The scene was a wasteland of red dust.

The tarpaulin roof lay crumpled to the side, blanketed in a thin layer of red grit.

The remaining walls stood unevenly, jagged cracks ready to crumble with a gentle push.

Scattered bricks, like fallen soldiers unburied, littered the ground in a brutal aftermath.

Amid the ruins, my bedsheet and blanket—shields against wind and cold—were crushed under broken bricks, offering them a final, tender embrace.

My pillow, soaked with years of tears, couldn’t bear such indignity, flattened and suffocating under the weight of countless bricks.

Pots, bowls, and utensils lay dead or wounded, strewn across the wreckage.

My face paled, despair crashing over me.
My body went limp, breathing ragged, chest heaving.
A buzzing filled my ears, white stars danced in my vision, and I nearly fainted.

Every brick and tile here held my heart—these were Grandma’s, bought with skipped meals, her hunger traded for this home.
She’d looked half-dead then, her skin dull, on the verge of collapse…

My heart clenched in agony.
I wailed, days of suppressed anguish erupting, rolling on the ground in grief.

My home wasn’t this fragile!
Who did this?!

Furious and heartbroken, I slapped the ground, grabbing a hard object nearby and hurling it.
It smashed against the wall, exploding into red mist.

Startled, I opened my eyes, watching the brick fragments bounce.
What was I doing…?

Guilt surged.
Biting my lip, I crawled toward the broken brick on frail limbs, like a sickly dog.

The ground’s gravel pricked my palms and knees, tears trailing behind.
Kneeling before the fragment, I cradled it, sobbing: “I’m sorry… for hurting you…”

I ached with regret—these were Grandma’s blood and sweat!

Without her building this home, I’d have nowhere to sleep, let alone eat my fill.

“Grandma…” I cried harder, voice breaking.

Being bullied made me feel worthless, a cowardly wretch.

That didn’t matter.
My real fear was Grandma returning, finding I’d left, frantically searching, calling my name in the streets, crying if she couldn’t find me.

I couldn’t leave—I wouldn’t lose my chance to honor her.

I’d take her to watch sheep on the hillside, buy her a big house, new clothes, beautiful jewelry…

Those who scorned us would regret not befriending us sooner!

Tears streaming, I gazed at the sky.
Each night before bathing in the river, I’d look to the lofty white moon, hands clasped, praying.

I wished to climb a cloud ladder to the sky, ride the moon, and scan the world to find the person who mattered most.

I wanted to see her smile again, hear her gently call me Little Leaf.

I’d tell her of these two years’ hardships, and her reassuring look would heal all my wounds.

No matter how bitter, how tiring, it was worth it.

“Grandma, I’ll keep waiting.”

Wiping tears, I recalled our home’s dimensions: 1.65 meters high, 2.4 meters long, 2 meters wide.

I’d memorized them since childhood, but… I had no money for red bricks…

“What do I do?!” I wailed, my cries echoing, begging the heavens to hear my struggles, to rain down money.

I lay sobbing, heart twisting, head spinning, voice hoarse.
When I couldn’t cry anymore, and no money rained, I calmed slightly.

Report it!

I stood, dizzy, swaying but steadying myself, eyes red, rushing from the alley.

The rice shop was closed.
I found a random uncle: “My home was destroyed! Can you call the police?”

He hesitated, dialed, and handed me the phone to explain.

Ten minutes later, five officers arrived.
For over an hour, I was anxious, praying they’d solve it fast, make the culprit pay, and send them to jail!

After gathering evidence, they said it wasn’t safe for me alone and wanted to arrange a place.

I refused, craving solitude.

These red bricks were precious, Grandma’s relics.

I failed to protect her pots and pans, and now even her bricks.

In the first half of the night, gloved, under moonlight, I cried while salvaging usable items from the ruins.

The scavenged table, storage box, my bought iron pot—all broken.

Last year, around this time, students smashed a pot too—so expensive…

My heart stung, numbly sorting in the dark, dust filling my nose, moving quietly to avoid disturbing neighbors.

I stacked good bricks in a pile, ignoring the broken ones, taking over an hour.

My trash-picking experience helped, or it’d have been slower.

The clothes and bedding needed washing, but I was exhausted.
I tossed the gloves aside, sat against the “stone rice building” wall opposite my home, staring blankly at what was once a warm haven.

Closing my eyes, a vision appeared.

I wore a school uniform, backpack on, returning from school.

Grandma cooked.

I grinned, saying I was back.

She hugged me.

Dinner was ready—plates piled with chili-fried pork, two big braised fish.

We couldn’t finish it.

After, we washed dishes with tap water.
Under lamplight, she helped with homework.

I had a beautiful girlfriend who scored 100 on every test, tutoring me at home.

Just a dream.

The sun glared, my arms ached, back stiff.
Before me, the broken home.

My scarred heart shattered with it.

Licking cracked lips, I struggled to breathe, tears surging, heart in agony.

Soon, my mind blanked.
Dragging my weary body, eyes vacant, I shouldered my sack to the night market.

It was empty—too late.

Mindless, I shuffled along the sidewalk like a brainless puppet, aimless.

Passing Beigao, I glanced over for a few seconds, stepped on an empty plastic bottle, slipped, and fell hard: “Ah!”

Screaming, my butt throbbed.

Unfazed, eyes dead, I picked up the 10-cent treasure, stood, and kept walking.

Nearing home, I passed some thuggish Jinan students.
Spotting me, their leader said: “Beggar, come here.”

I ignored him, walking on.

“You looking to die?”

Face ashen, I kept going.

He stormed behind, grabbing my hair: “Playing deaf? Tired of living? Five yuan, or you don’t leave.”

Silent, I turned slowly, staring like a corpse.

Startled, he let go.

I walked home, them trailing like pests, four or five steps behind.

Entering the alley, I tossed my sack behind me.

They kicked it, finding just one bottle, and spat: “Waste of time.”

“Take what’s in his house, scrape something, beg for leniency tomorrow, push harder next week.”

“Scrape what? His pillow’s filthy—dare touch it? Make him our runner, let him beg.”

Seeing the red dust and broken bricks, they froze, falling silent.

Grieving, I stepped through the dust, avoiding where Grandma fell, heading to the river, climbing the railing, and walking into the water.

“What’s he doing?”

My knees sank into the water, heading deeper.

“Suicide?”

Their faces changed.

“Hey!”

Tears streaming, half my body submerged.

“Come back!”

“I don’t want your money! Come back!”