Ink Marker, What Are You Trying to Cause in Broad Daylight?

Shen Le pulled his backpack—along with the Ink Marker—to his chest, eyes fixed straight ahead, burying his face in his meal as he pretended to hear nothing.

Sigh, look at this couple. The man wore a set of work clothes so ancient it looked like he'd been wearing them since the end of the last century; the collar and cuffs had been patched over and over again.

The wife was dressed quite gaudily, her clothes covered in large patches of sequins, but the style was so dated it was essentially the kind of thing popular in third or fourth-tier cities, or perhaps a flashy staple at a rural market.

Then, looking at their feet, each wore a pair of Liberation Shoes—the kind that cost ten yuan a pair...

Shen Le felt a common saying rise naturally in his heart:

"Poverty-stricken couples face sorrow in all things."

If their income were even a little higher, would they really be here on the street, tugging at each other and making such a scene over a hundred or two yuan?

If he were that Ink Marker, he'd be so annoyed he'd jump right out of the Tool Box and snap a bunch of ink lines all over the walls, the floor, and even the faces of the husband and wife just to protest...

Just as he thought this, two screams exploded behind him. A mix of male and female, exceptionally terrified, accompanied by the sound of shattering bowls and plates:

"It's here again! That thing is here again!"

"You two, are you finished eating yet?" The owner finally couldn't take it anymore and came out to chase them off:

"If you're done, get out! Don't argue in my shop! And by the way, that's two yuan for a bowl and fifty cents for a plate—pay up!"

"Look at you, making such a fuss..."

The couple bickered, complaining and haggling with the owner, but in the end, they only paid two yuan before hurrying out of the small shop. Shen Le glanced down quickly and was instantly rendered speechless:

The backpack zipper had been pulled open at some point, and the lead weight attached to the ink line was swaying gently as it retreated back into the bag, pretending it hadn't done a thing.

And on the backs of that couple, two ink lines had been snapped on each, crossing into a large "X"!

Hey!

Ink Marker, take it easy!

In broad daylight, what are you trying to pull? Don't you know there are surveillance cameras everywhere now—

He lost all interest in strolling around and hurried back. He sat down at his workbench, took out the Ink Marker, shook it a few times, and tapped it:

"Give me an explanation?"

The Ink Marker remained silent. Even the spool inside and the ink line attached to it followed normal physical laws, swaying slightly and rhythmically. Shen Le was speechless; he shook the Ink Marker again and pulled out the Copper Fragment:

"Playing dead, are you? Not talking? If you don't speak, I have ways to deal with you!"

The Ink Marker remained steady on the table, looking like a normal, ordinary, and completely unremarkable woodworking tool.

Shen Le snorted and firmly pressed the Copper Fragment against it. The moment they touched, a buzz rang in his ears, and his vision went black:

"So, the factory is gone?"

Along with this question came a dull "thud," followed by a clattering sound—wood hitting wood, wood hitting metal.

The middle-aged man in the old work clothes stood by the table, unbuckling a half-worn canvas bag and placing items into a wooden box one by one.

Shen Le looked around. It was the same house from the previous memory, but the furnishings were much older, yet also much newer:

The television wasn't a sleek LCD screen, but a bulky, less-than-20-inch CRT set, carefully covered by a red velvet cloth.

A gas tank was connected beneath the stove, and on the dining table, a light mesh cover shielded several bowls of food, keeping the buzzing flies at bay.

The nightstand, the wardrobe, the desk, and all the other furniture in the room showed almost no peeling paint, and there were far fewer cracks than last time...

So, what time period was this?

Twenty years earlier than the last memory? Thirty?

"Yeah, the factory closed. We're both out of work—you took early retirement, and I took the buyout to find my own way..."

Hearing these keywords, Shen Le already had an idea: it was indeed several decades earlier than the previous memory. The late nineties, to be exact.

So, the man in this memory... was he the father of one of the two people he saw arguing today?

Was it his father?

He stepped closer, leaning in to look. The sound of the canvas bag hitting the floor and the clanking inside sounded very familiar.

He looked again, and sure enough, there were wood chisels, saws, and planers—all sorts of tools.

The man was extremely familiar with them; he talked to his wife while putting the tools into the Tool Box without even looking.

Every time he reached out, he grabbed one and set it down. Large or small, concave or convex, they were stacked crosswise in the box, maximizing the space perfectly. Nothing was tossed in haphazardly to encroach on another's territory.

Finally, he pulled a single Ink Marker from a small pocket in the canvas bag, cradling it in his hands with a faint sigh.

"What are we going to do about the future..."

Shen Le stood behind the man, sighing as well.

For a worker of this age to suddenly be unemployed, it was truly hard to know where to find work. Especially since the couple both worked at the same factory; if they were to lose their jobs, they'd lose them together...

"I went to see Boss Wang on Lingling Road yesterday." After a moment of silence, the wife stood up and walked over, dragging an identical large canvas bag from behind the door and dropping it onto the table with a clatter:

"Boss Wang said he has a job—helping someone with renovations, putting up partitions, building cabinets, that sort of thing. Twenty yuan a day, room and board included, but we'd have to go to Binhai... Do you want to go together?"

As she spoke, the canvas bag was dragged onto the table, making a loud clanging sound. The man hesitated for a moment, turning his head to look at his wife, then toward the doorway:

"I think I'll look for work in town first. Dad's health isn't good, and the kids are still small; someone needs to stay home. You go earn the money, and I'll hold down the fort. We'll divide the labor like that—"

As he spoke, he turned slightly, rubbed the Ink Marker, and tucked it into his wife's canvas bag. His wife lowered her head to stroke the Ink Marker, letting out a soft sigh.

"You were the one who gave me this Ink Marker. It's a good thing the factory closed and they let us bring these things back, otherwise I wouldn't even have tools to work with. Are you sure you don't want me to stay home instead?"

"It's more convenient for me to take care of Dad than it is for you. Besides, your skills are every bit as good as mine. Go on, the breadwinning is up to you now. Half of the glory belongs to you, and half belongs to me!"

He patted his wife on the shoulder. She leaned forward slightly, sliding her head and shoulder through the strap of the canvas bag, then straightened up, struggling to hoist the bag onto her back. She turned her head and smiled.

"Then leave it to me! Back at the factory, you weren't even as good at the work as I was!"

She was a woman in her forties, dressed in a blue cloth work uniform with her hair cut into a casual bob. Faint strands of silver were already showing at her temples, and she couldn't exactly be called beautiful.

Yet, that backward glance and smile, with eyes shining bright, sweet and proud all at once, was exactly the same as the young female worker she had been years ago—the one who refused to lose, refused to bow her head, and held onto a fierce drive to compete with the men in skill.