The truck rattled along the wide road, leaving the quiet of the countryside behind. Li Xueqing sat on the back with her trunk and bundles, her braid whipping in the wind. She had not been to the city in years, and as the skyline slowly appeared, her chest tightened.
The first thing she saw were the factories. Tall smokestacks rose into the pale sky, black smoke curling upward. Rows of identical brick dormitories lined the streets near the gates. On the walls, bold red slogans shouted: "Grain Is the Lifeblood of the Nation!" and "Study Chairman Mao's Works with Diligence!"
The streets bustled, but not with the color or noise she had once imagined. Bicycles filled the road, their bells clanging as workers in blue or gray jackets pedaled in straight lines. Men pushed handcarts piled high with coal briquettes. Women walked steadily with enamel lunch tins in their hands, children trotting beside them in faded school uniforms. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and steamed buns from the canteens.
It was orderly. Efficient. Yet the silence under the noise made her skin prickle.
The truck turned off the main road into a narrower lane. Here the buildings were shorter, some with peeling plaster and crooked doors. Laundry hung from poles outside, fluttering in the wind. The driver slowed, then pointed with his chin. "There. That's your house."
Xueqing climbed down, dragging her trunk onto the curb. The truck rumbled away without another word, leaving her standing alone in the narrow lane.
Her eyes turned to the house.
It was modest, a two-room brick house with a small courtyard. The wooden gate sagged on its hinges, weeds growing thick between the stones. The plaster on the walls was cracked, and the door's paint had peeled into pale streaks.
For years it had stood empty, waiting. Now it belonged to her.
She pushed open the gate, the squeal of the hinges carrying through the lane. Faces turned instantly. A broom paused mid-sweep. Children tugged at their mothers' sleeves, peeking from behind. An old man squinted from his stool, enamel cup in hand.
Whispers rustled, but no one called out.
Xueqing fitted the key into the stiff lock. The door gave way with a groan, and she stepped inside.
The air was heavy with dust. Sunlight streamed through narrow windows, catching motes that swirled in the stale stillness.
The main room stretched wide — a wooden table stood in the center with two chairs, both thick with dust. Against the wall sat a cabinet with its doors ajar, the shelves bare.
To the left, a larger bedroom held a broad bed frame, a wardrobe leaning crooked, and a stool with one leg shorter than the rest. To the right, a smaller room had only a narrow bed frame and an uneven shelf nailed to the wall.
At the back was the kitchen, a brick stove in the corner, its surface cold and gray. Ash filled the pan beneath, and an enamel kettle with a chipped rim lay forgotten on the hearth. The smell of damp and coal dust clung to the air.
She walked slowly from room to room, her fingers brushing across the plaster walls, her footsteps echoing faintly.
There were no clothes. No books. No traces of the life her parents had built elsewhere. Only the shell of a house — empty, neglected, waiting.
Yet it was hers.
She set her trunk in the larger bedroom and rolled up her sleeves. The broom left in the corner was brittle, but it was enough. Dust rose in clouds as she swept, sunlight slanting across the freshly cleared floor. She wiped the table, scrubbed the windowsills, and shoveled ash from the stove.
By the time dusk fell, her arms ached and her back burned, but the house no longer felt abandoned. The air was fresher, the floor clean, the windows glowing with evening light.
She boiled water on the stove, washed her face in a chipped basin, and sat at the table with one of Auntie Zhang's steamed buns. Outside, footsteps and murmured voices drifted down the lane. She knew the neighbors had seen her enter. She could feel their curiosity pressing through the gate.
But inside, it was only her.
She chewed slowly, her back straight, her gaze steady.
The house was empty. Lonely. But it was also solid. A place to stand. A place to begin again.
That night, she spread her quilt on the wide wooden bed. The ceiling above was cracked, the wind whistled faintly through the shutters, and the silence pressed close.
For the first time, she slept alone in the city house.
And for the first time, she realized: from here on, every step she took would be her own.