Feng Jun got home at five that afternoon.
It was already November. Yang City had clear weather, and the temperature was not too low, but Yunyuan was another matter.
It had rained continuously for two days. Though it was farther south, there was already a bone-chilling cold in the air.
Li Xiaobin had originally planned to book Feng Jun a presidential suite at the Forestry Hotel, but Feng Jun said, "I'm staying at home tonight."
A son never thinks his mother ugly, nor a dog its home poor. The last two times he had returned, he had not properly spent even two days at home. That had already been inappropriate.
Feng Jun had not notified anyone of his return. Through Gazi, he found a security guard he knew at the Forestry Hotel, quietly parked his car in the hotel lot, then walked home under an umbrella.
Only after entering the house did he call the convenience store and say that he had arrived home.
Including his years at university, he had been away from home for seven years. That cramped seven-square-meter partition was still roughly the way it had been when he left seven years ago.
Only, several cloth bundles were piled on the handmade bed, which was just over four feet wide—the kind tied in knots at the corners.
In big cities, one no longer saw such an outdated method of packing. Most people used clothing storage bags, while some used vacuum compression bags. Yet when Feng Jun saw those bundles, a sudden sense of familiarity welled up inside him.
Ever since he could remember, the house had more or less been arranged this way. Back then, his grandparents had still been around, the street-facing house had not yet been torn down, and his second uncle had still lived