Chen Rongyao squatted on the rooftop of Fu'an New Village with seventeen rejection letters on his phone. His three-year-old daughter grabbed him by the hem of his clothes and complained that she was hungry, with only twenty yuan left in her pocket. Dark clouds were billowing overhead, and the power of prediction was alarming wildly—in six hours, a heavy rainstorm that occurred once in twenty years would flood this old community. He bit the tip of his tongue and swallowed the last sip of Tieguanyin cold brew tea. A crack opened in front of my eyes: three acres of spiritual fields, an ancient well, and shelves full of compressed biscuits and mineral water. The white cat Baicha rubbed his trouser leg and picked up an ancient tea tree seed. Before the heavy rain poured in, he wanted to stuff the whole building's grandmother, stray cats and dogs, and the director of the property committee who was urging rent into his space. Tonight, he is no longer the good-for-nothing dad who was kicked by the property management. He is the only owner of this ancient tea tree's spiritual veins, and the price of his ability to predict - high fever, chaos, and backlash - has just begun.
It hasn't rained yet, but the wind has come.
In Room 403, Building 4, Fu'an New Village, the window frame was blown.
Lin Mo was woken up by coughing.
Xiaotong's cough was like broken glass, scraped out from her throat piece by piece.
He turned over and sat up, and touched his daughter's forehead with his hand - it was not hot, but the pajamas on the back were wet.
"Dad..."
"Here, there."
Lin Moguang stepped out of bed, and there was a cold puddle on the floor under his feet.
The window was not closed tightly last night.
He picked up Xiaotong, wrapped her in his pilling sweatshirt, and patted her back.
The coughing has slowed down.
There are a few crumpled banknotes scattered on the bedside table.
Five yuan, ten yuan, twenty.
He smoothed them out one by one and counted two
