The world of film and television begins with Hikaru no Go

Song Ying never imagined that her family's housing problem would be solved in this way.

To be honest, she didn't remember having any cousin at all. She only heard people mention her a few times when she was a child, saying that she married someone from another place in her early years and later went to a very far place to "do construction," but no one could say for sure what she did.

Only when someone came to her door did Song Ying learn that her cousin and cousin-in-law had died in the line of duty, leaving behind a child named Zhang Rui. Apart from herself, they had no other relatives.

She didn't think much of it at the time and nodded directly.

Both working parents are raising two kids, so life is just a little tighter, but my husband, Lin Wufeng, is supportive.

Zhang Rui is older, so he can mentor Dong Zhe.

To Song Ying's surprise, the organization had arranged everything perfectly.

The compensation was 650 yuan per person, but she received 2000 yuan, which she said was subsidized by her cousin and her husband's colleagues.

In addition, Zhang Rui can also receive a subsidy with a small red booklet called "Regular and Fixed Subsidy Certificate". It is also double, 40 yuan per month, which is more than her monthly salary.

But these two sums of money always felt heavy in Song Ying's hands.

On the one hand, it's a guarantee for the child's future life; on the other hand, it's a trust placed in her by her cousin and her husband.

What was most surprising was that the two comrades who brought Zhang Rui over also coordinated with the factory to solve his housing problem.

The day we moved was a bright and sunny day. October in Suzhou is the most comfortable time of year.

The summer heat has long since dissipated, but the real chill has yet to arrive. The air is dry and crisp, and it feels slightly cool when you breathe it in.

The sun shone brightly, turning the bluestone slabs at the alley entrance white. After standing in the sun for a while, one's back would feel warm and hot.

October is the driest month in Suzhou. The sky is a clear, deep blue, and even the clouds appear thin and pale, stretched into wisps by the wind.

Occasionally a gust of wind would blow by, swirling a few withered leaves from the corner of the wall, making them rustle and spin along the ground before falling back to their original spot.

The tricycle creaked and groaned as it rolled over the gravel and came to a stop at the entrance of the alley.

It was a borrowed vehicle; the green paint on the truck bed was peeling off in patches, revealing rusty patches underneath.

Zhang Rui stepped down from the truck bed, carrying the wicker box, and stood at the alley entrance for a moment.

This place is unlike any other place I've been before; the alleys are narrow, and it's a bit cramped for two people to walk side by side.

The walls on both sides are not high; you can see your neighbor's yard if you stand on tiptoe.

Half-withered ivy climbed the courtyard wall, its roots cracking open on the lime plaster surface.

Several clotheslines were strung on the wall, some empty, others with wilted mustard greens hanging over them.

A very faint smell of firewood floated in the air, mixed with the dry, crisp air characteristic of early winter.

In the distance, the faint sound of an enamel basin hitting the edge of a well could be heard, probably a housewife drawing water to wash clothes.

Zhang Rui was about to put down the rattan trunk and go help move the odds and ends of the household items when Song Ying spotted him immediately.

"RuiRui! How old are you? What are you doing moving things? Go and keep an eye on your little brother."

As they were talking, she walked out of the alley in a few steps, grabbed his arm, and gave him no room for discussion.

Before Zhang Rui could even speak, Lin Dongzhe had already darted out from the crowd.

"Brother! Mom told me to keep an eye on you!"

Zhang Rui glanced at the slightly mischievous little boy, then at Song Ying's busy back as she turned away, switched the wicker basket to his other hand, and led Lin Dongzhe into the courtyard.

The courtyard was smaller than I had imagined. It was probably one of two houses separated from the old-style hall by a wall. The one on the left belonged to Gui Lin's family, while the one on the right was still empty, with the door locked.

The courtyard was paved with bluestone slabs, and several clumps of withered grass whose names I didn't know grew in the cracks between the stones. There was a half-old water vat placed against the wall.

"Brother, from now on we'll share a room!" Lin Dongzhe pulled him inside, pushing open the small door on the left. "Mom said we'll share a bed. It's not small, there's enough room. If you think it's too cramped, I can move over a bit. I'm a very quiet sleeper, really, I'm not lying to you, I definitely won't fight you for the blanket."

The room was small; there wasn't much space left after putting in a wooden-framed bed and an old desk.

The bed was placed against the wall, so the innermost spot naturally belonged to Lin Dongzhe.

There was nothing on the windowsill. Some of the green paint on the window frame was peeling off, but it was wiped very clean, indicating that it had been tidied up in advance.

Zhang Rui placed the rattan trunk at the foot of the bed and sat down beside it.

The palm fiber mat is quite old; it sinks slightly when you sit on it, and it has a bit of resilience.

The mattress was thick and sturdy, and the top layer of the bed was turned upside down.

The lining is new, and the cover has been freshly starched and washed. It is crisp and smooth, and you can smell a faint scent of soap when you get close.

Lin Dongzhe squeezed in and plopped down next to him, swinging his legs back and forth on the edge of the bed.

The bed wasn't big, and the two of them sat side by side, their arms almost touching.

"Brother, what's in your suitcase? Is there anything good to eat?"

Zhang Rui didn't answer, but bent down and dragged the rattan box out from the foot of the bed, placing it in front of the two of them.

The edges of the box were worn smooth, and the rattan itself had darkened, taking on a dull yellow hue that comes with years of use.

Upon opening the lid, a very faint camphor scent wafted out.

On top was a clean blue cotton-padded jacket, neatly folded.

The stitching on the collar and cuffs is fine and dense, indicating that it wasn't newly made, but it was washed very clean, and the cotton wadding was still fluffy, not crushed.

He took out his cotton-padded coat and placed it on the bed. Underneath it was a set of dark gray woolen sweater and trousers, with tightly fitted cuffs, the kind worn close to the skin in winter.

Further down, there were two pairs of socks and a pair of cloth shoes, all wrapped in old newspapers. The words printed on the newspapers were blurred, and only the number "1976" was clearly visible.

Dongcheol craned his neck to look, a little disappointed: "Just clothes."

Zhang Rui didn't respond and continued scrolling down.

My fingers touched something hard. I pulled it out from under my clothes—a small Xinhua Dictionary, about the size of my palm. The cover was red plastic, worn white in some places, and there was a small tear in the corner of the spine, which had been taped back together with yellowed transparent tape.

Upon opening it, the title page reads "Zhang Rui".

It wasn't exactly beautiful, but every stroke was executed with great force; the horizontal lines were distinct, and the vertical lines were clear. A few strokes were smudged with water, and the ink had spread into a small blotch, just like the handwriting of my father that I remembered.

He placed the dictionary next to his cotton-padded coat and continued flipping through the pages.

At the bottom of the box was a kraft paper envelope containing two black and white photographs.

He picked up the first one, a photo of three people:

The father stood on the left, wearing a slightly worn Zhongshan suit, the collar buttoned up to the top. He was thin, with the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, wanting to smile but also somewhat reserved. In the middle, a child sat on a stool, his face round and chubby, his eyes staring straight at the camera, his mouth wide open. The mother had one hand around the child's waist, and the other hand pointed in this direction towards the camera, probably showing the father something. Her mouth was half open, but before she could finish speaking, she was photographed.

The back of the photo has a line of small print that reads: "Zhang Rui's first birthday, March 1968."