Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

The relief station was located in the basement of an old church.

The church itself wasn't large, with red brick walls and a faded cross atop its spire. There was a worn-out indentation on the steps leading to the entrance, worn smooth by countless footsteps. A police car was parked nearby, and a burly policeman leaned against the door, drinking coffee, the paper cup steaming.

Emily parked the car and picked up her canvas bag from the back seat. Lin Yuan followed her toward the side entrance of the church.

As the police car passed by, the overweight officer raised his paper cup to Emily as a greeting. Emily nodded.

"You come every time?" Lin Yuan asked.

"There are always police officers; the community sends them to maintain order." Emily pushed open the white-painted iron gate, the hinges creaking dryly. "Most people are well-behaved, but occasionally someone cuts in line or starts arguing. It's much better when the police are around."

Inside the door was a downward staircase. The steps were narrow, and the cement floor was worn smooth and shiny.

There was a handwritten sign on the wall with an arrow pointing to the basement. The handwriting was neat but childish, like it was drawn by a Sunday school child.

The basement lights were old-fashioned fluorescent lights, their white light tinged with blue, making everyone's faces look ashen.

The space was larger than Lin Yuan had imagined—about the size of a classroom. Several long tables were placed against the wall, covered with disposable tablecloths, and sandwiches, boiled eggs, and boxed milk were stacked on several large stainless steel plates.

A faint smell of bleach wafted in the air, mixed with the aroma of bread.

There are already about ten people in line.

The line stretched from the long table all the way to the door and then around a corner. The people in line were a diverse bunch: a middle-aged man in an old suit, his shirt collar faded but neatly ironed, carrying a worn-out briefcase; an elderly woman with gray hair, pushing a shopping cart full of bottles and jars, one wheel missing, walking with a limp; a young mother, holding a sleeping child in her arms and leading another by the hand, the latter peeking at the table on tiptoe; a boy who looked no more than twenty, with faded tattoos on his arm, standing at the very back of the line with his head down, shoulders hunched, as if hoping to go unnoticed.

No one spoke. The line moved slowly, but quietly. This quiet made Lin Yuan feel uneasy—not with a sense of orderly discipline, but with a weariness that had been worn down. These people had grown accustomed to waiting.

Emily placed the canvas bag in the corner locker, took down an apron with a church emblem from the wall, and tied it with practiced ease, as if she had done it hundreds of times. Then she took down another one, and Chong Linyuan gestured to it.

"No need, I'll just help out."

"Then you'll be in charge of distributing the milk." Emily led him behind the long table and pointed to the pile of milk cartons. "One carton per person. If anyone takes more than their share, tell them it's a limit. Don't raise your voice, but be firm. They're not bad people, they're just sometimes too hungry."

"You do this all the time."

"I told you, it's been almost two years." Emily smiled and walked over to the sandwich area.

Lin Yuan stood behind the long table and began handing out milk.

The first one to come over was the old lady.

As she took the milk, she looked up at Lin Yuan, her eyes a hazy, gentle gray-blue. She carefully placed the milk into the mesh bag on the side of the shopping cart and said softly, "God bless you," as if afraid of disturbing others.

Then came the middle-aged man in the old suit. He didn't speak, he just nodded.

Lin Yuan noticed his hands—his knuckles were thick, and there were black stains under his fingernails that couldn't be washed off. He wasn't the kind of person who worked in an office; he was probably some kind of repairman or mechanic.

When the young mother came over, the child she was holding suddenly reached for the milk carton. The mother gently pressed his hand down, whispered something, and the child pulled his hand back.

Lin Yuan handed her an extra carton of milk. His mother paused, glanced up at him, her lips moved, but she didn't say anything. She took the milk, picked up the child, and left.

The line moved forward little by little. Lin Yuan's hands began to mechanically repeat the same action—picking up milk, handing it out, picking up milk, handing it out. The fluorescent lights buzzed, mingling with the breathing of the crowd to create a dull background sound.

The portly policeman walked in and circled around. His belly stretched his uniform taut, and a bunch of keys and a pistol hung from his belt, jingling as he walked. He weaved through the crowd, greeted Emily, stood by the door for a moment, and then went back out to continue sunbathing.

Lin Yuan noticed that Emily would smile at everyone when distributing food. It wasn't a formulaic professional smile—a slight upward twitch of the lips without any expression in her eyes. She genuinely looked people in the eye, nodded, as if to say, "I see you."

Several of the people receiving food clearly recognized her and exchanged a few pleasantries with her.

"Your brother didn't come today?" an old man wearing glasses asked as he took the sandwich. He was wearing a worn-out plaid shirt, and the temples of his glasses were taped up.

"He has something to do at school," Emily said with a smile. "He'll come next time."

"The cookies he brought last time were really delicious, please thank him for me."

"His roommate made it." Emily tilted her head in Lin Yuan's direction.

The old man followed her gaze. Lin Yuan, who was holding a carton of milk, paused for a moment. The old man looked him up and down and nodded seriously.

"Those cookies were delicious." The tone was so serious, as if he were commenting on something very important.

Lin Yuan was stunned for a moment, then realized—Matt had previously taken a batch of poorly baked cookies from him; the edges were a bit burnt, but the middle was okay. Matt said he was going to feed them to the dogs, but it turned out they were being fed to the old man at the relief station.

"I'll do it again next time."

The old man walked away satisfied. He walked with a slight limp, his left leg splayed outwards, but he didn't walk slowly.

Time slowly passed. The fluorescent light continued to hum, the sandwich tray grew emptier, and the milk carton was almost empty. Lin Yuan occasionally glanced up at the doorway; sunlight streamed in through the crack, drawing a bright line on the floor. That line moved slowly as the sun slanted westward, creeping from the left side of the doorframe to the right.

-----------------

It's 4:30 PM. The food is almost gone.

Only three sandwiches and five or six cartons of milk remained on the long table, and the line had thinned to just four or five people. Emily had already started clearing away the empty plates, stacking stainless steel trays together with a crisp clinking sound.

Then the door was suddenly pushed open.

It wasn't just one or two people, but a group. About a dozen, men and women, mostly wearing work clothes or fast-food restaurant uniforms. One man had a name tag pinned to his chest that read "Jose," probably a dishwasher or kitchen helper.

They were covered in sweat and looked exhausted, with a blank expression on their faces as if they had just come from work—they must have just finished get off work and rushed over before the relief station closed.