Civil Engineering in the Mortal World: Ten Years Without Knowing Today's Events

The days that followed were so peaceful, unlike anything on a construction site.

Old Huang comes every day as usual, takes a walk around, looks around, says a few words like "Be careful" and "Keep a close eye on the quality," and then leaves.

No orders were placed, no complaints were made, and even the goji berry water in the thermos was drunk slowly.

Xiao Liu said he was like a different person, and I told him not to get too excited, maybe he's holding back something big. But even as I said that, I wasn't entirely convinced myself.

The big surprise didn't come, and the days just passed by one by one.

I arrived at the construction site at seven in the morning, first reviewed the construction records from the previous night, and then took a walk around the site.

The foundation slab was poured, the wall columns were tied, and the formwork was erected. The workers proceeded methodically, at a steady pace.

Old Wang would squat by the foundation pit every day, smoking, and when he saw me, he'd ask, "Engineer Chen, has the supervisor come today?"

I said not yet.

He said, "Damn it, I'm not used to him not coming."

I chuckled. It really doesn't feel right. When someone's watching you every day for a long time, and then suddenly they stop, you feel like something's missing.

It's not that I like his stare, it's that I've gotten used to that tension. Now that the tension is gone, I feel like a rubber band that's been stretched for a long time has suddenly gone slack, limp and listless.

Xiao Hui sends me messages every day.

A photo taken in the morning, usually for breakfast. Sometimes it's plain porridge with pickled vegetables, sometimes it's steamed buns and eggs, sometimes it's a bowl of noodles. The photos are always blurry, the focus is never right, but I can already recognize her dining table—a floral tablecloth, white porcelain bowls, and chopsticks on the right.

The photo was accompanied by the caption: "Brother Chen, time to eat."

I replied, "I ate it."

She asked, "What did you eat?"

I thought for a moment and typed two words: "Baozi" (steamed bun).

Actually, I ate steamed buns. But steamed buns don't look good in photos, and I didn't want her to think I wasn't eating well. I don't know why, I just didn't want to.

At noon, she posted a photo of the view outside her window. Her window faces south, offering a view of the residential buildings across the street and a row of poplar trees. The poplar trees in the photo are always blurry because she took it from inside, and there's dust on the glass.

"Brother Chen, the weather is nice today."

I replied, "Yes, it's sunny at the construction site too."

"Brother Chen is sunbathing."

I smiled.

I sunbathe for eight hours every day on the construction site, and my skin is already shiny black.

She probably couldn't imagine that kind of sun exposure—not the kind you get sitting by the window, but the kind you get standing under the sun, drenched in sweat, your helmet so hot you could fry an egg in it.

But I didn't tell her any of that.

I said, "Okay, let's sunbathe."

She sends the most messages at night. Sometimes it's a voice message, sometimes a picture of her plush bunny, sometimes a smiley face emoji. In the voice messages, she speaks slowly, uttering each word one by one, like a child learning to speak. But the content is very simple—have you eaten? Are you tired? Go to bed early.

I replied to every single one. My replies were short, but I replied to every single one.

My mom called to ask how my chat with Xiaohui went.

I said it was fine.

She said, "When will you go see him again?"

I said I'd wait until the weekend.

She said, "Don't wait until the weekend, isn't today Wednesday? Go after work."

I told them they wanted to take a nap.

Mom paused for a moment, then said, "Then go this weekend. But be proactive, don't always let the girl come to you."

"understood."

After hanging up the phone, I scrolled through my chat history with Xiaohui.

From Saturday until now, five days, she sent forty-seven messages, and I replied to thirty-two of them.

The numbers are wrong, but I've tried my best.

I didn't know what to say to her.

She said strawberries, I said sweet. She said rabbits, I said cute. She said, "Brother Chen, you've worked hard," I said, "It's nothing." We just kept repeating the same few phrases.

But she didn't find it annoying. She still posted every day, morning, noon, and evening, as punctual as an alarm clock.

I'm starting to get used to it.

I'm used to my phone vibrating at a certain time, used to opening that blurry photo, used to replying with those few words.

This makes me feel like a normal person, a normal person who is cared about.

On Thursday afternoon, a minor incident occurred at the construction site.

The concrete pump truck broke down when a foundation slab in the western section was being poured halfway through.

The concrete was stuck in the pump pipe, unable to move forward or backward.

Old Wang ran over and asked me what to do. I said to ask the concrete mixing plant to send another pump truck.

Old Wang said it would take an hour.

I said I would wait.

Workers squatted by the foundation pit smoking, pump truck drivers were on the phone swearing, and concrete mixer trucks at the commercial concrete plant were lined up, their tanks still slowly rotating to prevent the concrete from solidifying.

I stood by the base plate, looking at the half-full truckload of unpoured concrete, and mentally calculated: what if the concrete begins to set in an hour? Will cold joints appear at the seams?

My phone vibrated.

The photos Xiaohui posted. Today's strawberries are served in a white porcelain bowl, with a glass of water beside them.

"Brother Chen, afternoon tea."

I looked at that glass of water.

Plain, clear water, poured into a glass, reflects sunlight, creating a tiny rainbow.

I replied, "It looks good."

Then I put my phone in my pocket and continued staring at the half-truckload of concrete.

Forty minutes later, the pump truck arrived.

The workers reconnected the pump pipe and continued watering.

I squatted down at the seam and looked for a long time. There was a shallow mark where the old and new concrete met, but it wasn't obvious.

I touched it with my hand, and there was no misalignment between the new and old parts; it was fairly flat.

"Keep watering," I said.

Old Wang glanced at me. "Engineer Chen, is everything alright?"

"I'll take responsibility if there are any problems."

Old Wang didn't say anything more and turned to direct the workers.

I stood up; my legs felt a little numb.

I took out my phone and snapped a picture. I wasn't going to send it to anyone, I was just going to save it.

In case of problems later, at least we'll know when and under what conditions the water was poured. On a construction site, records are evidence, and evidence is life itself.

When I returned to the dorm that evening, Xiao Liu wasn't there. There was a note on the table: "Brother Chen, I've gone home. I'll be back this weekend."

I crumpled the note and threw it in the trash can, sat down, and opened my lunchbox. It contained shredded pork with green peppers, and the rice was a bit hard. I ate slowly, looking at my phone as I ate.

The meeting sent three messages.

A photo. A bowl of noodles. This time the poached egg wasn't burnt; the yolk was intact, round, like a little sun.

"Brother Chen, I fried these today."

I zoomed in on the photo. The egg white had slightly burnt edges, but the yolk was definitely intact. An improvement over last time.

"Not bad," I replied with two words.

After thinking for a moment, I added, "It's better than last time."

Xiao Hui replied instantly: "Yes, I've been studying for a long time."

I studied it for a long time. I read those four characters several times.

She spent a long time learning to fry an egg. Maybe she fried dozens, burning dozens of them, before finally managing to fry this one with an intact yolk. No one knows, only she knows.

I typed a few words: "Very impressive."

Send it out.

Then I finished my boxed lunch and took a shower.

Lying in bed, I opened Xiaohui's chat window and looked at the picture of the fried egg again. The yolk was round, like a little sun.

I smiled.

It wasn't a bitter smile; I genuinely felt a warmth in my heart.

The phone lit up again.

A voice message from my mother.

I clicked on it.

"Little one, your dad asked me today when you're bringing a girl home."

I listened to the voice message but didn't reply.

Should we take Xiaohui home?

I closed my eyes, and an image appeared in my mind—Xiao Hui sitting on the sofa in my living room, head down, her hands clasped together.

Her father sat opposite her, looking at her, wanting to say something but not knowing what to say.

Mom was busy arranging fruit nearby, saying, "Eat, eat, don't be shy."

Xiao Hui didn't speak, so her mother kept talking until she ran out of things to say, and then the room became quiet.

It was so quiet you could hear the clock on the wall ticking.

Just then, my phone lit up again, interrupting my reverie.

It will be distributed by Xiaohui.

Goodnight, Brother Chen.

I replied with two words: "Goodnight."

Then I put my phone next to my pillow.

It's very quiet tonight, so quiet that I can hear my own heartbeat.