Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

The train arrived at its final destination in the afternoon.

A tall young man carrying an old leather suitcase stepped off the train, stood on the platform, and took a deep breath.

The air is filled with coal smoke, dew, and the aroma of fried dough—this is the unique smell of Tukor Town.

Lund stood on the platform, looking at the small town before him.

The familiar gray brick clock tower, the familiar rusted rails, the familiar platform vendors shouting "Hot pies for two copper coins."

Everything was exactly the same as when he left.

It's as if those ten years—the torrential rains, the waves, the monsters, the battles—were all just a long dream.

He walked through the exit and onto the uneven cobblestone path.

The buildings along the way were still dilapidated, with peeling paint and tangled electrical wires overhead.

Occasionally, a teenager on a bicycle would whiz past, his wheels splashing through puddles and kicking up a small patch of dirty water.

Lund did not avoid it.

He walked on, step by step, from the main street into the alley, and from the alley into the narrow lane that he could find with his eyes closed.

At the end of the alley, there is a two-story building.

The building's exterior walls have turned black, the corrugated iron balconies are rusty, and a few wilted green plants sit on the windowsill on the second floor.

A metal number plate—"No. 37"—was nailed to the wooden door downstairs.

Lund stood in front of the door for a while.

He looked at the door.

Another layer of paint peeled off the door, revealing the grayish-white base color underneath.

There was a ring of old wire wrapped around the doorknob—it was something he had fixed for his mother when he was fourteen, because the lock was broken and buying a new one was too expensive.

Ten years have passed, and the wire is still there.

He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door.

Thump, thump!

The sound of bowls and plates clattering came from inside, followed by the soft patter of slippers on the floor.

"Here it comes—"

A slightly hoarse but gentle female voice came from behind the door.

The door opened.

Behind the door stood a woman in her fifties, petite, with gray hair tied in a simple bun, and wearing a faded floral apron.

Her hands were still covered in flour, indicating that she had just been busy in the kitchen.

She looked up and saw the tall young man outside the door.

I paused for two seconds.

Then her eyes turned red.

"...Lund?"

"Mother!"

Lund's voice was a little hoarse.

He wasn't as calm as I'd imagined.

His heart had never raced this fast, not even when facing monsters at the bottom of the sea.

The mother put down the rag in her hand, stretched out her two flour-covered hands, touched his arm, and then touched his shoulder, as if to confirm that he was really him.

"I've lost weight," she said.

"no."

"You've lost weight." Her voice trembled with tears, but she stubbornly held them back. "You've become so thin, there's no flesh on your face—come in, come in quickly—"

She tugged at Lund's sleeve and pulled him inside, muttering to herself as they went:

"Why didn't you write a letter beforehand? I could have prepared. Look at the mess at home, and I didn't cook anything nice."

"Mom, it's okay."

Lund was pulled into the house.

The room was small, but it was kept very clean. The floor was made of old wooden planks, some of which were warped and creaked when stepped on.

There was a round table and two chairs in the living room, with a plastic sheet covering the table.

There was an old photograph hanging on the wall—it showed a young woman holding a baby, with a tall, thin man in overalls standing next to her.

The man looked somewhat awkward, unsure of where to put his hands, and finally shoved them awkwardly into his pockets.

Lund's gaze lingered on the photograph for a moment.

Then it was moved.

Mother had already run into the kitchen, and the clatter of pots and pans filled the air.

"Wait here, I'll make you a bowl of noodles. Do you still want some spicy food? Never mind, I'll put less chili in; you've always had a sensitive stomach..."

Lund walked over and sat down on the old sofa in the living room.

The sofa cover is worn so badly that you can't even tell the original pattern anymore, but sitting on it still gives you that familiar feeling of sinking in, because two of the springs are broken—he broke them when he was twelve years old.

He took something out of the suitcase.

A slingshot!

It was made of wood, the handle was worn shiny, and the rubber band had long lost its elasticity.

He made this himself when he was eight years old. He spent an afternoon using a file from his father's toolbox, and his hands were covered in blisters.

When my father came back from the factory, he saw him sharpening a slingshot. He just stood by and watched for a while without saying anything, and then silently helped him smooth out the roughest part of the handle.

Lund gripped the slingshot, a flood of memories washing over him.

Those scenes he had desperately tried to forget.

His father picked him up from school on a dilapidated bicycle, with two meat buns he had bought from a roadside stall in the basket.

The father was scolded by the neighbor, but he just lowered his head and said "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" before going home and sitting alone on the balcony smoking.

On the rainy night, his father, holding that old long knife, turned back to look at him one last time on the bridge.

That look in his eyes wasn't courageous, nor was it fearless.

It's fear!

He was a cowardly man who, at the last moment, was overwhelmed by fear and swallowed by trembling, but still took a step forward.

Lund closed his eyes.

He put the slingshot back in the box.

His mother's voice came from the kitchen: "Lund, would you like an egg in your noodles?"

"Add it."

"Okay!"

Lund leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

There was a water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a cloud.

That was left over from a leak in the apartment above when he was a child, and it hasn't been repaired to this day.

Nothing has changed.

This home, so small that you feel cramped just turning around, remains exactly as it was when he left.

It seems like she's waiting for him to come back.

A few minutes later, the mother came out carrying a steaming bowl of noodles.

A poached egg rests on top, its edges fried to a golden brown, and sprinkled with a few bright green scallions.

"Eat up." His mother placed the bowl in front of him and then turned to pour a cup of hot water.

Lund picked up his chopsticks, took a bite of noodles, and put it in his mouth.

The soup base is made from pork bones, and it tastes exactly the same as when I was a child—salty and savory with a hint of peppery spiciness. The noodles are cooked to the perfect firmness, just to his liking.

His mother sat opposite him, her hands folded on the table, watching him eat noodles with a smile.

She didn't ask him where he had been, what he had done, or why he hadn't come back for so long.

She just watched him eat noodles.

There are fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, which bunch up into a small patch when she smiles.

Lund ate half a bowl of noodles and put down his chopsticks.

"mom."

"Um?"

"I have money now."

The mother blinked.

"I did some work in the city," Lund said calmly. "I saved some money, not a lot, but enough."

He took a cloth bag out of his suitcase, placed it on the table, and pushed it over.

The mother looked at the cloth bag but did not reach for it.

"I want to buy you a big house," Lund said, "somewhere far from here, clean, with a yard. And I'll hire two butlers to take care of you."

The mother looked down at the cloth bag and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then she reached out, not to take the money pouch, but to pat Lund's hand on the table.

"Don't move."

"mom--"

"I've gotten used to living here." The mother's tone was soft, but very certain.

"Aunt Zhang downstairs would call me to go grocery shopping together every morning, and Old Wang next door would always give me a couple of good things. Now that I've moved to this new place, who do I know?"

Lund opened his mouth.

He had said something similar a long time ago, and the answer was always "I won't move."

"I don't need a housekeeper or anything like that." His mother picked up his bowl, pushed the remaining noodles to his mouth, and said, "Eat yours."

"..."

Lund wanted to say something, but seeing his mother's uncompromising expression, he simply picked up his chopsticks again.

The mother stood up, walked back to the kitchen, and said while washing her hands:

"Keep the money for yourself. Earning money outside isn't easy, so don't waste it."

Her voice paused.

"I'll come back and visit whenever I'm free."

Lund chewed on his noodles without saying a word.

He looked at the door leading to the kitchen. There was a thin engraving on the door frame, which was left by his mother when she measured his height every year.

The final mark was left at the age of eighteen—after that year, he never returned.

The noodles are finished.

Lund put down his chopsticks and stood up.

He walked to the wall with the old photos and looked at them quietly for a while.

The father in the photo still looks reserved, his work clothes are stained with oil, and his smile is stiff.

"Mom," Lund said softly, his back to his mother.

"Um?"

"Dad... he's actually very capable."

The sound of water in the kitchen stopped for a moment.

Then it rang again.

"I know," came the mother's voice from the kitchen, flat and indifferent, as if she were just saying that the weather was nice today.

"You're like him."

Lund chuckled softly.

Yes.

He was cowardly his whole life, but at the last moment he was able to pick up his sword and walk forward.

These two, father and son, are the same at heart.

Lund turned around, walked back to the table, and stuffed the cloth bag back into the suitcase.

"Then I won't insist," he said. "But I'll keep this money here, in the cabinet where Dad used to keep his toolbox. Take it if you need it, and leave it if you don't."

His mother came out of the kitchen wiping her hands and glanced at him.

"Leaving again?"

"Okay. I'll leave in a couple of days," Lund said. "I'll stay home for a couple of days."

The corners of her mother's mouth curved into a smile.

"What do you want to eat tonight? Mom will make it for you."

"...Braised pork belly."

"OK."

The mother turned to get the shopping basket, muttering, "We should buy the meat from the big store near the station; their meat is the best, with just the right amount of fat and lean."

Lund watched his mother's thin figure disappear through the doorway, then stood there quietly for a long time.

Then he bent down and pulled out the broken half of the knife from the bottom of the suitcase.

The broken blade, wrapped in oilcloth, reflected a dim light in the afternoon sun.

He rewrapped the broken knife and put it back at the bottom of the box.

Walk to the window and open it.

The blazing sunlight streamed in, seemingly sweeping away all the gloom in his heart!

The afternoon sun was very strong.

Lund sat on the old chair by the window, watching his mother's figure disappear around the corner of the alley with her vegetable basket.

It's quiet now.

The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the old clock and the occasional chirping of cicadas outside the window.

Lund leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Sunlight streamed through the half-open window, warming his face—a feeling reminiscent of the afternoon naps he used to share as a child on the balcony.

Back then, he always liked to lie on the cement slab of the balcony, pressing his face against the sun-heated stone surface. Then his father would come up from behind and silently drape a thin blanket over him—although he would always kick it off.

Lund's lips curved slightly into a smile.

He opened his eyes, stood up, and looked around the small living room.

There was an old cabinet in the corner, with several cracks in the paint on the cabinet doors.

Lund walked over and opened the cabinet door.

Inside was my father's old toolbox, made of sheet metal, with rust covering the lid and the clasps fastened tightly, requiring some force to pry it open.

He took the cloth bag out of the suitcase and neatly stuffed it into the gap next to the toolbox.

Close the cabinet door.

As he turned around, his gaze swept across the kitchen doorway.

Beside the stove sat a chipped aluminum pot with a dent in the lid, a mark he made when he was ten years old, using the lid as a shield to fight with the kids in the alley.

His mother beat him for this.

The father watched from the side, wanting to say something but holding back. In the end, he just took the pot lid and tried to flatten it by hammering it, but the more he hammered, the more dented it became.

The last pot lid has been dented ever since, and it's still in use today.

Lund went into the kitchen and turned on the tap.

The water pipe made a few gurgling sounds, and then a thin stream of water flowed out.

The water pressure is not enough; this is an old problem.

He found a rag, wet it, and started wiping the stove.

Several tiles on the stove were broken and roughly patched with cement, leaving an uneven surface.

Lund wiped the stove, then the table, then the windowsill.

He crouched down and saw a button stuck in a crack in the floor.

It's copper-colored, very small, and the edges have oxidized and turned green.

He pried the button out and looked at it in his palm for a while.

It's a military uniform button.

My father served as a conscript for a few years when he was young, and after his discharge, he went to work at the docks.

That old military uniform had always been hanging at the very back of the wardrobe, but then, I don't know when, a button fell off.

Lund clenched his fist and stuffed the button into his pocket.

He stood up and continued cleaning.

Although the kitchen was small, his mother kept it very tidy. The spice bottles were arranged by size, and the bowls and plates were stacked on a bamboo rack. However, the bamboo rack was a little crooked, so he straightened it.

After finishing these tasks, he left the kitchen and began tidying up the living room.

The cushions on the sofa had collapsed, so he unzipped them, fluffed up the cotton inside, and stuffed them back in.

One of the coffee table's legs was too short, so he rummaged through the cabinet and found a small piece of wood to place underneath it, and finally it stopped wobbling.

There were a few unknown grasses growing in the flowerpots on the balcony, looking half-dead.

Lund removed the dead leaves, watered the plant, and moved the pot to a sunnier spot.

After finishing these tasks, a thin layer of sweat appeared on his forehead.

He splashed water on his face under the tap, shook off the water droplets, leaned against the kitchen door frame, and looked at the house he had tidied up.

It's still too old.

The walls need to be repainted, the water pipes need to be replaced, and the window frames need to be repaired. Cold air always gets in through that gap in winter. He remembers his mother always stuffing old newspapers into the window gap when he was a child.

But my mother said she wouldn't move.

Then let's fix it. Next time I come back, I'll bring some money and find a craftsman to do all the work.

...At least the window frame needs to be replaced.

Just then, he heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock at the door.

The door opened, and Mother walked in carrying a heavy basket of vegetables. As soon as she looked up, she saw the newly renovated living room.

She froze for a moment.

"Did you tidy this up?"

"I'm just idling around anyway."

The mother placed the vegetable basket on the table and looked around the house.

She squatted down and touched the legs of the coffee table, then squeezed the sofa cushions, and finally looked at the flower pots on the balcony that had been rearranged.

"Um."

She nodded without saying much, but the curve of her lips was wider than before.

"Come help me pick the vegetables." She gestured with her chin toward the kitchen.

"it is good."