In Lin Song’s childhood memories, summer vacation was intrinsically linked to his grandmother and the fragrance of the earth. Every July, when the school’s white walls were scorched by the blazing sun and the teacher on the podium wrote the final stroke with a piece of chalk to announce the start of the holiday, his heart had already flown to the small village nestled deep in the lake district. His father would always drive the old “Jiefang” (Liberation) brand truck from his work unit, taking him to his grandmother’s doorstep amidst a roaring “chug-chug-chug” and clouds of dust. Lin Song had once asked how much coal the truck could carry at once. His father held up five rough fingers and said proudly, “Five tons. Enough to keep a large courtyard of families warm for an entire winter.”
Five tons, in Lin Song’s young mind, was an astronomical figure. He had seen how the workers unloaded this black “mountain” from the truck. The men, shirtless, their bronze skin glistening with sweat under the sun, would stand on the pile of coal. The shovel in their hands was attached to a long rope. Below the truck, usually their wives, the women would wrap the other end of the rope tightly around their arms. The man above would heave a shovelful, give a shout, and the woman below would lean back, using her entire body’s strength to pull the full shovel of coal down. Coal dust filled the air, making it hard to open one’s eyes, but their faces were full of smiles, interspersed with harmless, flirty banter. It was a kind of boisterous energy, full of life, that belonged to laborers.
Going to grandma’s house was like “showing up empty-handed.” Summer clothes were nothing more than a pair of shorts worn to a faded white and a pair of plastic sandals convenient for wading in water. Behind grandma’s house was a vast lake, a paradise for all the children in the village. But his grandmother strictly forbade him from going in alone, fearing that the unseen aquatic plants would entangle a child’s ankles. Her method for checking if Lin Song had obeyed was simple, primitive, yet incredibly accurate—she would gently scrape his arm with her neatly trimmed fingernail. If a clear white mark appeared on his skin, it was ironclad proof that he had just climbed out of the water.
Whenever this happened, grandma would turn without a word and grab the bamboo broom from the corner. Lin Song was prepared for this. The moment she turned, he would shoot out of the door like a startled loach, running barefoot and wild along the ridges of the fields. He knew that if he waited until the sun had withdrawn its last ray of light, dyeing the sky orange-red, the storm would have passed. And sure enough, when he returned home, exhausted, his grandmother had already cast her anger aside. She would just lovingly fan away the mosquitoes for him and urge him to quickly eat the meal on the table, which had already grown cold.
In that era, the sweltering heat of summer was a tangible experience. Lin Song didn’t know that magical things like air conditioners existed in the world; his grandmother didn’t know, and perhaps even the well-informed village chief didn’t know either. The only electrical appliance in the house was the 15-watt light bulb hanging from the central beam, which lit up with a pull of its string. There wasn’t even an extra socket. The only public entertainment device for the entire village was the large loudspeaker mounted on a utility pole at the entrance of the village committee. It would crackle to life at 3:30 PM every day, and after a “hiss-crackle” of static, a broadcaster’s clear, formal voice would emerge. It would report local news like “Zhangjia Village has completed this year’s rice planting” or “Lijia Bay’s new threshing ground is now in use.” This would be followed by a segment or two of eeyore local opera, and sometimes, luxuriously, it would even play a few popular songs of the time, like those by Teresa Teng. The music was syrupy and faint, but it was enough to make all the children in the village stop their chasing and listen intently.
At night, when the heat dissipated and a cool breeze swept through, the village’s open ground became a natural social club. The men gathered in one group, discussing the year’s harvest and national affairs; the women sat closer, sharing neighborhood gossip. And the children would chase each other around them, playing a game of tag in the dark. Lin Song, often tired from playing, would lie on the bamboo bed his grandmother had brought out, gazing up at the deep, dark sky, free from any light pollution. The Milky Way was a brilliant belt of diamonds stretching across the heavens. The surrounding darkness was boundless, filled only with the rise and fall of frog and insect calls. That darkness was peaceful, serene, and full of life. It was like a gentle cradle that let one’s thoughts drift far, far away.
It wasn’t until many years later, when Lin Song was a husband, hustling for a living in the steel and concrete jungle of the city, that in a fleeting moment, he connected that tranquil darkness of his childhood with a trendy commercial term—the blind box.
Just a few days ago, in the family WeChat group, his young niece, who had just started working, sent a message: “Uncle, you should check out Pop Mart’s stock. Labubu is so popular right now, I think the price will definitely go up!” Her words were full of anticipation, as if she were hoping for another trendy toy, CryBaby, to take up the mantle and replicate Labubu’s glory.
The name left Lin Song in a daze. He opened his stock trading app, and a series of red and green K-line charts danced before his eyes. Pop Mart—the company’s name was not unfamiliar to him. On December 11, 2020, it was listed on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange with an IPO price of HK$38.5. It was oversubscribed by nearly 357 times, and its closing price on the first day soared to HK$69.8, with its market value approaching a hundred billion. The underwriting syndicate was star-studded, featuring top international investment banks like Morgan Stanley, UBS, and Goldman Sachs. However, the story of capital is always one of dramatic ups and downs. By October 2022, its stock price had once plummeted to a low of HK$8.65, with trading volume remaining sluggish, like a forgotten orphan.
The turning point came in 2024. In April, Lisa, a member of the K-pop supergroup BLACKPINK, casually displayed a Labubu keychain on her designer bag on social media. This small act was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, instantly creating a thousand ripples. Pop Mart’s stock price, as if injected with a powerful stimulant, began to climb rapidly from around HK$29. Then, in May 2025, football superstar David Beckham appeared at Paris Fashion Week with a Labubu charm hanging from his own expensive luxury bag—a gift, it was said, from his daughter Harper. The cumulative effect of celebrity endorsement pushed the frenzy to its peak.
On June 10, 2025, at an autumn auction in Beijing, a life-sized, mint-green Labubu doll sold for a staggering 1.08 million RMB. It was an auction held specifically for Labubu, with 48 lots fetching a total of 3.73 million RMB. Two days later, Pop Mart’s stock price hit an all-time high of HK$283.4.
Lin Song looked at this astounding news and data with a strange sense of detachment. His childhood “toys” might have been a smooth, round pebble picked up by the river, polished by the current, or a dragonfly with transparent wings caught on a summer afternoon. These things cost nothing; their value lay in the process of discovery and possession. But Labubu, this doll with elfin ears and ten bared, stark white teeth, seemed to have its value entirely defined by capital, celebrities, and market sentiment. It had no story of its own, unlike Hello Kitty or Mickey Mouse, which have rich personalities and worldviews. Yet in Thailand, it was endowed with mystical attributes of “attracting wealth” and “good luck,” and was even made into amulets and sacred tattoos. This quasi-metaphysical added value formed a bizarre contrast with its cute appearance.
Lin Song suddenly understood the fundamental difference between the darkness of his childhood and the “blind box.” The darkness of his childhood was certain and natural; after the dark, dawn was bound to arrive, and next to his bamboo bed was always his grandmother’s peaceful, sleeping form. The “darkness” of the blind box, however, was a meticulously designed commercial stimulus, full of uncertainty. What you paid for was not just the doll inside, but the gambling-like thrill of that moment of opening, a mix of anticipation, surprise, or disappointment. This feeling is fleeting, and to replicate it, you must keep buying.
And when a doll, a symbol, is “consecrated” by global top-tier celebrities like Lisa and Beckham, it is no longer just a toy. It becomes a form of “social currency.” Owning it means you are on-trend, you have the same item as your idols, and you have gained the capital to display and discuss it in your social circles. This perhaps explained the fervor in his niece’s words—it was a yearning to belong to a certain group, a desire for identity. Behind this consumer behavior lies the profound loneliness of modern people and their search for a sense of belonging.
“When a superstar sends a message, countless followers will shout from the bottom of their hearts: I want that too,” Lin Song thought. This wasn’t simple conformity, but an efficient way of self-labeling.
Taobao’s algorithm accurately captured his search history. The next day, a link for a Labubu phone case was pushed to his phone. In the picture, the grinning doll was printed on a dazzling, colorful background, looking both fierce and cute. Without much hesitation, Lin Song placed an order for his wife’s phone.
A few days later, the package arrived. When his wife saw the phone case, her eyes lit up with surprise. She loved the little gift, immediately put it on her phone, and waved it in front of him. “Look, isn’t it cool?” she said with a smile.
Lin Song smiled back. Watching his wife’s happy face, looking at the doll baring its ten sharp white teeth, he was filled with mixed emotions. He knew he could never return to that childhood without Labubu. The boy who ran under the soil and starlight, along with that Jiefang truck, that big loudspeaker, and that tranquil darkness, were all sealed deep in his memory. And now, as an adult living in the year 2025, he was learning to use the methods of this era to express love and participate in life, even if these methods sometimes felt strange and a bit absurd. What he had bought was not just a phone case, but an admission ticket to his wife’s world, a tacit understanding.