The iron door slammed shut behind me. The sun hit my face, and I squinted my eyes.
Five years.
I raised my hand to block the dazzling sunlight, and in my pocket was the plastic bag containing all my belongings - three hundred yuan, a key, and a crumpled release certificate. I've been squatting for five years, and all I got in exchange was this bit of rags.
Before I had even taken three steps, a courier tricycle stopped in front of me, and the courier stuck his head out: "Lu Yuan?"
"Yes."
"Sign for receipt." He threw me a cardboard box with the lid turned up, as if someone had stepped on it.
The box is not big, about the same as a dictionary. It has a shipping address—the address of my old home—and three words written in the sender column: Lu Huaishan.
My grandfather's name.
I froze on the spot, and the box in my hand suddenly felt like a piece of red-hot iron, so hot that I almost threw it away. The courier had already ridden away on three wheels, leaving me standing alone at the prison door, holding this damn thing in my hand.
I haven't seen my grandpa in five years. He died five years ago.
