Four years ago, I was fourteen.
It was the first year after Grandma left me.
April 17 was her first death anniversary.

Those men in black didn’t leave her body.
I didn’t know where she was buried, and no one could attend her funeral—not even me, who’d depended on her.

An old woman and a young beggar—we weren’t noticeable to the neighbors.
At most, they knew where we lived.
One less wasn’t a big deal.

I put on my whitest, cleanest T-shirt, faintly stained with chili oil that wouldn’t wash out.
If I’d soaked and scrubbed it right away, I could’ve saved it.
Thanks to the original owner for letting me have it—it was one of the few good clothes I’d scavenged.

Climbing down to the river, I minded the wound on my knee, prying small stones from the concrete seams along the bank.
Hidden inside were my savings: four 1-yuan coins pressed under a rock, totaling 23 yuan in crumpled old bills and rolled-up new ones.
Money others might not miss, easily gotten by kids my age from their parents, was what I’d saved eating leftovers for days.

It was Wednesday morning, a safe time.
I shouldn’t have to worry about students extorting me.

Nearby were two schools: a junior high and Chengnan High, both in the old town with rough vibes.

Over the past year, I’d been extorted often.
I didn’t inherit Grandma’s toughness.
Even holding a knife to those school kids, they showed no fear, taunting me, daring me to cut them.

For a moment, I wanted to kill them, but I couldn’t.
I clung to the belief that the wolf-like man and Grandma were testing my independence.
If I proved my scavenging skills, she’d return.

And killing meant paying with my life—I’d never see her again.

I gave in, dropping the knife, bowing my head, and crouching by the wall.

They saw my scabbed scrapes.
The leader held back from hitting me.

“Fine, coward, hand over the money. And what’s with you—boy or girl?”

“I heard it’s a boy with long hair, looking like a girl.”

“Let’s strip the clothes and see. Today’s biology class got me curious.”
He rubbed his hands.

Someone muttered: “If it’s a guy, won’t you feel gross?”

They grumbled, losing interest.
Then another said: “If it’s a girl… heh, off-campus biology lesson.”

Their curiosity reignited.
Stripping my shirt was one thing, but pants was outright humiliation!

They were insane.
I glared, gritting my teeth: “I’ll remember you all. I’ll call the police and get you caught at school!”

Their faces changed—they feared that.
The leader grabbed my collar: “You wouldn’t dare!”

I turned away, unable to meet his eyes, knowing the consequences: brutal retaliation I couldn’t handle.

I’d tried reporting them once.
They got caught, and parents, upset over a mere 20 yuan, brought them to apologize, compensating double.

I thought it was over, but they came back, trashing my place.
In swirling dust, they smashed a hole in Grandma’s iron pot, flattened her scavenged stainless steel bowl, and threw our shared sheets and blankets into the river.

Watching the bedding soak below, they got a grand idea, tossing everything I owned—chopsticks included—into the water.

They yanked my precious hair, tearing out a handful, beat me until I vomited acid and bled from my nose, stopping only when I was half-dead.
They took my money again, leaving a cold threat: “Snitch again, and we’ll see. Minors don’t go to jail for murder—just a stint in juvie. You’ve got no parents; no one’d pay for your death!”

The ground was a mess.
Their words filled me with rage, despair, and chills.

They were just students—how could they be so cruel? They were the ones in the wrong!

Grandma’s pot, her bowl, chopsticks, the cracked blue washbasin—these were my treasures.

In the cold wind, her relics lay shattered.

Fury surged—I wanted to kill them all, everyone who’d hurt me, and that wolf-like man.
Grandma’s death was real, but I hoped it wasn’t.

This happened in the winter when I was thirteen.
Their rampage ended, leaving indescribable pain.
No time to wail for justice, I wiped the blood from my lips, dragging my aching body to the river to salvage what remained.

Six months after Grandma’s death, all my clothes—except what I wore—were soaked.
Winter’s river was slow, sparing my things from being swept away.

To keep my clothes dry, I rolled up my sleeves and pant legs, stepping into the shallow, muddy water.
The icy chill numbed my bones.
Cold and beatings didn’t scare me—as long as I could protect this home.

I believed I’d see Grandma return one day.

At midnight, I rebuilt our house brick by brick.
It leaked air—once cemented for warmth and waterproofing, now a crumbling shack in others’ eyes, but my cherished haven, holding ten years of memories.

Touching the jade pendant at my chest, I swallowed near-expired cold medicine.
Luckily, the bullies didn’t crush the capsules into the river.
I couldn’t afford to get sick—no money for medicine.
The cold forced me to huddle, scouring alleys for the least windy spots.

In summer, I craved strong breezes; in winter, I hated them.
I dried my soaked belongings at home.
Thankfully, this wasn’t the north, where clothes froze solid, as passersby said.

I settled in an alley, three meters from a pile of vomit with peanut bits, likely from a drunk.
The smell had faded, making it bearable.

In the cold wind, I stifled sobs, tears freezing on my cheeks.
Crying too loud would disturb residents and earn curses.

Sleepless, at dawn, I curled up in a corner, dozing with my head on my knees.
Returning home, the winter sun shone, drying everything but the pillow and an oversized coat, still carrying the chill.

Grandma, am I independent enough?

At noon, I hit the food stalls, shamelessly grabbing leftovers before the auntie server could.
No time for utensils, I shoveled food with my hands, gulping drinks when it wouldn’t go down.

Leftover Coke, Sprite, or orange juice—whatever customers left, I drank.
No one wanted what I’d touched.
I raced to eat before the auntie cleared it all.

Ignoring stares, I had no dignity but accepted it, savoring the food.
Food was sacred.

As I ate, the stall owner stormed out, yelling: “You stinking beggar, back again? Leftovers aren’t free! I can sell them to pig farmers for profit—feeding you’s a loss! If my shop closes, you paying?!”

I grabbed some shrimp and ran.
She couldn’t catch me.

After ten meters, she gave up, cursing as she returned.
Some middle-aged men approached with bad intentions: “Little girl, want us to treat you to food?”

Mouth full, I mumbled: “I’m a boy, look like a girl. Keep my hair long to sell it.”

I was honest about it.
The men backed off.

I learned to hide money in concrete seams, surviving winter’s extortions by claiming I’d been robbed earlier that day or just before.
Many students knew I had nothing but still tried to squeeze out a few cents.
Eventually, some gave up—either I was empty-handed, or they couldn’t even buy a spicy snack, wasting their effort.

By summer, I took my 9.5 yuan to a shroud shop.

“Boss, three sticks of incense, a pair of candles, and some underworld money.”

The old lady owner recognized me, silently fetching the items.

The dark shrouds in the dim shop gave me chills.

She packed three incense sticks, two candles, and some spirit money in a plastic bag.

I offered 4 yuan, the price I’d confirmed.
She counted, returning 2: “Too much. Keep it.”

Wasn’t it 4 yuan? Did I mishear?

“Thanks!”
I bowed, hurrying off, budgeting carefully.
I bought fresh fruit, a steamed bun, and a pastry.

Back home, I spread newspaper where Grandma fell, slicing an apple into a cross-shaped base.
With a scratched lighter, I lit the incense and candles, placing them with the offerings.

I watched the incense ash fall in the sun, scattering irregularly in the summer breeze.

My thoughts conflicted—hoping Grandma was testing me, yet facing the reality of my loneliness.

Reality and fantasy blurred.
A year after losing her, I couldn’t pull myself out.

Listening to the river slap the shore, I sat, toggling between despair and hope.

Today, I didn’t need the food stalls.
After honoring Grandma, I could eat the offerings—clean and sanitary.

Halfway through the incense and candles, I burned the spirit money, mimicking what I’d seen at Qingming Festival crossroads.
Those aunties were sincere, and so was I, clasping my hands, whispering wishes.

“I hope Grandma comes back soon.”

“I hope that wolf-like man suffers to death.”

“I hope those who bullied me meet bad ends.”

“I hope I make it big and earn lots of money.”

“I hope I never run out of rice.”

“I hope I can go to school.”

“I hope I find a gold chain in the trash…”

I made many wishes, lingering as the incense burned, waiting for Grandma to “eat” before touching the offerings.

“Can this cover internet fees?”

“Search well. This beggar’s always broke—don’t you find it weird he hasn’t starved?”

Voices snapped me from my memories.
A few students my age invaded my space.

Seeing the offerings, they fumed.
The leader roared: “Damn it, hiding money!”

Weren’t they in school? Why were they here?

Panicked, I waved my hands: “It’s Grandma’s death anniversary. I begged for these!”

“You think I’m stupid? No 10 yuan, and next year’s your anniversary!”

He slapped me, dragging me by my hair across the ground.

At fourteen, I’d cry thinking of Grandma but was tough, guarding our home alone.
Later, too many scares broke my defenses, turning me into a crybaby.

Worse than despair was five years of false hope.

I beamed with joy: “Sister Chen Wei!”