Before the Mid-Autumn Festival, Wen Zhiting sat in the office of the director of the Hongxing Machinery Factory. The ash from his cigarettes had piled up like a small mountain on the table.
Deputy Director Sun Zhiping knocked and came in. Wen Zhiting asked, “Have all the salaries been distributed?”
“They have,” Sun Zhiping nodded. “But everyone’s complaining that their wages and benefits keep decreasing month by month.”
Wen Zhiting stubbed out his cigarette, a worried look in his eyes. “Ask them to hang in there a little longer. We’ll find a way.”
A while later, he grabbed his briefcase and the prepared documents and drove to the Municipal Light Industry Bureau.
“Section Chief Li, our factory is an established heavy industry factory. Please help with the loan approval… Thousands of employees and their families rely on this factory for a living,” Wen Zhiting said, bending slightly, his hand frozen in mid-air as he offered a cigarette.
Section Chief Li held a glass teacup, sipped leisurely, and let the tea leaves fall back into the cup.
“Alright, leave the documents here. We’ll take a look. But this matter isn’t simple—you know, everything has to go through proper procedures.”
Wen Zhiting nodded repeatedly. “Yes, yes. I understand.”
He cautiously glanced at the door, then pulled out two packs of Zhonghua cigarettes from his briefcase. “Please take extra care of this.”
Li opened a drawer, and the two packs slid in. He stood up and politely escorted Wen Zhiting to the door. “This isn’t too complicated. Go back and wait for the notice.”
Wen Zhiting stepped out of the Municipal Light Industry Bureau and looked up at the blue sky.
His mind held only one belief: Hongxing Machinery Factory must not fail.
He had started as an apprentice, a small, unnoticed technician without any background, gradually climbing to his current position.
This factory was the fruit of his years of effort—his honor and medal, and the livelihood of thousands of families.
Sparse clouds hung in the sky, and a lone wild goose performed a beautiful spin, wings flapping across the horizon.
By evening, Wen Zhiting returned home drunk. Xiang Qin fetched water, washed his face, wiped it, gently brushed the hair from his forehead, and affectionately kissed his brow.
Wen Xi stood at the doorway, quietly asking, “Is Dad alright?”
“He’s fine, just had a bit too much to drink,” Xiang Qin said as she patted her daughter’s hair. “Go finish your homework quickly and rest early.”
Wen Xi had just left when Zhou Jingchen came to knock. Xiang Qin opened the door and saw him holding a bowl of soup in his right hand.
“Aunt Xiang, I made some hangover soup. Give Uncle a little, so he won’t have a headache tomorrow.”
Xiang Qin smiled, touching his hair. “Good, I’ll have him drink it later.”
On Christmas, snowflakes whipped by the cold wind, tapping against the glass windows.
As soon as the school bell rang, Wen Xi grabbed Zhou Jingchen by the backpack straps and ran outside. The two didn’t go home first but headed to the factory.
That day was Grandpa Zhou’s birthday, and both children had gifts in their backpacks.
They ran through the snow to the factory’s back door. The iron door rattled loudly in the wind. Opening the small door to the boiler room, a wave of scorching heat wrapped around them instantly, mixed with the smell of coal.
“Grandpa!” Wen Xi called, dressed in a thick coat, wool hat, and red scarf, looking like a little snowman.
Grandpa Zhou was bent over, shoveling coal into the furnace. The iron shovel struck the wall of the furnace with a clanging sound, sparks dancing, making his wrinkled face glow red.
Hearing their voices, he straightened quickly, wiping his coal-covered hands on his apron. His eyes lit up. “You two little rascals, what are you doing here?”
“Came to see you!” Wen Xi grinned, eyes sparkling.
Grandpa Zhou hurried over, his rough hands grabbing their wrists, guiding them to the wooden bench near the furnace. “Sit and warm up. It’s snowing so hard outside—you must be freezing.”
The bench, warmed by the furnace, felt hot under them. Wen Xi wiggled her feet; the snow on her boots quickly melted.
“Grandpa, today is…” Zhou Jingchen started to say, but Wen Xi kicked his foot lightly, and he clamped his mouth shut.
“Grandpa, today is Christmas!” Wen Xi announced.
Grandpa Zhou turned to a corner, grabbed a sack, and buried two round sweet potatoes in the coal ash he had just shoveled, then tossed in a handful of chestnuts, moving deftly.
“What Christmas? Don’t understand, don’t understand. You kids love celebrating these foreign holidays.”
He covered the sweet potatoes and chestnuts with coal ash. “Back in my day, we only knew to eat dumplings on the winter solstice and put up Spring Festival couplets. No fancy holidays like this.”
The boiler room was warm. Wen Xi removed her hat and scarf, draping them over the chair. “Christmas is the New Year abroad. Adults give gifts to children.”
She held out her small hands, palms up toward Grandpa Zhou. “So, where’s Grandpa’s gift?”
The old man glanced at her hands, quietly smudged some coal on her cheeks—two marks, one on each side.
Zhou Jingchen chuckled beside her, and Grandpa Zhou applied two more marks on his face.
The two kids, like little mischievous kittens, looked at each other and laughed out loud.
Wen Xi pointed at Grandpa Zhou and said, “You old trickster! Today’s your birthday, and I even brought a gift, yet you play tricks on us!”
Birthday? Grandpa Zhou never celebrated his birthday and barely remembered it. Occasionally, he did, at the Wen household, when Xiang Qin and Wen Zhiting bought him a cake.
Wen Xi unzipped her backpack and pulled out a pair of knee pads. “Grandpa, wear these when riding your bike—they’ll protect your knees.”
Zhou Jingchen handed over his gift. “Grandpa, wearing gloves while cycling keeps your hands warm.”
The old man smiled and accepted the gifts.
The three sat by the huge furnace, faces flushed from the heat. Soon, the sweet aroma of roasted sweet potatoes drifted from the coal ash.
Grandpa Zhou used a small iron shovel to uncover the sweet potatoes, flipping them in his hands. When cool enough, he handed them to Wen Xi and Zhou Jingchen: “Eat.”
In the modest boiler room, bursts of laughter rang out.
Grandpa Zhou’s thoughts drifted back many years. Wen Xi and Zhou Jingchen were only six or seven years old, sitting in this same boiler room, eating sweet potatoes. Wen Xi would even try to take Zhou Jingchen’s portion.
He had to roast extra so she could take some home for Xiang Qin and Wen Zhiting.
Once, Wen Xi tossed sweet potato peels everywhere, lifting her little foot and asking, “Grandpa Zhou, why didn’t you get married?”
His cloudy eyes deepened. “I missed a girl. Wanted to marry her but couldn’t.”
“Why?” Wen Xi bit into a soft sweet potato, her mouth stained yellow.
“Because I was a boiler worker, and she was a young lady. A boiler worker can’t marry a young lady.”
Wen Xi didn’t understand. “Why can’t a boiler worker marry a young lady?”
Grandpa Zhou smiled kindly and rubbed her nose. “Because… that’s just the way it is. Scientific reasoning.”
Wen Xi nudged Zhou Jingchen, who was focused on his sweet potato, and whispered, “Why can’t a boiler worker marry a young lady?”
Zhou Jingchen looked up blankly. “I don’t know.” His small crutch leaned against his leg.
Wen Xi bit a piece of his sweet potato without him noticing. “Yours is so sweet!” She swapped hers with him.
The boy drooped his brows. “Alright then.”
That night, little Zhou Jingchen lay beside Grandpa Zhou and asked again why a boiler worker couldn’t marry a young lady.
After a long silence, Grandpa Zhou’s slow, hoarse voice echoed in the room: “Because a boiler worker is not worthy of a young lady.”