The news arrived a few days later, drifting in like a cool autumn breeze that carried a hint of disappointment. Lü Xiaoju walked up to Lin Ying, her face clouding with regret.”I’m so sorry, Yingying,” Xiaoju said, her voice dropping to a dejected whisper. “My dad went to ask his friend at the factory, but they said the recruitment window has slammed shut. Apparently, there were some… complications with the hiring process this time. If my family hadn’t moved early and pulled a few strings, I’m afraid even I wouldn’t have secured a spot. I truly didn’t expect it to be this difficult.”
[Employment Note: In this era, getting a “spot” or Dingti (job placement) in a state-owned factory was like finding a golden ticket. It meant a “Iron Rice Bowl”—a job for life with guaranteed grain and medical benefits.]
Lin Ying had already steeled her heart for this possibility. She offered her friend a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Xiaoju. Life doesn’t always go according to plan. You’ve already done so much for me. Look, I brought some braised meat for lunch today—would you like a slice?”
The tension left Xiaoju’s shoulders instantly. “Yes! Those buns you shared last time were heavenly; this meat must be even better!”
While Lin Ying kept a brave face for her friend, a flicker of worry gnawed at her insides. It wasn’t the fear of being sent to the countryside—she and Shao Mingyuan had already discussed marriage as a way to avoid the Shangshan Xiaxiang [Down to the Countryside Movement: A policy where urban youth were sent to rural areas to perform manual labor].
What truly troubled her was her “hidden wealth.” How could she bring the treasures she had traded for—the cash, the thick stack of coupons, and the high-quality goods—into the Lin household without raising suspicion?
The Lin family wasn’t wealthy, but they were decent people. If her mother, Su Yulan, truly favored sons over daughters, Lin Ying would never have been allowed to finish high school. Su Yulan’s constant nagging was, in her own blunt way, a form of love. So Lin Ying wanted to share her bounty with them, but she was trapped by logic.
She heard about the Third Daughter of the Li family from her mother who came home with a new floral scarf, and her mother interrogated her for three days straight, convinced she’d stolen it from the supply coop! In a house where every grain of rice is counted, a new shirt is a smoking gun.
The struggle was real. That crisp white shirt she had worn to the black market? She didn’t dare hang it in the closet. She had mentally “clicked” it back into a card and tucked it away. Even her daily face wash and moisturizer were hidden under her pillow, used in secret like forbidden potions. She had even managed to trick her younger sister, Lin Qiu, into believing her multivitamins were just sour candies.
But five pounds of fatty pork? That was impossible to hide.
If she walked through the front door with a slab of meat, Su Yulan’s questions would hit her like a barrage: “Where did the money come from? Where did you get the meat coupons? Which butcher would give a young girl this much fat?”
As Lin Ying sat at her desk, lost in these golden-brown worries, her deskmate Wang Caixia let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Oh, if only I were a great writer,” Caixia lamented, propping her chin on her hands. “To have thousands of people reading my words… but alas, I’m only good at consuming stories, not creating them.”
She sighed again, sounding even more pitiful. “I’ve already spent my entire allowance for the month. I’m flat broke, but I’m dying to read the new issue of Manxing Magazine that comes out at the end of the month. How am I going to survive until pay day?”
[Cultural Detail: Manxing Magazine was a popular literary journal of the time. For students, being published in such a magazine brought not only prestige but also a Gao Fei (Author’s Remuneration)—a cash payment that didn’t require any coupons or “backdoor” connections.]
A lightbulb flickered to life in Lin Ying’s mind. A writer? A “Remuneration” check? It was the perfect, legitimate cover for her sudden influx of wealth.
The Chinese teacher’s lecture on a recent serialized novel had been the spark, but it was Wang Caixia’s heavy sigh that fanned it into a flame. As the teacher droned on about literary structure, Lin Ying’s mind was already racing through the math of the era.
In this world, where a hardworking factory hand might only bring home thirty or forty Yuan a month, a successful writer could command a Gao Fei [Author’s Remuneration] of nearly ten Yuan per thousand words. A brisk ten-thousand-word novella could net a staggering hundred Yuan—nearly three months of back-breaking labor earned with nothing but ink and imagination.
Lin Ying wasn’t a total stranger to the craft. In her previous life, after the grueling stress of the College Entrance Exams, she had spent two weeks in a blissful haze of anime and web novels. But the “vacation void” had hit her hard. While her friends went on expensive trips or took grueling summer jobs, Lin Ying had tried her hand at manual labor—just once.
She remembered that day vividly: twelve hours of hauling heavy ceramic plates and scrubbing grease in a humid kitchen, only to earn a measly hundred Yuan—of which the boss snidely deducted ten for her “lunch.” Her arms had trembled so violently she couldn’t lift her chopsticks, and her step count had screamed past 20,000.
I didn’t study for fifteen years just to be a human dishwasher, she had told herself then. She turned to her brain instead, writing stories that eventually paid for her college tuition and living expenses, right up until the Great Disaster severed the cables of the internet forever.
Now, standing in a world made of paper and ink, she wondered: Could I do it here? The themes were different—more earnest, more grounded in the struggles of the working class—but she was living in a novel. Surely, the rules of storytelling still applied.
After the bell rang, Lin Ying turned to her deskmate, breaking their usual cycle of “Did you finish the math homework?” and “What did the teacher say about the exam?”
“Caixia,” Lin Ying asked gently, “do you read magazines often?”
Wang Caixia blinked, looking startled. Lin Ying usually saved her chatter for Lü Xiaoju. To have the quiet, diligent Lin Ying ask about her hobbies was a rare treat.
“Oh, all the time!” Caixia’s eyes lit up, her earlier gloom vanishing. “I spend every penny of my allowance on them. When I’m truly broke, I even sneak over to the Feipin Zhan [Recycling Center] to dig through the paper piles for old issues.”
“You must know a lot about them, then,” Lin Ying encouraged, leaning in. “Tell me everything.”
Caixia didn’t need a second invitation. She launched into a passionate lecture that made Lin Ying’s head spin with the sheer variety of the literary landscape.
“There are so many!” Caixia explained, counting on her fingers. “You have to look at the categories: by content, by monthly or quarterly release, by the age of the reader… it’s a whole world.”
“And the ones that publish novels?” Lin Ying pressed. “Which are the big ones?”
“Oh, that’s easy! Beicheng Literature is the most prestigious. Then there’s Manxing—everyone loves that one—plus Shuiyue, Kanshan, and of course, Gushi (Story) magazine.”
Caixia talked with the fervor of a true fan, detailing the “flavor” of each publication—which ones liked gritty realism and which ones preferred uplifting tales of socialist progress—right until the final school bell rang.
“Let’s go to the bookstore,” Lin Ying said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “I want to buy a few samples. Help me choose the best ones? I’ll let you read them first once I’m done.”
Wang Caixia’s face transformed with pure joy. It was the perfect solution to her empty pockets. “Really? Oh, yes! Let’s go right now!”
The two girls stepped out into the afternoon sun, weaving through the sea of bicycles and blue-uniformed students, heading toward the scent of fresh paper and the promise of a new future.Life for Lin Ying was beginning to hum with a new, hopeful rhythm.
Once they arrived at the local bookstore—a quiet place filled with the smell of vanilla-scented old paper and fresh ink—Wang Caixia turned into an enthusiastic guide. She pulled magazines from the shelves with the practiced ease of a scholar.
“Now, listen closely, Yingying,” Caixia whispered, her eyes bright. “Beicheng Literature is the heavyweight. It’s a state-owned publication, very prestigious. They print serious novels, essays, and poetry. Usually, their stories are about the war or the deep complexities of human nature. They do write about ordinary life, but it feels… distant, like reading a textbook. I can never quite see myself in those pages.
Then there is Manxing (Full Star). It’s a bit of a wild card. You never know what you’ll find! Last month, they ran a mystery called Old Street Diary. I was on the edge of my seat—I never guessed the kindly old man was the killer!
Shuiyue (Water Moon) is my absolute favorite, though. It’s filled with love stories so beautiful they make your heart ache. I want to believe in that kind of unwavering ‘True Love,’ even if I’ve never seen it in real life.
And Kanshan (Watching the Mountain) used to be very traditional, but lately, it’s trying to be trendy like the others. I heard the shopkeeper say it isn’t selling well and he might stop stocking it soon.”
“Lastly,” Caixia pointed to a thinner magazine, “there is Gushi (Story). It’s all about short, snappy tales. There’s a column of ‘Mini-Stories’ that are only a few sentences long but will make you laugh until your stomach hurts.”
Lin Ying listened with the intensity of a strategist. She scanned the covers. Beicheng Literature looked far too cold; its covers featured the names of famous, established masters. As an unknown girl, she’d likely be rejected before they even read her first line. She ruled out Story as well—humor was a fickle gift she didn’t feel she possessed, and shorter pieces meant smaller paychecks.
To reach her goal of financial independence, she needed a medium-length hit. She decided to gamble on romance. Classic themes are timeless, she mused.
She purchased copies of Full Star, Water Moon, and Watching the Mountain. She handed the copy of Full Star to a beaming Caixia. “You take this one tonight. I’ll read the others, and we can swap tomorrow.”
Back at home, Lin Ying studied Water Moon. It felt right. The prose was flowery but grounded. She wasn’t a “word machine,” but her years of writing in her previous life had sharpened her endurance. She could easily draft 6,000 words a day on a computer, though handwriting with a fountain pen would be a much slower, more rhythmic labor.
[Literary Note: In this era, a ‘Short Story’ was roughly 20,000 words, a ‘Novella’ was 30,000 to 60,000, and anything over 100,000 was a full ‘Novel.’ For her debut, Lin Ying aimed for a 10,000-word short story—long enough to be substantial, short enough to finish quickly.]
For the next few days, her little sister, Lin Qiu, was like a curious kitten. “Second Sister, what are you doing? You’ve filled so many pages! Let me see!”
Lin Ying quickly shielded her notebook. She couldn’t exactly let a primary schooler read a soulful romance. “Go do your homework, little shadow,” she teased. “Stay out of adult business. If you finish your lessons quietly, I’ll give you a ‘candy’ reward.”
She popped one of her future-tech multivitamins into her own mouth. They were chewable and surprisingly sweet, like a burst of fruit.
Lin Qiu pouted, her lower lip sticking out. “Hmph! You aren’t an adult yet!”
“I’m eighteen,” Lin Ying laughed. “By this age, Mom had already given birth to Lin He.”
At the mention of their eldest brother, Lin Qiu’s face brightened. She began sharpening her pencil with a small knife, her movements precise. “Big Brother is coming home this weekend! That means there will be delicious food. I don’t even want your candy anymore.”
“Is that so? Then don’t come begging for it later,” Lin Ying joked.
But when the writing session ended, Lin Qiu was still there, standing by the bed with a longing look in her eyes. Lin Ying chuckled and handed over a vitamin. “Here, you win.”
As the girls stood together, Lin Ying noticed something. Are we… taller? Their trousers, once a perfect fit, now ended an inch above their ankles. Lin Qiu, in the midst of a growth spurt, seemed to have shot up three or four centimeters in a single month. Proper nutrition was clearly working its magic.
That night, Lin Qiu was already pestering their mother, Su Yulan. “Mom, Big Brother is coming! Can we please, please have meat tomorrow?”
Su Yulan sighed softly. She missed her eldest son, Lin He. His factory was far away, and the bus fare was a luxury they rarely afforded. He usually stayed back to work overtime, sending every extra penny home to help with their father’s medical bills and the family’s meager table.
“Alright,” Su Yulan agreed, her heart softening. “I’ll go to the market tomorrow. Maybe I can find some offal or a bit of minced meat.”
Lin Ying’s ears perked up. “Mom, let me go instead. I can buy the meat for you.”
Su Yulan shook her head. “You’re just a girl; you don’t know how to haggle or pick the best cuts. I need to find a piece with plenty of fat to render into lard.”
Lin Ying bit her lip. She had five pounds of fresh, high-quality pork sitting in her System storage. The reviews promised it was the freshest meat imaginable. If she could just find a way to “buy” it, her whole family—especially her hardworking brother—could finally have a real, belly-filling feast.
Lin Ying wasn’t about to let this chance slip by. If her mother went to the market, she’d return with a meager handful of gristle and scrap. To truly welcome her brother home, they needed a feast that actually tasted of grease and joy.
“Mom, you’re looking at this the wrong way,” Lin Ying argued, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m young, my legs are fast, and I can weave through the crowd. I’ll get to the front of the line while the best cuts are still hanging.”
Su Yulan paused, her hand hovering over the worn wooden chest where she kept the family’s survival. She realized her daughter had a point. With a sigh, she fished out a small cloth pouch, pressing a few crumpled bills and a single meat coupon into Lin Ying’s palm.
“Fine. Go at first light. And remember—look for the fat. We need the oil for the pans.”
The “budget” was only enough for a single pound of pork. Lin Ying tucked it away, her mind already spinning a web of excuses for the bounty she planned to “discover.”
The next morning, the world was a hazy blue before 6:00 AM when Su Yulan’s voice roused her. Lin Ying hurried to the market, but she wasn’t the only one with a hungry family. A queue of thirty people already snaked away from the meat stall.
[Cultural Note: In the planned economy era, the Zhu Rou Wang (Butcher) was a local celebrity. He held the power to decide who got the prized fat and who got the bone. People often gave butchers small gifts or cigarettes just to secure a better cut.]
The butcher didn’t hurry. He moved with the slow, arrogant grace of a man who knew his customers had nowhere else to go. Lin Ying watched with sharp eyes as the “fashionable aunts”—those with connections—were slipped choice cuts from under the counter.
By the time Lin Ying reached the front, the selection was dismal: a stringy, tough slab, some dry lean meat, and a piece of neck meat that was mostly glands. She bought the leanest piece, took the brown paper wrapping, and immediately sold the meat to a desperate man further back in line.
She ducked into a quiet alley, her heart racing. With a practiced thought, she summoned two and a half pounds of prime, marbled pork from her System storage. She wrapped it carefully in the butcher’s paper. I spent an hour in line just for this scrap of paper, she thought with a wry smile.
On her way home, she stopped for vegetables. These were the true treasures of the earth—tomatoes grown in sandy soil, heavy and fragrant. She bit into one; it was an explosion of sweet and tart juice, a flavor lost to the mass-produced greenhouse crops of the future.
When she stepped through the front door, Su Yulan was waiting like a hawk. She unwrapped the bundle and gasped.
“You certainly have an eye for meat! This is beautiful… and so much fat.” Her brow furrowed as she lifted the heavy slab. “Wait. This looks closer to two pounds. Did you spend more than I gave you?”
Lin Ying nodded quickly, her face a mask of innocent helpfulness. “Grandpa is recovering, and Big Brother is coming home. I thought we should celebrate, so I used a little extra.”
“Do you have a secret stash of money, girl?” Su Yulan asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“No, Mom! Remember when we went out to eat last time? I just saved the change you gave me,” Lin Ying lied smoothly.
Su Yulan’s suspicion melted into a proud smile. “Well, don’t forget—Dr. Shao invited you out tonight. You’d better be ready.”
“I know, I won’t forget.”
By noon, the hallway of their communal apartment block was thick with the intoxicating scent of rendered pork fat and aromatics. Their neighbor, Chen Xiuqin, poked her head out, her nose twitching.
“Little Su! Frying meat today? What’s the occasion?”
“My eldest son is coming back!” Su Yulan called out, her voice ringing with rare cheer.
“Ah, as you should,” Chen Xiuqin nodded wisely. “You have to take care of the eldest son; he’s the one you’ll be leaning on in your old age.” She paused, leaning against the doorframe. “But really, Su, you’re too strict. Why let the boy live in a factory dormitory? It’s better to have him home where you can see him every day.”
Su Yulan sighed, gesturing to their cramped quarters. “And where would he sleep? I have two daughters. There just isn’t the room.”
[Housing Note: Urban housing was incredibly tight. A typical family might share a single room divided by curtains or thin plywood. The Lin family had a set of narrow Zhengtou Chuang (Bunk Beds), with the top bunk barely a meter wide—hardly enough for a grown man.]
They say the Lin family’s apartment is so small that if someone sneezes in the kitchen, the person in the bedroom has to say ‘Bless you.’ No wonder the son stays at the factory; a man needs more than a meter of space to dream!
Lin Ying listened to the chatter, her eyes on the sizzling pan. She knew the struggle for space was real, but today, with the smell of fresh pork filling the air, the walls felt a little less closing in.The cramped quarters of the Lin household were a delicate puzzle of privacy and survival. Su Yulan and little Lin Qiu squeezed onto the 1.4-meter lower bunk, while Lin Ying claimed the narrow top. Their father, Lin Siqing, occupied a makeshift cot in the “living room”—a space barely larger than a storage closet.
When Chen Xiuqin from next door poked her head in to offer more “unsolicited wisdom,” her disapproval was plain. “Honestly, Su, you worry too much. How much space can two girls take? Just huddle them together! They’ll be married off soon anyway, and then you’ll only have your son to lean on. Don’t look at me like that—I’m just telling you the hard truth.”
Su Yulan’s jaw tightened. She came from a family of daughters herself, and she knew that a daughter’s heart was often more reliable than a son’s prestige. She ignored the jab, focusing instead on the steaming bowl of pork and potatoes she had just placed on the table. She covered it with a heavy ceramic lid to trap the heat.
“Lin Qiu,” she warned, pointing a finger at her youngest, “don’t you dare sneak a piece before your brother gets here. Do you understand?”
Lin Qiu nodded so hard her pigtails bounced, but her eyes were glued to the steam escaping the lid. She paced the room like a hungry kitten. “When is Big Brother coming? I’m starving!” she whined to Lin Ying, who was hunched over her notebook, pen flying across the page.
Finding no sympathy there, she turned to her grandparents. Su Youfu patted her hand. “The bicycle factory is far, little one. Two hours by bus, at least. He’ll be here soon.”
Wang Guihua, unable to resist her granddaughter’s longing look, waited until Su Yulan turned her back to the stove. She swiftly lifted the lid, poked a piece of succulent, fatty meat with her chopsticks, and popped it into Lin Qiu’s mouth. “A secret treat from Grandma,” she whispered. “Be a good girl now.”
Ten minutes later, the door creaked open. Lin He stepped in, dusty from the road but wearing a tired smile. Lin Qiu practically tackled him. “Brother! Did you bring candy?”
“No candy today,” he laughed, dodging her hug, “but I have some Ma Hua [Fried Dough Twists/Glutinous Rice Strips]. Here, share them.”
Lin Ying looked up, feeling a strange tug at her heart. This was the first time she had really looked at this brother since her soul arrived in this body. At twenty-one, Lin He had a sturdy build and the kind, weathered face of a laborer. He had taken over their grandfather’s “spot” at the factory three years ago to keep the family afloat.
“Yingying,” he said, stepping toward her. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bundle. “I traded some favors at the factory for these. Mom said you’re getting married soon. You’ll need a new dress, and you can’t make one without Bu Piao [Cloth Coupons]. Take them.”
Lin Ying hesitated, her fingers hovering over the precious slips of paper. “Brother, these are hard to come by. You should save them for yourself.”
“Nonsense,” he insisted, shoving them into her hand. “I’m a man living in a dorm; I can wear my work blues until they fall apart. You’re a young lady—you should go to the altar looking your best.”
For a moment, the room felt warmer than the summer sun outside.
Lunch was a silent, reverent affair. In an era of scarcity, a bowl of white rice and a plate of real pork was enough to make a grown man tremble. Lin Siqing stared at his portion, his voice thick. “The food is so good today… I’m almost afraid to eat it.”
Su Yulan’s eyes turned red—a rare crack in her iron exterior. “Weren’t you all crying for meat? Eat! Our family isn’t rich, but we aren’t beggars. Life is going to get better. There will be plenty more days like this.”
She served everyone a spoonful based on age, ensuring the elders and the working son got the prime cuts. Lin Ying watched as her grandmother chewed each tiny morsel of fat ten, twenty times, letting the richness linger until the flavor was a mere memory before finally swallowing.
After the meal, Lin Ying retreated to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Through the thin partition, she heard her brother speaking to their mother.
“Mom, take this.”
“He’er! Why is there so much?” Su Yulan gasped. It was over twenty Yuan—nearly his entire month’s salary.
“Grandpa’s hospital bills were high, and Yingying is getting married,” Lin He’s voice was steady, humble. “We can’t let her go to her new family empty-handed or people will look down on us. This is what I’ve been saving. Please, take it.”
“I’m so sorry, son,” Su Yulan whispered, her voice cracking. “You’re twenty-one… the family has nothing left to help you find a wife.”
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m young. I can wait. Like you said—things will get better.”
Standing by the sink, the soapy water cooling on her hands, Lin Ying felt a fierce new resolve. She looked at her notebook, hidden under her pillow. She wasn’t just writing for herself anymore; she was writing for this family, for a brother who gave everything, and for a mother who carried the weight of the world in a cloth pouch. She had to finish this story. She had to make it a masterpiece.
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