His physiological preference

Yang Zhiyan felt a lump in her throat; Teacher Mu was truly the best person in the world to her.

"Teacher Mu, no need, I have enough."

"What do you mean by 'enough'? You only have three thousand yuan left each month, and renting a decent place will take up most of it. Don't be polite with your teacher; being polite to me is just being distant."

Yang Zhiyan bit her lip and remained silent.

"Alright, alright, why don't you just not go look? I'll ask someone I know." Teacher Mu hung up.

Yang Zhiyan insisted on finishing the search, just in case she found something suitable. She really wanted to move out as soon as possible.

This house is not as good as the previous one.

It's described as a two-bedroom apartment, but it's actually just a partitioned-off old house with such thin partitions that you can hear the snoring from next door.

The kitchen faucet won't turn off properly; it keeps dripping, a constant, persistent dripping.

The toilet door couldn't be closed; the lock was just a dark hole that could be easily pulled open with a finger.

Her roommate was a man in his forties who was sitting shirtless in the living room looking at his phone. When Yang Zhiyan came in, he glanced at her from head to toe, then slowly stood up and put on the vest that was draped over the back of the chair.

She only wore half of the vest, and because her belly was so big, the vest was stuck on her chest, and the hem was rolled up, revealing a section of her round belly.

Yang Zhiyan stood at the door for three seconds but did not go in.

"I'm sorry, this isn't suitable," she said to the agent, then turned and left.

The agent called out "Sister" from behind, but she didn't stop.

She didn't look at the third apartment; the agents' recommendations were all terrible. She'd look around some more. Teacher Mu was right; it was better to spend a little more money to live in a safe and secure neighborhood.

She found a flower bed edge by the roadside and sat down.

Several half-dead rose bushes were planted in the flower bed; their leaves were curled up and the edges were yellow, as if they had been scorched by the sun.

Several ants were queuing up along the edge of the flower bed, busily making their way, seemingly unsure of where they were going.

A message from the real estate agent: Sister, are you still looking at the third property?

She typed two words: "I'm not watching anymore."

After sending it, I felt it was too abrupt, so I added: "Thank you, I'll think about it some more."

She placed her phone face down on her knee and looked up at the sky.

The clouds were thicker and lower than in the morning, a leaden gray like a giant concrete ceiling. The air was stifling, as if it were holding back a downpour, but nothing would fall.

She opened the rental app and set the search criteria to a half-hour commute to her studio.

When the page refreshed, there were half fewer listings, but it definitely looked different.

The apartments on Binjiang Road were spotless in the photos, with plain-colored curtains and sunlight streaming in through the windows, casting a bright patch of light on the wooden floor.

What about the monthly rent?

Three thousand five. Three thousand eight. Four thousand two.

She looked at each number one by one, her finger slowly sliding across the screen. Each number felt like a small pebble hitting her heart; it didn't hurt, but it was unsettling.

She currently has a monthly allowance of 3,000 yuan. Renting a house for 3,500 yuan would mean not only spending all 3,000 yuan but also having to pay extra from her savings. However, she can afford it since she doesn't have to pay household expenses next month.

deposit.

She opened her bank's app and glanced at her balance.

Fifty-two thousand three hundred dollars.

This was all the savings she had accumulated over two years of work. Most of it came from commissions given to her by Teacher Mu, which she secretly deposited into a new card without her family's knowledge.

She stared at the number for a few seconds, then exited the app and put her phone back in her bag.

Never mind, let's go back first and look for it again tomorrow.

When Yang Zhiyan got off the bus, it had already started to drizzle.

It's so fine you can't see it, but it feels cool on your skin, like someone spraying it from a distance.

She pulled a folding umbrella out of her bag and opened it.

She walked back along Binjiang Road, intending to take the subway station back to her studio.

She doesn't often walk this road. Binjiang Road is one of the most expensive areas in Haicheng, lined with plane trees whose canopies intertwine overhead to form an arched green tunnel.

On one side of the road is the river, its surface shrouded in a hazy gray. The buildings on the opposite bank resemble distant mountains in a traditional Chinese ink painting, their outlines blurred and their colors pale.

On the other side of the road was a row of upscale residential buildings, with roses climbing all over the wrought iron fence. They were in full bloom, and the pink and white flowers peeked out from the gaps in the railings, wet from the raindrops.

Yang Zhiyan walked quickly, holding an umbrella, afraid that the rain would get heavier later.

The security guards at these residential compounds stand ramrod straight in their uniforms, swiping cards to enter; outsiders are not allowed in. The neighborhoods nearby have very high security, but they're too expensive for her to afford.

Not far ahead, a hunched figure was squatting on the ground by the roadside.

Only when I got closer could I see that it was an old lady.

Her gray hair was neatly combed and tied into a bun at the back of her head. She wore a navy blue cotton-linen top, dark gray wide-leg pants, and white flat shoes.

She squatted on the ground, with fruit scattered all over the ground in front of her. Several apples had rolled the farthest, and two or three had already rolled to the edge of the curb.

The oranges were scattered here and there, some of them were cracked, and orange juice seeped out, soaking a small patch of the ground;

There were also a few plums, green and red, scattered here and there in the gaps.

The plastic bag in the old lady's hand had a big hole in it; the top of the bag was clenched in her hand, but the bottom was missing.

"Oh dear, oh dear..." The old lady tried to catch it in a flurry, but she couldn't manage it. The fruit rolled all over the place.

Yang Zhiyan squatted down.

She held up her umbrella, rummaged through her bag and pulled out a spare reusable bag, folded it neatly into a square, and stuffed it at the very bottom of the bag.

This is her habit when she goes out; she always carries an extra bag in her purse. Teacher Mu says she's like Doraemon, always taking things out.

"Grandma, let me help you."

She squatted down and began picking up the fruit. The apples had rolled the furthest, so she picked them up first. She bent down and took two steps to retrieve an apple that had rolled to the base of a sycamore tree and put it in her reusable bag.

Several oranges were cracked. She picked up the ones that weren't cracked and left the cracked ones where they were; they were simply unusable.

The old lady also squatted down to pick them up, her movements slower than Yang Zhiyan's, but very methodical.

The two squatted on the sidewalk for two or three minutes, finally collecting all the scattered fruit.

The old lady's trousers had a layer of dust on the knees, and there was a black mark on the surface of her white leather shoes. She looked down at them, patted them twice, and looked a little disgusted.

"Thank you, young lady." The old lady held onto the lamppost for support as she stood up, and only let go after she regained her balance.

Her eyes were very bright, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes spread out like a fan. When she smiled, her whole face became lively, and she was a very energetic old lady.

Yang Zhiyan recognized her; she had recently had a cheongsam made by a tailor. At the time, Yang was busy with other things and only glanced at her briefly; she was a very elegant older woman.

Yang Zhiyan handed her the eco-friendly bag: "Grandma, here's a bag for you. It's extra thick and sturdy."

"Oh dear, I can't accept that," the old lady said, taking the bag, looking at it, then at Yang Zhiyan. "I've used your bag, what are you going to do about it?"

"I still have some," Yang Zhiyan said with a smile, holding the umbrella over her grandmother's head.

The old lady glanced at the umbrella, the lines at the corners of her mouth deepening, but she didn't say anything.

"Young lady, do you live around here?" the old lady asked, her voice gentle and soft, with the distinctive accent of an old-fashioned intellectual, her pronunciation clear but not stiff.

Yang Zhiyan shook her head: "No, I came here to look for a house."

"Looking for a place?" The old lady turned her head to look at her, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "You want to rent a place around Binjiang Road?"

"Yes, I'm looking at them now," Yang Zhiyan said. "I looked at a few today, but none of them were quite right."

She didn't elaborate.

But the old lady seemed to glean a lot from her short phrase, "It's not quite right." With more experience, one can always understand the hardships of life.

"Young lady, if you trust me," the old lady switched the reusable bag in her hand to her left hand, and took out a cell phone with a dark brown leather case from her pocket with her right hand.

"My husband's surname is Qin, and everyone likes to call me Grandma Qin. You can just call me Grandma Qin. I may not have much else, but I have a lot of houses. I can't possibly live in them all. Take a look and see which one is suitable. It's always safer to rent to someone you know than to a stranger."