Shen Le swung his backpack, Ink Marker and all, around to his chest. He kept his eyes fixed ahead and his head down as he shoveled food into his mouth, pretending he hadn't heard a thing.
Ah, just look at this married couple. The man wore an especially shabby work uniform, as if he'd been wearing it since the end of the last century. The collar and cuffs had been patched over and over.
His wife, on the other hand, was dressed in bright colors, with large areas of sequins sewn onto her clothes. But the style was so old-fashioned that it looked like something popular in a small, out-of-the-way city or a flashy outfit from a rural market.
And look at their shoes: a pair of Liberation Shoes each, the kind that cost ten yuan a pair...
Shen Le couldn't help thinking of a saying:
A poor couple suffers in a hundred ways.
If they had even slightly higher incomes, would they really be arguing and making a scene like this over one or two hundred yuan?
If he were Ink Marker, he'd be so annoyed he might leap out of the Tool Box and snap Ink Lines all over this family's walls and floor—or even across the faces of the husband and wife—to protest...
Just as he was thinking this, two startled cries suddenly rang out behind him. A man and a woman, both terrified, accompanied by the sound of dishes shattering:
"It's back! That thing's back!"
"You two finished eating yet?" The owner finally came out, unable to stand it any longer, and tried to drive them out.
"If you're done, hurry up and leave. Don't argue in my shop! And you broke a bowl and a plate. Two yuan for the bowl, fifty cents for the plate. Pay up!"
"Look at you, making a fuss over nothing..."
The couple bickered and complained as they haggled with the owner. In the end, they paid only two yuan and hurried out of the shop. Shen Le quickly lowered his head and was instantly speechless.
At some point, the backpack's zipper had been pulled open. The Lead Weight attached to the Ink Line was swaying gently as it retreated into the backpack, pretending it hadn't done a thing.
Meanwhile, two Ink Lines had been snapped across each of the couple's backs, forming a huge "X"!
Hey!
Ink Marker, take it easy!
What are you trying to pull in broad daylight? There are security cameras everywhere now, you know that, don't you—
He lost all interest in window-shopping and hurried back. Once seated at his workbench, he took out Ink Marker, shook it twice, and tapped it.
"Care to explain?"
Ink Marker stayed utterly silent. Even the reel inside, with the Ink Line attached to it, swayed gently in strict accordance with the laws of physics. Speechless, Shen Le shook it again and pulled out the Copper Fragment.
"Playing dead, are you? Not talking, huh? If you don't say anything soon, I've got ways to deal with you!"
Ink Marker still rested quietly on the table, like an ordinary, normal, completely unremarkable woodworking tool.
Shen Le snorted and resolutely pressed the Copper Fragment against it. The moment they touched, a buzzing sound rang in his ears and his vision went black.
"So, the factory's gone?"
Along with the question came a dull thud. Then came a clattering, as wood knocked against wood and wood knocked against metal.
A middle-aged man in an old work uniform stood by the table. He took off a well-worn canvas bag and placed its contents one by one into the wooden Tool Box.
Shen Le looked around. It was the same apartment as in the previous memory, but the furnishings were both much older and much newer.
The TV wasn't a slim LCD screen but a bulky set, less than twenty inches, carefully covered by a red velvet TV cover.
A gas canister was connected beneath the stove. On the dining table, a lightweight mesh food cover kept buzzing flies away from several dishes.
The bedside table, wardrobe, desk, and other furniture in the room showed little peeling Paint, and far fewer cracks than before...
So, what time period was this?
Twenty or thirty years earlier than the previous memory?
"Yeah, the factory closed. None of us have jobs anymore. You took early retirement, while I got bought out and have to find work on my own..."
At those keywords, Shen Le already had a good idea. It really was several decades earlier than the previous memory—sometime in the 1990s, more precisely, in the late 1990s.
So this man in the memory... was the father of one of the couple he'd seen arguing today?
Was he their father?
He took a few steps closer and leaned over to look. The thud of the canvas bag hitting the ground and the clattering inside sounded oddly familiar.
Looking again, he saw woodworking knives, Woodworking Chisels, a saw, a Planer, and all kinds of tools.
The man knew them inside out. He chatted with his wife without even looking at his hands as he put the tools into the Tool Box.
Each time, he reached out and picked up an item, then set it down. Big and small, concave and convex, they were stacked crosswise in the Tool Box, making the best possible use of space. Not one was carelessly strewn about or taking up another tool's space.
Finally, he took an Ink Marker from the small pocket of the canvas bag and held it in his hands, sighing softly.
"What are we going to do from now on...?"
Standing behind the man, Shen Le sighed too.
When workers of this age suddenly lost their jobs, they really had no idea where to look for work. Especially when both husband and wife worked at the same factory—if they lost their jobs, they lost them together...
"Yesterday, I went to see Boss Wang on Lingling Road." After a moment of silence, his wife got up and walked over. She dragged an identical large canvas bag from behind the door and dropped it onto the table with a bang.
"Boss Wang said he has a job. They need help renovating a place, putting up partitions and making cabinets and things like that. The pay is twenty yuan a day, with meals and lodging included. But we'd have to go to Binhai... Do you want to go with me?"
As she spoke, the canvas bag was dragged onto the table with a loud bang. The man hesitated, looking at his wife, then toward the doorway.
"I'll look for work around town first. Dad's not well, and the child's still young. Someone has to stay home. You go earn money while I take care of the family. We'll split the duties..."
As he spoke, he half-turned and rubbed the Ink Marker before putting it into his wife's canvas bag. His wife lowered her head and stroked it, then let out a soft sigh.
"You gave me this Ink Marker, you know. At least the factory let us bring our things home when it closed. Otherwise, we wouldn't even have tools to work with. Maybe I should stay home instead?"
"It's easier for me to take care of Dad than it would be for you. Besides, you're no worse at the trade than I am. Go on—the family's livelihood will be in your hands. Half the credit goes to you, and half to me!"
He patted his wife on the shoulder. She bent forward slightly to slip her head and shoulders through the straps of the canvas bag. Then she straightened up, struggled to hoist it onto her back, and turned with a smile.
"Just leave it to me! Back at the factory, you weren't as good at the job as I was!"
The woman in her forties wore a blue work uniform and had casually cut her hair short. A faint dusting of silver had already appeared at her temples, and she wasn't what anyone would call pretty.
But when she glanced back with a smile, her eyes shone. Her expression, full of sweetness and pride, was exactly like that of the young female worker she'd been in her youth: stubborn, unyielding, driven to prove herself, and always competing with the man over whose skills were better.