It took me half an hour to leisurely finish a small serving of sweet glutinous rice balls. Then, following my memory, I headed toward a corner of the alley ahead.

Though this urban village looked messy everywhere—especially after midnight, when hoodlums and idle youths flooded the lanes drinking and grilling skewers—the place was dirty, with overflowing trash cans and moss-covered puddles. Yet in my memory, no major crimes had occurred here in five or six years.

Not even fights, muggings, or petty theft. Despite shadowy alleys and tattooed passersby on the main street, the area felt surprisingly safe.

I figured two reasons: First, the nation’s grown stronger. Xiangcao City’s a big metropolis, and even this tiny urban village sees regular police patrols. No criminal dares stir trouble. Second, nearly all original residents here share the same surname.

Long ago, this spot was nicknamed “Liao Family Village”—the Liao clan’s turf. Our landlord, his uncle, most villagers—all surnamed Liao. They ran the rentals, shops, and local market. Kin kept order; outsiders didn’t dare cause scenes.

“Xiao Xue?”

At the central rental building of “Liao Family Village,” the young landlord—whether just wrapping up errands or idling nearby—pushed open a door and greeted me: “Back so suddenly today?”

He’d managed these three eight-story buildings alone for seven or eight years. Nearly two hundred tenants. Logically, he couldn’t recall all names—but families like ours, renting five straight years? Rare. Remembering my nickname made sense.

“Mm. Saturday, no classes. Came to visit Grandma.”

From Bi Xinxue’s memories, he was easygoing. I slipped naturally into her usual tone: “Collecting rent, Landlord?”

“Nah, not at all. Room 508’s tenant has a classmate staying over with a dog. Barking two days straight—neighbors complained. Went up to ask him to quiet it.”

He glanced at me. “No club activities today?”

“Haven’t picked one yet.”

I shifted awkwardly. “Afraid I’ll mess up… get looked down on.”

“Impossible. A pretty girl like you? No one’d snub you.”

He spoke earnestly. “Listen to Uncle. Join clubs. Talk with classmates. Build connections. Friends become paths later in life.”

“Oh…”

I nodded with half-understanding. “I’ll… try next week.”

“Your mom and grandma count on you. Work hard, kid. Raising you alone wasn’t easy for her.”

He hesitated. “Also… about your grandma—”

I blinked. “What about Grandma?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He shook his head. “Elderly get lonely. Good you visit. Go on.”

“Oh…”

I tapped my keycard on the reader. *Beep.* The door clicked open.

“Oh—right! If Grandma sells goods, anywhere from Sixth Hospital to No. 14 Middle School is fine.”

He gestured behind him. “City officers only patrol after 6 p.m. No crackdown notices lately. We’ve got brothers there—they tip us before surprise checks. You… get it, kid?”

“Ah? Oh… yeah.”

I gave a slight bow. “Thank you, Landlord.”

“Call me Uncle Liao.”

“Uncle Liao.”

“Mm. She just got back. Spend time with her.”

“Thanks, Uncle Liao.”

Inside the building, I passed emptied scooter spots and an open room housing a Bodhisattva altar. I stopped at the familiar door in the first-floor corner.

Only three rooms occupied this floor. The center one stayed open year-round for worship—during festivals, sandalwood scent filled the air. The right room, the “security booth,” housed the guard, easily fifty. Neighbors said his wife died in childbirth years ago. He never remarried, moved here alone, brought her quilt and pillow. Two beds: one neatly made with her things, her photo on the nightstand. He’d guarded and cleaned this building over twenty years. My childhood “adventure spot” was his domain—I’d often bump into him sweeping. I remembered him well.

The last room? Home.

Landlord once said it sat unsold for months. Price dropped to 150 yuan monthly (rose to 300 after five years). First-floor units here suffered terrible lighting—even noon sun left rooms gloomy. Lights stayed on all day.

“Grandma, I’m back.”

Under dim hallway light, I glanced at her peddler tricycle, unlocked the door.

“Xiao Xue?”

Grandma sat on the living room sofa.

“Oh dear… so soon? Breakfast eaten?”

“Yes.”

I set my bag down. “You ate too, Grandma?”

She’d changed from her scavenging clothes into a slightly stylish shirt for her age. Silver-streaked hair combed neatly. Wrinkled face clean.

“I… yes.”

She looked flustered—maybe unused to my tone, or stunned her college granddaughter, who never visited weekends, suddenly returned. “H-how… classes over already?”

“No classes today.”

I peeked at the three half-filled buckets near the kitchen: mung bean jelly, mung bean porridge, tofu pudding. “Going out later?”

“Ah? Oh… yes.”

She nodded slowly. “Xiao Xue… money enough? Grandma can give more.”

“Plenty! Really.”

I stepped into my room—the only tiny balcony in the house—and breathed deep.

Standard two-room layout. Total space under sixty square meters. Door opened to living room; kitchen left; my balcony room ahead; Grandma’s room right. My room, thanks to the balcony, was the brightest spot.

Childhood summers here: I’d race to the balcony at dusk, watch the sunset stain the sky crimson, and spiral inward.

*Useless. Might as well vanish. Mom and Grandma struggle so hard… and I’m this weak.*

Across the street, second-floor window: an older brother played games after work, Liu Ruoying’s “Later” on loop.

Every evening, bathed in golden light, I’d hear:

*“Later, through tears I learned—some people, once gone, never return…”*

*“Gardenia petals, white, on my blue pleated skirt…”*

“Grandma, can I try some?”

Back in the living room, I grabbed a bowl, pointed to the tofu pudding.

“Of course!” Her eyes lit up. “Eat all you want!”

Relief washed over me. Grandma’s rule: “Never make harmful things.” Unlike other street vendors loading additives into milk tea or jelly, her tofu pudding cost more, tasted “less pure” to sellers—but safe. Her offering it to me meant trust.

“Grandma, do you sell all this daily?”

I scooped a spoonful, drizzled honey water, sat beside her.

“Some leftovers… tossed at night.”

She frowned slightly. “But I earn thirty-plus yuan a day.”

“What if you make more? Fill the buckets. I’ll help sell.”

“Ah?”

She blinked. “Won’t it go unsold?”

“No worries. It’ll sell.”

I finished the spoonful, dug into my bag, and pulled out the brand-new Rem cosplay outfit—white thigh-high socks, suspenders, tiny leather shoes, colored contacts, wig.

“Grandma, our club gave us these. Let me try it on for you?”