The rain from last night, neither too heavy nor too light, had finally ceased before dawn. The air was filled with the damp, earthy smell of the soil, mingled with the unique clamor of a city awakening. The wet asphalt glistened under the sparse streetlights, reflecting a cool, clean light. A news alert popped up on Lin Song’s phone: The U.S. had bombed Iran. The world was vast, a stage for distant gunfire and conflict, like a movie that had nothing to do with him. Lin Song’s world, however, was small—so small it was confined to the path leading to the breakfast shop. Today, the city’s high school entrance exams were finally over. The long period of noise and tension seemed to have found a moment of respite along with the final bell.
He decided to take a detour, to walk two extra blocks to his usual spot: the “Authentic Nanjing Soup Dumpling” shop. It had become a habit, a small ritual to find a sliver of certainty in his otherwise unremarkable life.
The shop was run by a middle-aged couple whose names Lin Song had never bothered to ask. Their world was equally small, defined by a bamboo steamer and a pot of soy milk. Every day at four in the morning, while the rest of the city slept, they were already at work under a dim, yellow light. The low, rhythmic hum of the soy milk grinder was like a monotonous overture to their day. Students from the nearby high school would appear at the crack of dawn, sleepy-eyed and in small groups, starting their long day of books and exams with a hot bun and a cup of sweet soy milk. The couple had to have everything ready before these hungry children arrived. The husband worked in the back, kneading dough, mixing fillings, and pinching dumplings with swift, precise movements. The wife managed the front, greeting customers and handling money, her voice clear and carrying a resilience forged by years of hard living.
The red-and-gold sign above the door read “Authentic Nanjing Xiao Long Guan Tang Bao.” Yet, every time Lin Song greeted the owners, he felt that their sharp, high-pitched accent was a carbon copy of a Mr. Liao he had known years ago in Hefei. This suspicion was deepened by the husband’s signature catchphrase, a drawn-out “Ke de, ke de…”. True Nanjing dialect, Lin Song mused, should be softer, more deliberate.
But he quickly let the thought go. After all, in the old days, many people from Anhui province regarded Nanjing as their spiritual capital, jokingly calling it “Hui Jing” (the Anhui Capital). This nickname was a blend of geographical proximity, historical ties, and an indefinable sense of belonging. Lin Song’s mind began to wander. He even had a ridiculous thought: if the Anhui people had “claimed” Nanjing, then where was Jiangsu’s provincial capital? The name of the expressway connecting the two jewels of the Yangtze River Delta flashed in his mind—the Hu-Ning Expressway (Shanghai-Nanjing). Ha, he thought, by that logic, Jiangsu’s capital must be Shanghai, right? The sheer absurdity of the idea made him chuckle, and it seemed to dissipate some of the morning’s gloom.
He was a little particular about his food. To him, Nanjing soup dumplings and the Si Ji Mei soup dumplings from his hometown of Wuhan were two entirely different species. Nanjing’s version used a semi-leavened dough, giving the skin a fluffy resilience. The pleats at the top were thick, securely locking in a pouch of sweet, savory broth. The Si Ji Mei dumplings, on the other hand, strived for a skin as thin as paper, almost translucent. When you lifted one with chopsticks, you could clearly see the broth and meat filling sloshing inside—a display of ultimate skill. The eating methods were also distinct. A freshly steamed soup dumpling had to be eaten hot. Ideally, you’d pluck it from the steamer, dip it lightly in a saucer of vinegar, then carefully bite a small hole in the skin to slurp out the scalding broth before consuming the rest. The whole process was a ritual. If you waited too long and the steam escaped, the delicate skin would quickly dry out and turn tough, losing its soul and becoming as palatable as chewing wax.
Next to the dumpling shop was a shoe store that had been there for a long time. It had a small storefront, and under its main sign hung a long, narrow electronic lightbox that displayed, in a slightly dated font: “A Hidden Gem of a Shoe Store, Open for Ten Years.” This self-satisfied slogan had been hanging there, rain or shine, for two or three years. But what caught Lin Song’s eye more than the slogan were the four large characters pasted on the polished windowpane in red reflective tape: “GENUINE LEATHER ONLY.” Those four words stood like a solemn promise, radiating an unshakeable confidence. Ten years. Genuine leather. Lin Song repeated the words silently. Ten years was long enough for a newborn to grow into a young teen, and long enough for a business to grow from nothing and establish firm roots. And his own shop? A bitter smile touched his lips as he turned and walked into the rising steam of the dumpling shop.
Han Qiao was a colleague of Lin Song’s from twenty-eight years ago. Twenty-eight years—a length of time sufficient to turn black hair to frost. Back then, they were both in their early twenties, salesmen in the same group at the same company. They were powered by what seemed like an inexhaustible supply of youthful energy. Their biggest task each day was to ride a rattling “Flying Pigeon” bicycle—the kind where everything rattled except the bell—through the scorching streets and alleys of Hankou to chase sales leads. Wuhan in the summer was like a giant steamer, and they were the buns inside, soaked through with sweat every single day. They had eaten three-yuan hot-dry noodles at roadside stalls together, faced the cold shoulders of clients together, and, after getting their bonuses at the end of the month, splurged on ice-cold beer, boasting loudly as they watched the ships on the Yangtze River, feeling as if the world was at their feet.
Those whirlwind days had long since been smoothed over by the passage of time, settling deep in his memory. When Han Qiao saw the new, picture-only post on Lin Song’s Moments feed, he responded almost instantly with a WeChat voice message. The unique, heavily accented Wuhan dialect instantly pulled Lin Song back to that summer twenty-eight years ago.
“Boss Lin, what’ve you been up to?” Han Qiao’s title for him was always tinged with playful respect.
“What could I be busy with? Just an idle man,” Lin Song replied flatly, leaning back in his chair and gazing out the window.
“How’s business?” Han Qiao always seemed to brim with curiosity and concern for others.
“Business? Oh, it’s still going,” Lin Song paused, then added, “Just making a bit of pocket money, that’s all.” He didn’t want to elaborate, didn’t want to reveal the embarrassment of his impending closure. Admitting failure in front of someone as perpetually energetic as Han Qiao felt particularly shameful.
“I hear you. The market’s tough for everyone right now. Collecting payments is the hardest part,” Han Qiao lamented, as if speaking to himself.
“I’m alright on that front. Always payment on delivery. I don’t do credit,” Lin Song said, holding on to a small shred of pride. It was his final business principle.
“That’s good. When are you coming to Shanghai for a visit?”
“Not anytime soon. I can’t be bothered to move. I hardly travel far these days.”
“Alright then. I’ll be back in Wuhan in a while. I’ll call you, we’ll grab a drink.”
“Sure thing, anytime. Just give me a call when you’re back.”
Hanging up, Lin Song let out a long sigh. Han Qiao, that man who was perpetually on the road, seemed to have never been truly knocked down by life. His career strategy was, in Lin Song’s eyes, nothing short of legendary. He was still a frontline salesman, facing relentless monthly performance reviews. The moment he sensed the market was weakening and he might fail to meet his targets, he would immediately start looking for his next gig. He wouldn’t resign. Instead, he would subtly maneuver the situation so that his boss would “optimize” him out. That way, he could collect a hefty severance package and seamlessly transition to the next job. He played the corporate game with masterful skill, like a cunning hunter always in pursuit of the next prey. In Lin Song’s memory, Han Qiao never knew fatigue. He was always a whirlwind of activity, as if life itself was a race without a finish line. And here he was, Lin Song, having voluntarily stopped midway, becoming a spectator.
In the corner of a mall’s underground parking garage, a sharp exchange caught Lin Song’s attention. A fashionably dressed mother was calling out impatiently to her son, who was lagging a few meters behind her.
“Hurry up! This way!”
“But why? Isn’t that way shorter?” the boy asked, his head tilted up, his face a mask of stubbornness.
“I said this way, so we’re going this way! Why are there so many whys? You’re so annoying!” The mother’s tone was filled with an unchallengeable authority.
“Everything has to be your way, hmph,” the boy muttered under his breath, his face full of defiance. But he still started moving his little legs, waddling after her like a reluctant penguin.
The scene pricked Lin Song’s heart. The boy’s stubborn expression… wasn’t it just like his own? On that afternoon he had decided to open his shop, his wife had tried to persuade him in the same way: “This path is not easy, the risk is too great.” And hadn’t he, just like the boy, craned his neck and retorted, “Why? How will we know if we don’t try?”
The thought was a fuse that lit the fuse of last night’s suppressed memories. They had been at the dinner table, eating in silence, the air so quiet that the only sound was the light clinking of chopsticks against bowls. He finally mustered the courage to break the silence.
“After this month is over… I’m closing the shop.” As he said the words, he felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted, only to be replaced by a deeper void.
His wife’s chopsticks paused mid-air. She didn’t look at him, simply stating flatly, “I told you not to open it in the first place.” There was no “I told you so” triumph in her voice, only the weariness of a prophecy fulfilled.
“Yeah,” he mumbled in agreement. “I won’t get into a losing business like this again.”
“Hah,” she finally looked up, her eyes glinting with ridicule. “Easy for you to say. That’s because you have nothing left to lose.” The words were a sharp knife, plunging precisely into his most vulnerable spot.
His face flushed. He couldn’t stop himself from defending his pride. “Doing business, there are wins and losses. It’s normal. I did make money before!”
“And where is that money now?” she pressed, relentless. “That wasn’t business. That was you just ‘messing around’!” She used the Wuhan dialect term wai bai, which perfectly encapsulated her definition of all his efforts: impractical, reckless foolishness. “You messed away all our savings, messed away our stable life!”
“I… I was just trying to change my lot in life,” his voice grew faint, his confidence gone.
“Change your fate? You’re fated to a life of hard work! If you hadn’t messed around, our life would have been comfortable. But you just had to stir things up!”
“Mmm… you’re… you’re right about everything.” Lin Song completely surrendered. He knew that any argument was pale and feeble in the face of bleak reality. His words softened, but his heart felt as if it were being crushed by a giant stone, suffocating him.
He wasn’t truly convinced. Why? Why could someone like Han Qiao, with his “opportunism,” flourish, while his own earnest efforts earned him nothing but the label of “messing around” and a heap of failure?
But now, looking at the stubborn little boy in the parking lot, thinking of the couple toiling for their livelihood in the dumpling shop, and recalling the tireless voice of Han Qiao on the phone, the hard stone in Lin Song’s heart seemed to loosen.
The wrong roads taken, he thought, are they not roads at all? To open the shop, he had studied accounting, researched the market, dealt with all sorts of people, and endured countless anxious nights. These experiences, though they didn’t end in financial success, had happened. They were etched into his life. They were part of the road, part of the scenery, even if it was a barren landscape. And the money he had lost, wasn’t it once part of the money he had worked so hard to earn? It had simply transformed from one state to another—into an intangible asset called “lessons” and “experience.”
With this thought, he let out a long breath. The sky was bright now. The dumpling shop was bustling with voices, filled with the warm, lively energy of the mortal world. He strode in and called out to the owner’s wife in a clear voice, “Ma’am, a steamer of dumplings and a bowl of soy milk!”
Life had to go on. And the road, too, had to be walked.