Vanilla City’s Sixth People’s Hospital sat in the northern part of Dadong District. Heading east along Chang’an Avenue—the thoroughfare cutting through the city center—for roughly 18 kilometers, you’d spot the hospital building on the north side of the intersection. Fairly accessible.
Just left of the hospital lay a narrow, shadowed alley. Step inside, and you entered a nameless urban village. For deliveries, Mom and Grandma always used the same address: “No. 28, Beisan Lane, Dadong Road, Cainiao Station.”
This urban village held half my childhood.
I vaguely recalled moving here with Mom and Grandma after finishing elementary school in the village. We rented a room in one of the aging apartment blocks—and stayed six years.
The place was densely packed: rental units, wet markets, tiny shops, street stalls, all squeezed tight. Even one car caused gridlock. Play space for kids? Only a patch of wasteland under 100 square meters behind our building. Surrounded by residential towers, residents often tossed things down—worn stuffed animals, toy four-wheel-drive cars missing wheels or with broken chassis, abacuses, magnifying glasses… but more often, trash. Used condoms. Blood-stained tissues.
Our apartment had two landlords. The main landlord—a local real estate tycoon—rarely appeared. Everything fell to the sub-landlord, reportedly his nephew, around twenty, who hadn’t made it to college. His uncle gave him the job: collect rent for five nearby buildings, handle odd jobs.
After starting middle school, I spent most holidays right here. This place shaped the latter half of my childhood and most of my youth.
“Sixth People’s Hospital. We’ve arrived. Passengers, please take your belongings and exit through the rear door. Thank you for riding Bus Route 222.”
Stepping off the bus with my small backpack, I gazed at the hospital sign and new shops nearby: Congee Capital, Love & Harmony Flower Shop, Hundred Fruits Garden… A faint nostalgia stirred.
Xiangcao City’s modernization really had leaped forward. Three years ago, this hospital was crumbling. Now even the sign was new—and honestly, an internet cafe and KTV next to a hospital?
I turned into the alley left of the hospital. Rush hour meant electric scooters swarmed the lane. Some riders munched baozi or mantou while driving.
“Are you nuts? Driving a car this early?”
“I’ll be late! Hurry up!”
“Shift over! We’ll be stuck here for hours! Make space!”
Yet the vibe felt unchanged from six years ago.
Because traffic was jammed.
A car entering met another head-on. Electric scooters piled behind both. Neither could advance nor reverse. The alley was never wide enough for two cars. During peak hours, once blocked, no one moved.
Years ago, authorities hung a banner: “No Large Vehicles During Rush Hour.” But jams still happened weekly. You couldn’t ban all cars—vendors, movers, deliveries needed access.
“Back up a little!”
“I’ll lose 200 yuan if I’m late!”
“Like we won’t?!”
Amid the chaotic scooter crowd, I slipped smoothly through gaps thanks to my petite frame. Under three minutes, I was through.
Passing the jam, a flicker of dark satisfaction stirred. Like watching rain-soaked pedestrians from a dry window.
Yeah… I admit it. A little shady of me.
Behind the jam, dim sum shop owners chatted idly with rival vendors—utterly used to this. Familiar streets now hosted new bubble tea shops. Where “Coffee House” once stood, “Uncle Liu’s Authentic Malatang” gleamed. Outside old soy milk and youtiao stalls, two backpack-clad middle schoolers bragged between bites about last night’s gaming wins.
At the alley’s end, just as I pulled out my phone to call Grandma, I froze.
Near the trash bins at the three-way intersection, a hunched figure leaned on a cane, skillfully sorting through garbage.
An elderly woman, around sixty.
Wearing *that* outfit.
The one Grandma always wore when I was small—taking me out, buying cheap snacks and toys to cheer me up.
Her silhouette merged perfectly with my memory.
My thumb hovered over the call button… then stilled.
I dimmed the screen and slipped into a nearby dessert shop with a clear view of the bins.
“A small tangyuan. No sugar.”
I sat on a stool by the door, quietly watching.
Grandma’s leg injury came from a fall seven or eight years ago on a nearby hill. Back then, she sold liangfen, mung bean congee, douhua—honest food, no shortcuts. Douhua was douhua. Mung beans were mung beans. High cost, low profit: thirty to forty yuan a day.
During a “civilized city” campaign, urban management fined her 100 yuan. With officers lingering everywhere afterward, she heard lizards fetched fifty cents each. That same day, she went alone to catch them.
She fell.
No major harm—but her foot never fully healed. After discharge, she needed a cane. From then on, she walked with a limp.
Inside the shop, I browsed SkyFire Novel app recommendations while stealing glances at her thin, hunched form. My chest ached.
But I couldn’t go to her yet.
I ate the bland tangyuan slowly, waiting until she’d sorted all three bins, bundled recyclables, and left. Then I calculated: time to recycling station, weighing, payment, walking home…
When it felt right, I called.
Mom had given Grandma an old phone a year ago, taught her to answer, and shared the number with me. But Grandma, stuck in the landline era, feared losing the “precious” device. She kept it charging on her bedside table. Mom warned: call only in the evening—only then was she home.
*Ring… ring…*
After two rings, I ended the call.
Grandma knew only I’d call. If it kept ringing, she’d rush—dangerous for her. Two rings meant curiosity, not panic.
I redialed.
*Ring—* “Ah! Hello? Hello?”
Answered on the first ring.
“Grandma.” I gazed at the sky. “No classes today. Coming to visit. About half an hour away. Are you home?” I stressed *half an hour*.
“A-ah… yes, yes, I’m here.” Her voice flustered, then steadied. “You… come ahead.”
“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Leave the door unlocked?”
“Yes, yes… Be careful on the road…”
“Mm.”
I hung up. Opened my browser. Saved Hana Shirasaki’s portrait from *An Angel Has Come to Me*. Set it as her contact photo. Tapped “Save.”
