Late at night at Border Post No. 3, The wind blew through the iron roof like a knife, and the oil lamp swayed on the window frame, casting a swaying shadow, making the figure beside the stove long and thin.
Lu Chen squatted in front of the iron pot and wiped the rust on the bottom of the pot with a washed white rag again and again. That pot belonged to the oldest guy at the outpost. Three pieces were missing from the rim of the pot, and the bottom of the pot was sunken like a backbone bent by time. His knuckles were thick and deformed, and the pads of his fingers were covered with calluses and fine burn scars, but his movements were as steady as measuring them with a ruler—every stroke accurately avoided the cracks on the wall of the pot that were blackened by the fire.
The other people in the cooking class had already gone to bed, snoring one after another. Only he, like a lonely soul guarding the last bit of fire, wipes the pot day after day.
The door was slammed open.
The cold wind poured in, and the oil lamp shook violently and almost went out.
