"Hey! Watch where you're going— you're blocking the path!"
The impatient honk from a passing electric scooter jolted He Zhiyong, who was pedaling his own squeaky bicycle through the thinning evening crowd. He quickly shifted aside, bowing his head in silent apology. His bangs, long and uneven, slipped forward over his eyes. Under the streetlight, his face—pale, fine-featured, soft around the edges—held a quiet gentleness that most people never noticed. Maybe because his clothes were too worn. Maybe because he never spoke.
Maybe because people rarely looked at delivery boys long enough to see anything.
He Zhiyong's narrow shoulders heaved softly as he reached the final address glowing on his cracked phone screen. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Last delivery of the day. His legs were tired, his shirt damp with sweat, but his spirit remained unusually light—the kind of light that comes from simply enduring.
