It was four o'clock in the morning under the overpass, and the wind was a bit cool.
I spread a rag on the ground, sat down cross-legged, took out ten boxes of facial masks from the plastic bag, and coded the boxes one by one. The packaging is very simple, just an ordinary white carton with the words "Handmade by Xiao" printed on it. I wrote the words myself with a brush, and they were crooked like a dog crawling.
It's not that you can't afford to print beautiful packaging boxes. I really don't want to.
I originally made this thing for fun and had no intention of selling it.
Occasionally, early joggers would pass by on the overpass, glance at me, and then quicken their pace. Who I am? A hopeless man in his thirties with a scar on his face was squatting on the roadside selling unknown facial masks. If I were a passerby, I would stay away.
The phone in my pocket vibrated.
I took it out and saw that it was the voice message Xiaoyue sent last night. I clicked to listen, and the little girl's milky voice came from the receiver: "Dad, when will you come back today? I have learned to write your name, Xiao, Lie, I wrote it correctly!"
I couldn't help but curl up the corners of my mouth, and typed back to her: Be good, daddy will take you to eat Malatang tonight.
After sending the message, I looked up at the gray sky.
Three years.
