Su Wanning didn’t rush to act.
She lay back down on the wooden plank bed, closed her eyes, and slowly regulated her breathing. The boards beneath her pressed uncomfortably into her waist, and the old quilt smelled slightly damp, but none of this affected her.
Her body still felt weak—the strength-draining effects of the medicinal soup hadn’t yet faded. Her arms and legs felt like they were stuffed with cotton, impossible to lift. Yet her mind was sharp and clear.
Time passed slowly. The room was so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat.
After about an hour, sounds came from outside—clanging from pots and pans, mixed with Su Yuling’s suppressed complaints, carried clearly through the door: “Raising a debt collector! If I’d known she’d be such a trouble, I should have drowned her when she was born! Would’ve saved me all this anger!”
Wang Zhenhai’s voice followed, tinged with impatience: “Enough! Say less. She won’t run off. Let her starve a bit, then we’ll ‘talk’ to her properly tonight. I’m sure we can straighten her out!”
After that, the voices quieted, probably because they had started eating.
Su Wanning’s stomach growled loudly at the most inopportune moment. Since yesterday noon, she had only consumed that single, bitter medicinal soup. She was starving—her chest pressed against her back, her stomach empty, aching faintly.
But she couldn’t show it.
She deliberately breathed slowly and shallowly, sounding weak and powerless.
Sure enough, not long after, there was a soft “click” outside— the door latch being lifted.
Su Yuling came in, carrying a rough ceramic bowl. The porridge inside was so watery it reflected her own image, with a few grains of rice floating on top. She placed it on the small stool by the bed with a “thump,” her voice sharp: “Eat! So you can’t accuse me of mistreating you as a mother!”
Su Wanning, as if startled awake, slowly sat up. Her eyes, dazed, glanced at the thin, watery porridge, then silently lay back down, turning her face toward the wall, her back to Su Yuling.
“What, still trying to starve yourself?” Su Yuling’s temper flared again, her voice rising. “Playing games with me, huh? Let me tell you—it won’t work!”
Su Wanning didn’t look back. In an extremely low and feeble voice, she said, “…head hurts… can’t eat.”
Her words trembled just enough, as if speaking each syllable took all her strength. It sounded painfully convincing.
Su Yuling glared at her back for a while, her brows tightly furrowed, but in the end, she snorted impatiently: “Eat or don’t! Starve yourself—serves you right! Don’t make me worry!”
She stormed out with the bowl, muttering curses, slammed the door with a “bang,” and locked it with a “click.”
The footsteps gradually faded. Only then did Su Wanning slowly turn, her eyes now clear, free of any trace of sickness, full of calm and precision.
She stayed on the bed a while longer, waiting patiently.
About an hour later, sounds of someone leaving reached her—door opening, door closing, and faint greetings to neighbors. Su Wanning knew Wang Zhenhai and his wife had gone to the factory, as they did every day at this hour.
The room was completely silent now. She was alone. Silently, she got off the bed, moving as lightly as a cat, her feet making no sound.
She approached the door and listened for a moment, confirming that both the yard and alley were quiet before feeling safe.
Carefully, she lifted her dry bangs and extracted a black hairpin from her hair. It was the original owner’s only hair accessory, a simple iron wire used to hold her bangs in place—always hidden, unnoticed by anyone.
Su Wanning gently bent the hairpin in her hand with a “snap,” splitting it into two thin iron wires, each slightly curved at the tip.
She crouched by the tightly locked wooden door. The old-fashioned latch was simple, its core uncomplicated—hardly a challenge for her.
She inserted the thin wire into the keyhole, pressing her ear to the door, listening for the faint, almost imperceptible clicks inside.
“Click.”
A barely audible sound, like a mosquito’s chirp, signaled that the lock had opened.
She didn’t immediately push the door open. Instead, she restored the latch to its original position, leaving it looking untouched. Only then did she rise, her face calm, as if performing a completely ordinary task.
She tiptoed to the master bedroom door. It wasn’t locked, only ajar, leaving a narrow gap.
Inside, the master bedroom was simply furnished: a red-painted wooden bed, a worn wardrobe by its side, and a large red-painted chest against the wall. The chest looked old, its paint peeling in many places, exposing the bare wood beneath.
A brass padlock hung from the chest, yellowed with age. Though the lock appeared old, the core was probably still functional.
Su Wanning crouched in front of it. This brass lock was slightly more complex than the door latch, with more pins, but still manageable.
She inserted one of the iron wires into the keyhole, gently manipulating it like playing a silent piano. Every move was precise and deliberate.
About two minutes later:
“Clink.”
The lock clicked open, hitting the floor with a soft sound.
Su Wanning gently lifted the lid. A sharp smell of camphor mixed with old clothes hit her nose—a little pungent. Su Yuling had placed camphor balls in the chest to prevent mildew.
The chest was packed with items, mostly Su Yuling’s clothes—some cotton shirts, several pieces of floral fabric—treasured items she seldom used. Su Wanning carefully removed each piece, placing them neatly on a nearby chair.
Soon, the bottom of the chest was revealed, covered with a layer of yellowed newspapers, the print blurred with age.
She tapped the wooden bottom, listening to the echo. Solid, no hollow sound—no hidden compartment there.
She carefully examined the chest’s side panels, running her fingers along the edges. When her fingers traced the inner left panel, she paused.
The original owner’s memory came to her: Su Yuling had a poor memory, often putting important things in plain sight. Ironically, the most obvious places were the easiest to overlook.
Using her fingertip, she pressed gently across the panel, from edge to center. Near the bottom corner, she felt a slight give—a soft spot, unlike the rest of the wood.
Her eyes brightened. She bent one wire into a small hook and slipped it into the gap between panel and chest, prying gently.
“Creak.”
A palm-sized thin board lifted silently, revealing a small hidden compartment, roughly the size of a hand and two fingers deep.
Inside lay two cloth bundles, one slightly larger than the other, both wrapped in blue cotton fabric, worn in places.
She picked up the larger bundle, untied the string, and revealed several green-covered passbooks and a small red plastic booklet, the cover printed with the words: “Household Registration Book.”
—The hukou!
The item she had been searching for—the key to applying for a placement and leaving this place—was finally in her hands.
Her heart did not race at the success. Calm and steady, she slipped the hukou into an inner pocket of her clothes, then turned to the smaller bundle.
The smaller bundle, faded from washing, bore a roughly stitched black character “宁” (“Ning”), its crude stitches indicating it had been sewn by someone inexperienced.
Su Wanning’s heart jumped. That “Ning” instantly reminded her of the original owner’s father—Su Zhenping.
She untied the bundle. Inside were neatly stacked banknotes totaling over five thousand yuan, and several gold bars bound with red string, each roughly the size of a small finger, heavy—the common “small yellowfish” bars of the market.
In this era, where every penny was precious, over five thousand yuan was a fortune—and the gold bars could change her fate entirely.
At that instant, a deeply buried memory of the original owner surfaced uncontrollably:
After middle school graduation, she timidly approached Su Yuling with her report card: “Mom, I want to continue to high school. The teacher says my grades are good; I can get into university…”
At the time, Su Yuling was frustrated about a withheld factory bonus, holding a cleaning rag in her hand. Hearing this, she immediately threw the rag at her daughter without thinking: “Read? Read what? That useless father of yours only left you a worthless life—where would we have money to fund your schooling?”
The original owner’s face was struck, tears threatening, yet she tried to reason: “But Dad—”
“Don’t talk to me about him!” Su Yuling snapped, harsher than ever. “Expect him to leave you money to study? Forget it! Get a job, earn money, help your brother with his bride price—that’s the proper thing!”
Later, the original owner had to work temporary jobs to scrape together enough for high school.
Those cruel words cut like knives into the heart of the frail, eager-to-learn girl, extinguishing her dreams of studying further.
But now, this fortune—enough to cover high school, even university, with money to spare—lay quietly in Su Wanning’s hands.
The crooked “Ning” on the bundle seemed to carry the warmth of Su Zhenping’s fingertips—a father’s deepest care and love for his daughter.
Now, this fortune—enough to see the original owner through high school, even university, with money to spare—lay quietly in Su Wanning’s hands.
The crooked “Ning” stitched on the cloth seemed to carry the warmth of Su Zhenping’s fingertips, a father’s deepest care and love for his daughter.
Su Wanning picked up one of the gold bars. The cold metallic touch against her fingers instantly steadied her swirling thoughts.
Su Yuling…
A faint, fleeting curve appeared at the corner of her mouth, so subtle it could almost be missed.
She carefully placed the money and gold bar into another inner pocket, buttoned her clothes tightly to ensure nothing would fall out. Then, she restored the thin wooden panel of the hidden compartment, pressing it back firmly so that no trace of tampering remained.
Next, she returned the passbooks to the cloth bundle, placed the bundle back into the hidden compartment, and returned the chest to its original state. One by one, she folded Su Yuling’s clothes and placed them neatly back in the chest, exactly as before—even the folds were nearly untouched.
Everything looked as if nothing had ever happened.
She locked the brass padlock and hung it back in its place. Then she left the master bedroom, quietly closed the door behind her, returned to the storage room, locked that door as well, and restored the hairpin to its original shape, tucking it back into her hair.
Having done all this, she silently lay back on the cold wooden bed, eyes closed, as if still asleep.
Now, with the household registration in her hands, the money and gold secured, the only thing left was to rest and gather her strength for the Youth Work Office.