A Blimp's Harrowing Ordeal

In the late autumn of 1982, when the first maple leaf drifted down onto the bluestone path in my hometown, I stood beneath the old locust tree at the village entrance, gazing at the railway tracks winding into the distance, my heart brimming with boundless hopes for the future. I had just turned twenty. The northern wind and sand had roughened my skin, but a blazing fire burned in my eyes. On my back was a simple bag my mother had sewn from scraps of cloth. Inside were two changes of clothes, a well-worn copy of How the Steel Was Tempered, and one hundred yuan my father had secretly slipped me, money he had saved over six months from selling eggs. When the green train bound for Guangdong slowly pulled into the station, its whistle seemed like a call from destiny. I gripped my ticket and set out on this unknown yet hopeful journey.