"Little bastard—so poor you're selling children to survive," the man laughed and cursed, reaching out to pinch Song Erya's cheek. "Whose little sister did you steal?"
Shen Mingsong called him "brother" and pulled her back, hiding her behind himself. "My family's little sister. She's timid."
Song Erya poked her head out from behind Shen Mingsong, looking at the man with a quick, clever expression.
Lin Hai raised his brows in surprise. "Timid? That so?"
Most kids wouldn't dare come near him.
Song Erya smiled and asked whether he wanted to eat lychees.
Lin Hai didn't stand on ceremony. He grabbed a handful and started eating, speaking to Shen Mingsong in heavily accented Mandarin.
"That thing you mentioned—I got it for you."
Just as Song Erya was about to prick up her ears, Shen Mingsong took a crumpled bill from his pocket and tossed it to her, sending her off to buy liangfen.
She tried to linger, but he lightly kicked her, and she had no choice but to leave.
Lin Hai was an orphan. When he was young, he often went hungry. If not for his homeroom teacher at the time—Mingzhu—who frequently brought him home to eat, he might have starved. After making a name for himself, he took Shen Mingsong as his younger brother and helped him whenever he could, at least ensuring he could walk this street without fear.
Shen Mingsong never leveraged that favor, nor did he cause trouble. Instead, he ran his small business steadily to support his family.
Lin Hai had bought up much of the surrounding property. Now that the market had opened, he'd filled this street with shops and was raking it in. With wide-ranging supply channels, he helped Shen Mingsong source a batch of portable cassette players—domestic brands, far cheaper than name brands, right at a price ordinary people could afford. Most people couldn't get this supply.
Shen Mingsong thanked him while handling the sample unit. As he fiddled with it, he suddenly shifted topics. "On Wednesday, Fang Wenbin went to Zhou Qiang."
Lin Hai's smile vanished instantly, the atmosphere turning heavy.
Zhou Qiang was Lin Hai's sworn enemy, and Fang Wenbin was the accountant under him. The two had been best friends since childhood. If Fang Wenbin hadn't grown so blatantly greedy that Lin Hai became suspicious and had Shen Mingsong investigate quietly, he wouldn't have discovered that several people under him had already been swayed by Fang Wenbin.
Shen Mingsong might seem taciturn, but he kept many things to himself. He wouldn't say something like this unless he was sure.
They spoke briefly. Lin Hai told him to find time to talk in detail somewhere else—this wasn't the place.
By the time Song Erya returned with the liangfen, Lin Hai had already left. There was now a palm-sized object in Shen Mingsong's hand.
"What's this?" Song Erya asked curiously.
"A Walkman." Shen Mingsong inserted a cassette and pressed a few buttons. The song's intro slowly began to play.
She recognized it immediately—a classic old song.
Big phones, pagers, Walkmans—these were all electronics of the era. Though replaced and eventually obsolete with time, they carried many people's memories.
Shen Mingsong was a nostalgic person. The Shen house had a room filled with old items—old books, old computers, old cameras...
Sometimes she wondered if he'd once pedaled a tricycle collecting old goods in exchange for washbasins; otherwise, where had all those old electronics come from?
By then, Shen Mingsong's assets had grown to the point where he could spend freely without ever running out, his ambition dulled. He often stayed home, spending long stretches in that room.
Once, out of curiosity, Song Erya went in. There was nothing special—nothing valuable—yet everything was carefully preserved and displayed in cabinets.
They were precious because they held Shen Mingsong's past. One time she took out a box of tapes, put one into the recorder, and pressed play. The device still worked, playing a song from decades earlier.
She spent an entire afternoon on the sofa listening until she fell asleep. When she woke, it was dark. The room was dimly lit by a green vintage desk lamp—and Shen Mingsong was sitting beside her.
Her head rested on his thigh. She woke groggy, opening her eyes to the sharply defined outline of his face merged with twilight above her.
It felt uncanny. So many times she'd woken to find Shen Mingsong quietly beside her, doing nothing at all.
He hadn't noticed she was awake, lost in the old music, his thoughts swept into shadows of the past.
The sound of her sitting up shattered the reverie. His legs shifted slightly, and he gently brushed aside the hair on her forehead. "You're awake. Er'er—how did you fall asleep here?"
She rubbed her eyes. "Uncle, what were you thinking about just now?"
His eyes were dark and unreadable, lending him a faintly somber air. "Nothing."
She leaned closer, meeting his gaze. "But you looked really sad. Did you remember something painful?"
He blinked, the corners of his eyes lifting into a small smile. "Did I?"
She thought it might have been her imagination and didn't press further. Later, she took the recorder, bought many old tapes from online secondhand markets, and listened to songs from the past. Each tape felt like opening a blind box—you never knew what would play. She found it fascinating.
Many songs were available online, but the sound quality was different.
The recorder carried the sentiment of an old era, making her feel that Shen Mingsong lingered in the past too—old, like the recorder itself.
The music stopped abruptly, snapping her back to the present.
"Why did it stop?"
Shen Mingsong winced. "Too sour."
Two bowls of liangfen for one yuan. They squatted by the roadside eating. She'd barely taken two bites when his bowl was already empty.
He ate with the speed of a wild animal.
After finishing, she immediately tied the empty bag to throw away later, then took handmade pieces from her backpack and put them on herself.
"Brother, help me put this on." Unable to see the clasp, she matter-of-factly shoved a shell necklace into his hand.
His expression turned strange, but he didn't respond.
"Hurry up." She nudged his arm, and he finally moved, muttering that she was troublesome.
He lowered his head, lashes casting shadows over his eyes. No matter how careful he was, his fingers inevitably brushed the skin of her neck, making him tremble slightly.
Her neck was too thin—so fragile it felt as if he could snap it with a bit of force. Why was this little thing so clingy?
He caught a faint, pleasant scent at the crown of her head—fresh, unfamiliar.
Once the necklace was fastened, he immediately withdrew.
She adjusted it herself, then caught sight of a young woman approaching.
The girl held an umbrella and had delicate features. She smiled as she stopped before them. "Shen Mingsong, is this your sister?"
He nodded lazily.
She greeted Song Erya and introduced herself—Ming Qiuyue, Shen Mingsong's middle school classmate.
Turning back to him, she asked, "Why didn't you come to the graduation gathering last time? Everyone was asking about you."
"No time," he replied.
"Did you receive the admission notice from Deyu High School?"
"Yeah."
"I knew it," Ming Qiuyue said happily. "I got in too. I wonder if we'll be in the same class?"
"No idea."
Used to his coolness, she continued chatting excitedly about starting high school. He answered briefly, until she noticed the Walkman and asked about it. He handed it over. She liked it and wanted to buy it.
"It's an off-brand," he frowned.
"That's fine. I want this one. I'll get it from you when school starts."
She clearly came from a well-off family, wearing a green dress that made her skin look even fairer. She and Song Erya didn't resemble each other facially, but their figures were similar.
Song Erya stared after her until she was gone.
He tugged her hair. "What are you spacing out for?"
"That sister's dress is really pretty."
As Ming Qiuyue receded into the distance, she looked even more like the girl in the photograph.
He had no interest in dresses. Before she went to throw out the trash, he lightly tapped her head. "Don't wander off. If you get lost, I'm not responsible."
"You'd dare lose me?"
"One more word and I'll sell you."
She trusted his character completely. If he brought her out, he'd see it through. She wouldn't go far—just nearby to find customers.
He checked on her from time to time, his gaze like a kite string keeping her from straying too far.
She took a few handmade items toward where young people gathered. Soon, a brightly dressed young woman spoke to her.
"How old are you, little one, already doing business?"
"I'm fourteen," Song Erya said with a smile.
Everyone thought she was younger—she really needed to eat more and grow taller.
Dressed nicely and sweet-tongued, she praised the woman's beauty, her long, slender neck like a white swan, flattering her into buying a necklace.
She eagerly offered to put it on, compliments flowing. "You smell so nice, sister."
The woman was delighted, bought several more, and even pinched her cheek before leaving.
A jewelry merchant reduced to a street vendor—was that downfall? No, it was adapting to environment to forge strength.
Song Erya chose her customers, approached boldly, spoke sweetly, and soon sold everything she had. She returned to the tricycle, grabbed more from her backpack, and proudly showed the money to Shen Mingsong. "See? I told you I could sell them."
He scoffed. "Do you act cute with everyone?"
"When did I act cute?" she said, puzzled. Then added, "This is called business sense—don't you know?"
Speak to people like people; speak to ghosts like ghosts. What girl didn't like being praised?
He glanced at her. "Careful you don't get snatched by traffickers."
"But I've got you, brother," she flattered.
Once she'd opened sales, it became easier. Some people told her to get lost; she didn't pester them. She chose customers carefully and fled if things felt off. Seeing foreigners, she approached them to try her luck.
At that time, most people were illiterate; few spoke English, fewer dared to use it. In her previous life, Song Erya had suffered through years of study.
Song Fang hadn't studied much herself and poured everything into compensating through her—tutoring, piano, art, foreign languages—whatever she could afford.
She lacked artistic talent, preferred drawing anime to realism, but she was gifted with languages.
English went without saying; she'd also learned German and Spanish.
She communicated smoothly with foreigners and made deals just as smoothly.
A blonde woman asked if there were any local specialties to buy. That stumped her—she wasn't a local beneath the shell.
But she could bluff. An idea flashed. She said there was a very cute fruit.
"Cute?" The blonde woman found that novel.
"As cute as me."
The woman laughed at her self-praise and insisted on seeing just how cute it was. Song Erya led her to Shen Mingsong, who introduced the lychee variety, origin, taste, and bulk discounts.
The lychees were bright red like little lanterns, the flesh translucent, the price cheap. The woman had never seen such fruit, tried one, and found the description accurate—sweet and cute. She bought a large bag.
"Look! Look!" After she left, Song Erya spread out the money proudly. The woman had even tipped an extra ten U.S. dollars—worth over fifty yuan at the bank.
In 1995, fifty yuan equaled several days' wages for most people.
Shen Mingsong looked at her differently. "Your English is really good?"
Song Erya froze. As far as she knew, Song Yao's grades hadn't been very good.
***
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