On the third day, he began to get used to that rhythm.
My waist doesn't hurt much anymore, the soreness in my arms has subsided and my muscles feel solid, and I can move bricks much faster.
With a pile of six bricks and a trip of 200 meters, nearly a thousand bricks can be moved in one day. Lying on the iron frame bed at night, my whole body felt like it was falling apart. But when I closed my eyes, there were no messy thoughts in my mind. I only felt tired and reassured that I could move a few more times tomorrow.
Half a month later, he received his monthly salary for the first time.
I only worked for nine days last month and received a total of 1,500 yuan.
Jiang Siyu clutched those banknotes and stood at the door of the construction site in shock for a long time.
The wind blew over and kicked up the dust on the ground and hit him in the face, but he didn't hide.
For one thousand and fifty, you can't even buy a bottle of good wine.
But when he was holding the stack of money, his hands were shaking a little.
It turns out that it takes so much effort to earn 1,500 yuan.
But as early as more than 20 years ago, the price of a Lego for him was more than this.
It turns out that Song Yutang was right. His extravagant spending over the years was all his parents' money.
When he no longer relied on his parents, he tried his best to survive.
His parents, how much effort have they put in over the years to continue to provide him with so much money, so that he can have whatever he wants...
If they knew that the son they had raised for so many years was going to use their inheritance to help exonerate the murderer, they would be very disappointed, right?
Jiang Siyu squatted on the roadside, smoked half a pack of cigarettes, flattened and folded the remaining money one by one, and stuffed it deep into his pocket, not wanting to spend it.
Making money is really difficult.
It's harder to support a family.
One by one, these workers left their hometowns in the countryside and came to the big cities. To do such hard and tiring work, most of them talked about their own children.
Perhaps his parents were the same way back then and sent him abroad to give him the best education.
Staying in the country to earn money is to give him a good life...
During the time when Jiang Siyu was thrown to the construction site, Jiang Shiqing was still like a transparent person.
Her daily life trajectory is so simple that it is almost stereotyped.
Get up, go downstairs to eat, return to the room, read a book, take notes, go downstairs to eat, then return to the room.
She doesn't take the initiative to talk to anyone. When others talk to her, she just shakes her head or nods, and occasionally squeezes out one or two vague syllables from her throat, not even a complete sentence.
Thick bangs always covered most of his face, and his eyes were always downcast behind his spectacles.
Like a window that never opens, the room behind the window is pitch black and no one knows who lives inside.
Song Yutang hired the best psychiatrist in the country, a female doctor named He, who was in her forties, soft-spoken and very patient. When speaking, she would bend down slightly to look at Jiang Shiqing's eyes.
But Jiang Shiqing was sitting in the consulting room, facing Doctor He, and only said two words: "Um" and "oh".
During the rest of the time, she lowered her head and dug her nails into the material of her trousers on her knees, leaving white marks.
After Doctor He came out, he shook his head at Song Yutang and said in a helpless and cautious tone, "She is now in a closed state of mind and extremely distrustful of the outside world. Any stimulation may trigger a stress reaction. At this stage, we can only let her adapt to the environment first without forcing her. Her defense system is like a cement wall, getting thicker and thicker as it is pushed."
Song Yutang nodded. "Then don't rush."
She began to observe Jiang Shiqing carefully.
Every day at noon, she would bring a cup of tea and sit across from Jiang Shiqing. She would not take the initiative to talk, but would just accompany him.
Sometimes I look at my own documents, sometimes I flip through a few pages of a magazine.
Occasionally I would casually ask, "What book are you reading?"
Basically no answer.
But Song Yutang was not in a hurry. He just smiled after asking and continued to read his own report, leaving the other party a space of silence.
She found that Jiang Shiqing was very sensitive to the sound of footsteps. As long as someone came close, her shoulders would become tense.
So every time she walked in, she would knock on the doorframe first, whisper it was me, and then slowly approach, giving her enough time to react.
After a week of this, she finally saw clearly the books on Jiang Shiqing's table--
"General Introduction to Chinese Archeology", "Burial System and Evolution of Ritual Instruments", "Archaeology of Xia, Shang and Zhou Dynasties", etc.
It's all archaeological.
The edges of the book pages are densely covered with labels, and the opened parts are dog-eared. The creases are so deep that they penetrate the back of the paper. There are also thin pencil annotations. The handwriting is neat and neat, and every stroke is written carefully.
There were a few dried ginkgo leaves sandwiched between the pages of the book as bookmarks. She didn't know where she picked them up, but she cherished them very much.
Song Yutang has an idea.
She had several antiques brought over from the warehouse.
A blue and white porcelain vase from the late Qing Dynasty has a small dash line on the lip, but the glaze is bright and smooth.
A bronze mirror from the Han Dynasty has a mottled surface and clearly distinguishable patterns on the back.
There is also a broken tile with an inscription on it. The edges are chipped, but the handwriting is vaguely readable.
She placed these items on the coffee table in the living room, and placed a handwritten appraisal note next to it, deliberately writing several obvious errors on it:
The late Qing blue and white flowers are said to be from the Ming Dynasty, which advances the age of the bronze mirror by three hundred years, and the interpretation of the inscription is also ridiculously wrong.
Jiang Shiqing passes by the living room to the dining room every day, and those antiques and notebooks are spread out there so blatantly.
On the first day, she paused as she passed by. On the second day, she took a few more glances. On the afternoon of the third day, when Song Yutang came down from the second floor, she saw Jiang Shiqing squatting next to the coffee table, holding the notebook in her hand, her brows furrowed tightly, her lips moving, as if she was reciting something silently, her fingers hanging above the paper, wanting to point but not daring to point.
Song Yutang walked over and picked up the bronze mirror as if nothing had happened. "What's wrong?"
Jiang Shiqing hesitated for a long time, finally raised his finger and pointed at a line of words on the note, saying in a very low voice, "This... is wrong."