Winter always came slowly to Small Town and left slowly, too.
A small charcoal brazier burned in the main room, with a wire rack set over it. A few tangerines and rice cakes were roasting on top, giving off a rich, toasted fragrance.
Pu Yu sat at the square dining table, a thick stack of writing paper spread before her.
It was manuscript paper supplied by a newspaper, its grid printed in pale red.
She held the fountain pen Sui Sui had given her. Her fingertips had gone slightly white from gripping it for so long, and a little blue-black ink stained the side of her finger.
Not many people still insisted on writing by hand these days. Many had bought laptops or tablets, finding typing much more convenient.
But Pu Yu loved the feel of it.
The soft scratch of the nib across the paper sounded like silkworms munching mulberry leaves, gnawing away, little by little, at the enormous beast called "debt."
She wrote promotional articles for public accounts and thousand-word stories for obscure little magazines.
Those short pieces, which paid a few dozen yuan per thousand words, were all written out with this pen, one character at a time, on gridded manuscript paper.
As long as it earned money and wasn't illegal, she would do it.
After she had been writing for who knew how long, her wrist began to ache, and blue-black ink had stained the side of her finger as well.
"Still writing?"
Li Suhua came in carrying an enamel mug filled with freshly brewed brown sugar ginger tea. "You haven't stopped for a single day since you got back. Are you made of iron?"
The old woman's words were fierce, but her movements were gentle. She set the enamel mug on the table without making