In the early winter of 1983, the north wind penetrated into the cracks of people's bones like a knife, and rolled up the broken snow foam and slapped it against the brick wall of the city transportation company, making a crackling sound. Meng Mu leaned against the cement pillar in the reception room, holding an unlit cigarette between his fingertips. His knuckles were white from exertion, not from cold, but from the indescribable weakness in his body.
The energy he had when he was just discharged from the army has long since disappeared, and he is wrapped in an old military uniform that has been washed white. It used to be stiff and straight, but now it is loose and baggy, with half of his shoulders slumped. He stared at the crumpled employment notice in his hand, his Adam's apple rolled, and his stomach was churning. From morning to now, he had gnawed two cold steamed buns. It wasn't that he didn't want to eat them, but he was so weak that even chewing found it difficult.
