One hundred thousand. Ming Beier wanted to laugh. In a place like the Ming family, half a million yuan is not even enough for Ming Heng's monthly pocket money. But he didn't say anything, just nodded: "Thank you, Chairman Ming."
He didn't call me Dad. From today on, this word has nothing to do with him.
Ming Beier turned around and walked out. When passing by the west wing, he pushed the door in and pulled out an old suitcase from under the bed. It was canvas-covered and had wheels. He squatted down and took out a long cloth bag from the deepest part of the bed. The cloth was navy blue, washed white, and the corners were frayed. He carefully opened it, and inside was a badminton racket. It was an old-fashioned carbon fiber racket. Several pieces of paint had fallen off the racket frame, revealing the gray base material inside. The racket strings were also loose. The hand glue was even worn out and was wrapped with circles of yellowing medical tape.
It's the only fucking thing left. The woman named Su Min was a sparring partner for the national team during her lifetime. She never achieved any success, but she regarded this racket as her lifeblood. When she died, the racket was in her hand and the doctors couldn't break it.
Ming Beier took out the racket, carefully wrapped it in the rag, and slung it across his back. The racket is not long, but carrying it feels like carrying a mountain.
He dragged the box out of the west wing, and the rain was still falling. No one sent him there, not even Chen's mother knew where he was sent. The old locust tree in the yard was blown to and fro by the wind, and its leaves fell all over the ground and were mixed in the muddy water, making it dirty.
Ming Beier stood under the hanging flower door and looked back at the yard. Twenty-six years of time are condensed into this glance, light and weightless.
