The year Nan Jiu started middle school, her stepmother gave birth to a younger brother.
Her father, Nan Zhendong, was so happy he couldn’t stop smiling. He stayed at the hospital for a whole day and night, completely forgetting that his daughter was at home, hungry.
When Nan Zhendong finally remembered Nan Jiu, the first thing he did upon rushing home was send her to her biological mother’s house.
Nan Jiu’s mother and her stepfather’s daughter had just learned to walk. The younger sister was still unsteady, often bumping and hurting herself, so the whole family revolved around her.
The stepfather didn’t like Nan Zhendong. The two had fought years ago, and he wasn’t fond of the daughter Nan Zhendong sent over either.
Ever since Nan Jiu arrived, the stepfather would cause a fuss whenever possible, arguing with Nan Jiu’s mother.
Whenever they quarreled, the younger sister’s cries shook the house, making home life chaotic.
Nan Jiu didn’t stay long.
When she left, she took only her backpack and the money her father had given her.
No one knew how a little girl managed to travel over a hundred kilometers to find her grandfather.
When the adults asked afterward, she said she took the bus.
The last minivan Nan Jiu took stopped at a town thirty kilometers from Nancheng.
She got off with the crowd, her remaining money almost gone.
The roadsides were bare, with no shaded greenery to shield from the sun.
Her limbs felt weak, and hunger made her chest press against her back.
Before long, the people who got off with her had gone far.
On the sunbaked asphalt road, only her figure remained—and a black Passat in the distance.
Nan Jiu staggered toward the Passat, dizzy.
The few hundred meters felt even harder than the hundred kilometers she had traveled.
The Passat’s hood was open, smoke wafting from somewhere inside, and a man had half his body bent under the hood.
“Is your car broken?”
Nan Jiu clutched her backpack straps, peering over curiously.
The man’s body tensed.
He probably hadn’t expected a child to suddenly appear on such a deserted road.
He pushed himself up, turned his head, and saw a young girl in sportswear with a ponytail and a face full of baby fat standing by the car.
“You’re not from around here?”
The man’s hair was slightly long, with a few strands falling over his temples. Phoenix eyes, sharp and natural, hid under his bangs.
“Why should I tell you?”
Nan Jiu, much shorter, craned her neck, shading her forehead with her hand to block the sun.
“Where are you headed?”
The man’s black short-sleeved shirt was pulled up to his chest, revealing a lean waist.
As he spoke, he tugged his shirt back down.
“Can you fix your car?”
Nan Jiu didn’t answer, but asked instead.
The man frowned slightly under the sun, the ridge of his brow casting a shadow.
“Not sure.”
About ten minutes later, the car could start.
The man lowered the hood and saw the little girl hugging her backpack, squatting beside the car door, silently keeping him company while he fixed the car. Her face was flushed red from the heat.
Nan Jiu stated “Hat Teahouse”.
The man opened the car door for her to get in, tossing her the only bottle of mineral water in the car.
The Passat drove back to Hat Alley.
The moment Nan Jiu’s grandfather saw his granddaughter, he spat out his tea and rushed to greet her.
When he touched her, she was burning with fever, dazed.
Nan Jiu’s grandfather immediately called for the man, and they drove straight to the hospital.
In the hospital infusion room, Nan Jiu lay on the hospital bed.
The young man who drove the Passat left for a while, then returned.
He bought a boxed meal, raised the hospital bed, opened the box, and placed it before Nan Jiu, then sat back on a plastic chair a few steps away.
Nan Jiu’s grandfather was in the corridor, making a call to his son, Nan Zhendong.
His booming scolding lasted five minutes, until a nurse reminded him. Only then did he hang up, muttering curses.
After eating and receiving a bottle of fluids, Nan Jiu felt much better.
She noticed the man who brought her back not only hadn’t left, but was now being made to guard her by her grandfather.
She looked at her returning grandfather and whispered, “Why did you call that person over? Did you pay him for the ride?”
Nan Jiu’s grandfather was still angry, nostrils flaring.
“Pay what? He’s my godson.”
The newborn Nan Jiu had made her way to her grandfather’s house without running into human traffickers—just her god-uncle, Song Ting.
As for when her grandfather took in a godson, even Nan Zhendong didn’t know, let alone Nan Jiu.
Nan Jiu’s grandfather ran a teahouse, hidden in the bustling Hat Alley.
The old customers had decades of friendship with Nan Jiu’s grandfather.
In Hat Alley, the Hat Teahouse was as important as the ancestral hall of old times.
Neighbors would come to the teahouse to resolve disputes, chat, discuss marriages and funerals, or pick dates for house construction—big and small matters alike.
As times changed, many old shops in Hat Alley were replaced by trendy milk tea or convenience stores, but only the teahouse stood firm, welcoming guests as always.
Besides Nan Jiu’s grandfather, the most important person in the teahouse was the Tangguan.
With Old Street next door growing livelier, more out-of-town tea customers had arrived in recent years.
The Tangguan not only had to handle all kinds of customers, but also deal with travelers from across the country.
With so many people, conflicts were common.
A strong body and quick mind were essential—without a bit of street smarts, it was hard to handle the complicated situations that arose in the teahouse.
Because of this, Nan Jiu’s grandfather especially valued Song Ting.
During the two years Song Ting worked at the teahouse, Nan Jiu’s grandfather rarely had to worry.
In his spare time, he could even amuse himself with birds and flowers, living a semi-retired life.
Song Ting drove Nan Jiu and her grandfather back from the hospital to Hat Alley.
He parked at the alley entrance and got out to buy two steaming pieces of osmanthus cake.
Nan Jiu’s return was sudden, and her grandfather was unprepared.
After discussing with Song Ting, they decided to tidy up a side room on the first floor for Nan Jiu to stay.
That night, Nan Jiu sat on a low wooden stool eating osmanthus cake as Song Ting busied himself back and forth nearby.
He swept the room, mopped it twice, carried in wooden stools, planks, bedding, and blankets, and assembled a bed in the empty space.
He then went up to the attic.
A few minutes later, his steady footsteps returned down the stairs. He carried a standing fan, placed it by the bed, plugged it in, and turned to Nan Jiu, who sat by the door.
“If your grandfather turns off the air conditioning later, turn on the fan.”
Nan Jiu stuffed the last bite of osmanthus cake into her mouth, cheeks puffed, and nodded at him.
In the corner of the first-floor tea hall was an old standing air conditioner, only turned on during business hours.
At night, after the sun set, a cross breeze would cool the first floor, making it comfortable enough to sleep with just a fan.
Nan Jiu’s grandfather would turn off the air conditioner, letting the old staff rest.
Song Ting lived in the attic above the teahouse.
It had originally been for storage, but after he arrived, he cleaned it up and set up a bed.
When Nan Jiu was little, she loved playing hide-and-seek with her cousins in the attic whenever she visited her grandfather.
This time, her grandfather told her Song Ting lived upstairs and not to wander into the attic without reason.
The next morning when Nan Jiu woke up, the teahouse was already bustling with tea customers.
She detoured to the kitchen to find something to eat and happened to see her grandfather talking with Song Ting in the hallway.
“The attic’s so hot. You gave the fan to Xiao Jiu—how did you sleep last night?”
Her grandfather asked.
“I fell asleep, so I didn’t notice.”
“I think we should install a wall unit upstairs. Summer will be easier that way.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
Song Ting waved at an old customer who had just entered and went off to work.
Nan Jiu’s grandfather turned and spotted Nan Jiu standing in the corner.
He tapped his cane and put on a stern face.
“Getting up at this hour? Has your fever gone down?”
Nan Jiu grinned mischievously and approached.
“It’s gone. The bed was too hard—couldn’t sleep well.”
“Serves you right. Don’t run off and sleep on my hard bed when you have a Simmon mattress at home. Do it again and I’ll break your legs.”
He raised his cane and tapped her calf.
During evening accounting, her grandfather brought up the matter with Song Ting, asking if Dasheng knew the owner of the furniture store so they could buy a bed for the attic, and suggesting Song Ting install an air conditioner there too.
Song Ting didn’t install the air conditioner, but the next day, he dragged a bed over.
Her grandfather’s back wasn’t up to moving it, of course.
Nan Jiu ran off to Liu Yin’s house next door to play video games, not returning to the teahouse until after dinner.
Song Ting moved the makeshift bed out of the side room alone, carried in the new bed, laid out a mattress and fresh bamboo mat, and wiped it down three times with warm water.
After Nan Jiu returned, she jumped onto the soft new bed, rolled around, slipped into slippers, and ran to the tea hall, excitedly squeezing up to her grandfather.
Laughter echoed from behind the tea counter as the pair joked.
Song Ting wiped tables, put chairs back in place, locked the teahouse doors, and as usual, went to check the tea bowls.
He had a nightly habit of inspecting the next day’s prepared tea bowls one by one.
If he found any with cracks or chips, he set them aside to be discarded.
Nan Jiu’s grandfather once told the young Song Ting: The tea lid is heaven, the tea saucer is earth, the tea bowl is man.
Later, all the tea bowls in the teahouse were custom-ordered by Song Ting from a friend’s shop in Jingdezhen.
Before Nan Jiu’s parents divorced, every New Year her parents would bring her to her grandfather’s.
After Nan Zhendong remarried, they spent New Year’s at his mother-in-law’s house, leaving Nan Jiu with her mother.
It had been years since Nan Jiu had come to her grandfather’s place.
Nothing in the Hat Teahouse had changed—except for the man who sat in the tea hall each night, tending to tea bowls until late.
Liu Yin, who lived next door, was two years older than Nan Jiu.
When Nan Jiu went to Liu Yin’s house to play games, she saw a pink undershirt hanging by the window.
Liu Yin followed her gaze, then looked at Nan Jiu’s chest.
“Don’t you usually wear undershirts?”
Nan Jiu’s face turned red with embarrassment.
Living with her father, Nan Zhendong had never told her when she should start wearing undershirts.
Her mother had spent the past two years devoted to the younger sister, neglecting Nan Jiu, and the stepmother was even less concerned.
After leaving Liu Yin’s house, Nan Jiu hunched her back self-consciously, trying to hide the two ounces of flesh on her chest.
When strangers stared at her, she’d awkwardly cross her arms and look away.
Her grandfather noticed her slouch and tapped her spine with his cane.
“Walk straight! At your age, you look like a little old lady.”
Instead of straightening up, Nan Jiu asked her grandfather for fifty yuan.
He asked what it was for.
She stammered, saying she wanted to buy clothes.
That afternoon, after work, her grandfather had Song Ting take Nan Jiu to Old Street to buy clothes.
Nan Jiu’s face was bright red, and she walked fast, trying to leave Song Ting behind.
Several times she thought she had succeeded, but each time she looked back, Song Ting was calmly following her.
His long legs covered two of her steps with one. As she rushed ahead, Song Ting strolled as if on a leisurely walk.
At Old Street, they passed a Nike and Adidas store.
Song Ting suggested she go in and look, but she refused.
They passed a few women’s clothing shops; Song Ting slowed, wondering if they should enter.
At her age, Nan Jiu was already over 160 centimeters tall, but still looked like a child.
Wearing women’s clothes made her look mature and awkward.
He decided to turn and take her to a children’s clothing store.
Nan Jiu looked half-hearted, saying she didn’t like anything.
Song Ting saw her anxious look and didn’t understand what she was in such a hurry for.
He simply took two red bills from his pocket and handed them to her.
“I’m going to buy cigarettes. Pick something yourself.”
When Song Ting walked away, Nan Jiu turned and ran back to the lingerie store they had passed earlier, buying her first-ever piece of underwear—a pink undershirt.
From then on, she had her own pink undershirt.
Nan Jiu came out of the lingerie store, satisfied, carrying the small bag.
Across the street under a Chinese ash tree, Song Ting waited, a cigarette in his mouth.
Nan Jiu glanced at him quickly, her ears red, and walked back even faster than before.
Seeing she knew the way, Song Ting didn’t hurry.
He trailed behind at a leisurely pace, the distance between them gradually widening.
The undershirt was small and fit into a bag the size of a palm.
When her grandfather saw Nan Jiu return with such a small bag, he craned his neck.
“You went all that way and bought something this tiny?”
Nan Jiu glanced at her grandfather and went back to her room.
Song Ting entered the teahouse a moment later.
Her grandfather said to him, “Why didn’t you buy two more?”
Song Ting lowered his eyelids.
“She picked it herself.”
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