HLnovel Chapter 291 The Silent Survival Rules of the Underclass
Chapter 291 The Silent Survival Rules of the Underclass
In May 2026, the wind, carrying the dampness of the lake, whistled softly against the glass curtain wall of Guilin District, Fanghua City.
Zhen Xiaosi's fingertips dug into the metal handle of the revolving door, the cold, hard silver-gray leaving a light red mark on her palm, like a plum blossom blooming out of season. The wind stirred up by the turning of the door lifted the hem of her faded shirt, revealing half of her wrist, which was tinged with a pale red from years of chalk dust allergy.
At the end of the red carpet, a Land Rover Prado was covered in festive "囍" (double happiness) characters, the bright red ones glaringly obvious against the black body, like paper-cut talismans pasted on a metal beast. The car's reflection acted like a magic mirror, clearly showing the faint threads on her cuffs and the still-open handmade doll stall on the overpass behind her.
The little rabbits, tigers, and rag dolls sewn from scraps of cloth swayed gently in the twilight, like colorful secrets scattered by the wind, or like the gentle world her parents had depicted in sign language in her memory. As a substitute teacher at Nanpu District Hope Middle School, Zhen Xiaosi originally thought her wedding would be as simple and unpretentious as her life—a few tables of home-cooked dishes in the small living room of her rented apartment, inviting a few close friends, and that would be enough to complete this major life event.
However, the groom Qiu Chang's mother, a retired professor from Fudan University, insisted on holding an "academic" wedding at this five-star hotel. The invitation she handed out was made of yellowed Xuan paper, with small gold lettering that read "No monetary gifts accepted, only academic works," as if this wedding was not a wedding banquet but an academic seminar.
Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood, to that silent world filled with sign language. Her deaf and mute parents always communicated with her using warm hands and vivid gestures. She remembered the tears glistening in her mother's eyes when she first learned the sign language for "love," and the focused and tender expression on her father's face as he sewed cloth dolls for her with his calloused hands.
Those rag dolls made from scraps, though not as exquisite as those in the mall, were full of the warmth of home. But now, the hotel lobby before her was brightly lit, crystal chandeliers casting dappled light from the ceiling like scattered stars, yet they couldn't reach that soft corner of her heart. She looked down at her slightly worn shirt and suddenly felt out of place in her surroundings.
The guests, dressed in splendid gowns and carrying thick academic books, entered the hotel as if they were attending a high-level academic forum, not her wedding. At that time, she was unaware of academic corruption and the saying, "There is gold in books..."
In the distance, waiters carried exquisite desserts and champagne through the crowd, their silver trays gleaming under the lights. But her gaze drifted to the plush toy stalls on the overpass behind her… The revolving door spun again, releasing a gust of hot air mingled with the scent of perfume. Zhen
Xiao Si took a deep breath, straightened the hem of her dress, and although she knew the loose thread on the cuff couldn't be hidden, she still smiled. She knew that this wedding was destined to be like this revolving door, carrying a touch of dizziness and unreality, but in any case, it was a new beginning in her life. Just as her parents had taught her in sign language, no matter how life changed, the love and warmth in her heart would always be her strongest support.
The old attic in Panshi District is like a piece of sesame candy gnawed by time. My father's sugar painting stall was located by the Nine-Bend Bridge of the City God Temple. Every day at the crack of dawn, the copper pot on the coal stove would bubble and gurgle, and the amber syrup would churn in the iron ladle. With a slight flick of his wrist, my father would weave lifelike zodiac animals with golden threads of sugar on the bluestone slab—the clouds under the dragon's claws always carried the warmth of his palm. That was the sweetest fairy tale of my childhood.
My mother's bamboo needles flew under the plane trees on Nanjing Road, and the balls of yarn rolled like snow on her knees. The collars of the sweaters she knitted always had a faint camphor wood scent, the smell of the yarn brushing against her dowry wooden chest when she dozed off at the sewing machine.
The rainy season was particularly long the year Zhen Xiaosi turned fifteen. Her mother's cervical spine felt like a rusty spring; while bending down to thread a needle, she suddenly collapsed into a pile of yarn. Xiaosi squatted in the damp attic, counting the cracks in the leaky brickwork, watching the coins her father earned from sugar painting clink in his enamel bowl. She suddenly realized that all those glittering sugar dragons and phoenixes couldn't compare to a single hospital bill…
The day she dropped out of school, she neatly arranged her textbooks on the sewing machine. Her mother, trembling, gestured "I'm sorry" in sign language, but she smiled and held up the rag doll she had just finished—a crooked-eared rabbit sewn from the scraps of yarn her mother had knitted incorrectly. It swayed in the sunlight streaming into the attic, as if to say firmly, "We can do it." This little rabbit was named Firm!
The day Aunt Wang from the community charity organization came, the wooden stairs in the attic creaked. She touched the red marks on the back of Xiao Si's hand from the sewing machine and handed her a book wrapped in kraft paper, "Fundamentals of Education" and "An Outline History of Ancient Chinese Education"... "This sugar painting with mountains can be so sweet that it touches people's hearts, and so can you!" Aunt Li's glasses were fogged up, but she smiled like a lotus flower by the Nine-Bend Pavilion.
Later, Xiao Si studied late into the night in her dormitory at the teachers' college. The edges of her textbooks always had a faint smell of icing sugar. Her father would break the leftover sugar paintings into small pieces, wrap them in kraft paper, and stuff them into her canvas bag.
As the principal stamped the substitute teacher's appointment letter, sunlight streamed through the old plane trees of Hope Middle School. "The substitute teacher's chalk writing must be cleaner than the blackboard eraser," he said, pointing to the origami cranes folded from candy wrappers by the students in the corridor. "Look at these children, their hearts are bright and open."
Xiao Si touched her school badge and suddenly remembered what her father had told her when he taught her to paint sugar paintings: "The syrup must be painted while it's hot, otherwise it will harden when it cools down. The same goes for people's hearts." Two weeks before the wedding, Qiu's mother's Hermes handbag hit a wooden desk at Hope Middle School with a dull thud.
"Oh dear, this place is so cramped you can barely walk. The women of the Qiu family don't have to be beasts of burden; they all stay home and hold academic salons. Unless they're award presenters, who stands on a three-foot-high platform to lecture?" She used her nail clippers to slice open the desk cover, the curve precise like a geometric shape. "The quality is terrible! Is there any formaldehyde? Besides, Hope Middle School has government-supported disabled children; it won't make a difference if you're not there!"
Zhen Xiaosi clutched her lesson plan book tightly, the candy wrappers and bookmarks tucked between the pages making her palm ache – those were rainbow candies that the students had bought with their pocket money, saving them up one by one to give to her.
A light snow was falling on the overpass that evening. Zhen Xiaosi had just set up her doll stall when the headlights of the city management vehicle pierced the twilight. She chased after the tricycle that had confiscated her goods for half a block; these were all designed by the children and sewn by her and her mother…
My phone vibrated in my pocket; Qiu Chang's text message drifted in like snowflakes into my collar: "With your meager income, stop bragging all the time; it's not enough to embarrass my family."