for.

She was busy until 2 a.m. last night, repeatedly checking the list of supplies and personnel arrangements.

She woke up again at six in the morning, before the alarm clock rang—when she had something on her mind, her body always woke up before her brain.

When she arrived at the square, the first batch of tents was already being unloaded.

Chen Mo (Cultural and Creative) arrived half an hour earlier than scheduled. He was standing by the square, holding a cup of soy milk, looking up at the sky as if checking the weather.

"It will be a good day," Chen Mo said when he saw her.

Shen Wei nodded.

Lin Che arrived at 8:30 in the morning.

He agreed to help, but he didn't expect to be assigned to the most central position—the entrance check-in area.

"You'll stand here, giving directions, handing out brochures, and answering questions." Shen Wei handed him a yellow volunteer T-shirt.

"You'll meet many people, and everyone will ask you different questions. Can you handle it?"

Lin Che took the T-shirt and put it on: "I'll try it on."

"It's not 'trying,' it's 'I can.'" Shen Wei looked at him. "You can even compose a song, are you afraid to answer a few questions?"

Lin Che thought for a moment and nodded: "Yes."

He stood in that position.

At first, he felt a little awkward—he was used to standing outside the crowd, observing others, rather than being seen by everyone. But when a young mother with a child came up to him and asked, "How do I get to the charity area?" he found himself naturally giving directions, even adding, "There are drawing activities for children over there."

The young mother said thank you and led her child away in that direction. Lin Che watched her retreating figure and felt a subtle sense of peace—he had only said one sentence, but that sentence had helped her find the place she wanted to go.

He thought this was probably the feeling Yang Fan was talking about: "not having to rush to do the next thing to prove yourself."

He stood at the entrance registration desk all morning, answering dozens of questions and handing out hundreds of market brochures.

He met all sorts of people—young parents pushing strollers, elderly people strolling hand in hand through the market, students riding shared bikes by, and middle-aged men walking golden retrievers. Each person had their own expression and rhythm, like different parts of a melody in a grand chorus.

Around noon, he saw a familiar figure.

His mother, wearing the dark red coat he had bought her, stood at the entrance of the square, carrying a cloth bag and looking around. Lin Che paused for a moment, then quickly walked over.

"Mom, what brings you here?"

When the old lady saw him, her expression changed from searching to satisfaction: "I asked Xiao Wang next door to check the address for me, and I came by bus. It's only three stops away, not far at all."

Why didn't you tell me you were coming?

"If I told you, you wouldn't let me come." The old lady straightened her coat collar. "I came to see where your songs are sold."

Lin Che was both amused and exasperated: "Mom, that's something you listen to on your phone, not something you sell at the market."

"I don't care, just take me for a walk."

So Lin Che handed over the registration to another volunteer and took his mother for a walk around the market. The old lady stopped at each stall, picking up this to look at, putting down that to touch, and occasionally chatting with the stall owners. At a stall selling handmade cloth shoes, she lingered for a while, picking up a pair of dark blue cloth shoes and examining them closely, asking the stall owner, "Are the stitches on the soles handmade or machine-made?"

"It's handmade, ma'am. Look at the spacing of these stitches; a machine can't do such even and irregular stitches."

The old lady nodded: "Handmade shoes are better. Machine-made shoes have too hard soles, and my feet hurt after walking for a long time."

She didn't buy the shoes, but as she left, she told the stall owner, "The craftsmanship is good," which made the stall owner quite happy.

At 2 p.m., the market reached its peak in terms of foot traffic.

When Su Jing appeared in the crowd wearing that "Autumn Frost" coat, Shen Wei was helping Chen Mo adjust the display stand for the seed postcards in the cultural and creative area. She looked up and saw Su Jing standing a few steps away, her gray-blue coat gleaming softly in the afternoon sunlight, making her look quiet and upright.

Shen Wei stopped what she was doing.

"Are you wearing it?" she asked.

"I put it on," Su Jing said. "I hesitated for a long time when I woke up this morning, but in the end I felt that the clothes I made were meant to be worn."

"Does it fit?"

"You did it, so what do you say?"

Shen Wei smiled but didn't answer. She lowered her head and continued adjusting the angle of the display stand, but the smile on her lips didn't fade.

Su Jing wandered around the market, pausing at each stall for a while. She bought a pair of shoes at the handmade cloth shoe stall—the same dark blue pair the old lady had seen—then walked to the entrance of the cultural and creative area, stood in front of the wooden display stand Chen Mo had made, and pulled out a seed postcard.

The front of the postcard features an illustration of a market—a golden rice field with distant, faintly visible mountains. The back bears the small, dark green text: "To everyone who chooses to return."

Su Jing wrote a line of words on the blank space on the back.

She didn't show anyone what she wrote; she simply put the postcard into her coat pocket.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Lin Che met an unexpected person.

He was organizing the remaining booklets at the registration desk when he heard someone call his name.

He looked up and saw a gray-haired man standing in front of him, wearing a dark blue work jacket, holding a cup of osmanthus wine he had bought at the market, and smiling at him.

"Brother Xu?" Lin Che was stunned. "What brings you here?"

Old Xu shook the osmanthus wine in his hand: "I came to see your market. I heard you told your mom about the song being uploaded, but you didn't tell me—so I came to hear you say it to me in person."

Lin Che was a little embarrassed: "I didn't think it was a big deal."

"What's your business is your own business, but what's my business is the recording studio," Lao Xu said. "A song that's been recorded is like a pigeon that's been released; it has to fly a distance before we know if it's going to get to its destination."

He took a USB drive out of his pocket and handed it to Lin Che: "Take this."

"What?"

"The original recording of 'Sewing Machine.' No mixing, no editing, just the first time you sang it in the recording studio that day."

Lin Che took the USB drive: "Why are you giving me this?"

"Because over time, you'll want to know what you were like at the beginning," Old Xu said. "That's more memorable than the final product."

Lin Che held the USB drive in his hand and felt a slight warmth from the corner of it—it was probably warmed up by Lao Xu in his pocket.

"Thank you, Brother Xu."

Old Xu waved his hand, turned and walked deeper into the market, quickly disappearing into the crowd.

At 5:30 p.m., the market was coming to an end.

Shen Wei stood in the center of the square, looking around.

The blue tarpaulin of the sunshade turned a warm orange in the setting sun.

The stall owners began packing up their goods; some shared unsold fruit with their fellow stall owners, while others exchanged contact information.

The crowd at the entrance had thinned out considerably, with only a few people occasionally strolling out, carrying bags of various sizes, their faces showing the unique satisfaction and exhaustion that comes from a long day of shopping.

Everything was almost over. The market she had been planning for months had finally turned into an ordinary and beautiful autumn afternoon—there had been chaos, unexpected situations, and some unplanned mishaps, but most people left with smiles on their faces.

She saw Lin Che helping to organize the remaining supplies at the registration desk, and saw his mother sitting on a bench next to him, holding a cup of hot tea, chatting with Chen Mo.

She saw Su Jing chatting with a girl making ceramics at a stall not far away; the gray-blue coat looked very comfortable on her.

She saw Chen Mo (security) carrying a folding table toward the warehouse, his steps still steady.

Yang Fan walked up to her without her noticing.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Shen Wei thought for a moment: "It's like a dream that's been going on for a long time, and when you wake up you find you're still in the dream."

Yang Fan smiled and said, "Then stay in the dream a little longer."

He paused, then said, "You know, there are two ways to live. One is to keep moving forward until you can't go any further. The other is to find a place, stop, and plant something there. You chose the second one."

Shen Wei turned to look at him: "Brother Yang, which one did you choose?"

Yang Fan was silent for a while, looking at the crowd packing up their stalls in the distance, and said, "I thought I chose the first option, but recently I've realized that I may have unknowingly chosen the second one."

He didn't say anything more. The two stood side by side in the center of the square, watching the sunset paint everything in a golden hue.

The market officially closed at 7 p.m.

(End of the article)