Looking North from Jiangnan

Winter, 1978. The wind cut across people’s faces like a knife. I, Lin Zisu, was packed into a green train heading north, every bone in my body nearly broken. The carriage was crammed with people, shoulder to shoulder. The smell of sweat, tobacco, and some unidentifiable sour stench all mingled together, drilling into my nose. “Make way, make way! Boiling water coming through, careful not to get scalded!” The conductor’s hoarse shouts sounded faint amid the din. I clutched the faded canvas bag in my arms. My life was inside that bag.