The wind of the early 1990s, smelling of rust and dust, blew hard against the mottled and faded red brick walls of the state-owned Red Star Textile Factory. A brand new notice, the paste has not yet dried, is firmly attached to the glass of the publicity board at the factory entrance, like a dazzling white scar. Lin Xiufen squeezed into the crowd, her eyes fixed on one of the names - that was hers. The buzzing chatter around him subsided like a tide, leaving only his heart beating heavy and empty in his eardrums.
The light bulbs at home were dim and their tungsten filaments buzzed. Her husband, Chen Weiguo, was hunched over and squatting at the door of the narrow kitchen. A handful of gray ash had accumulated under his feet, and the bitter smell of low-quality tobacco lingered in the air. His voice was hoarse, as if it had been polished by sandpaper: "Xiufen, forget it. If the sky falls, I will hold it up. Hold on tight to the money from the factory's buyout. My salary... Is just enough."
Lin Xiufen did not respond. She walked straight to the corner, bent down, and struggled to move a few dusty old cardboard boxes. Dust swirled in the beam of light. Finally, she pulled out a heavy object wrapped in old sheets - it was her mother's dowry, an old-fashioned sewing machine head with peeling patent leather, revealing the dark wood grain underneath. She knelt down and brushed her fingers over the cold cast iron body. Under her fingertips were the smoothness worn by time, and there were a few stubborn oil stains. She found the wrench and tightened the loose screws silently and attentively. The metal friction made a small, tenacious sound, which was particularly clear in the oppressive silence.
