Before the early morning sunlight could penetrate the narrow corridor of Tongzilou, it was shattered by the nagging voice of my mother, Wang Xiulan.
"Xiao Ming! I can't afford it! If I keep bothering with the morning shift in the factory, I'll be late again!"
Li Xiaoming turned over and covered his head in the patched thin quilt.
Outside the house, the sounds of scissors being sharpened, the cries of tofu noodle sellers, and the sound of washing under the neighbor's faucet intertwined into a symphony that he had listened to for twenty years.
He stared at the map on the ceiling that was yellowed by water leakage, feeling frustrated.
The gears in the factory, the cabbage in the cafeteria, the monotonous dormitory, this is the life he can see at a glance.
He was unwilling to give in.
At the dinner table, his father Li Jianguo was immersed in reading the newspaper, and the porridge in the enamel bowl was steaming.
His sister Li Xiaoli was secretly putting pickles he didn't like into his bowl.
