On Monday morning, Duan Weiguo rode his electric scooter to a newsstand not far from the school. The scooter, a sleek, efficient model, had been a birthday gift from his daughter last year. In his younger days, Duan had always relied on a bicycle to commute to No. 1 High School, where he taught. But age had crept in, robbing him of the agility he once took for granted. Cycling now felt precarious, each pedal stroke a potential accident waiting to happen.
Arriving at the newsstand, Duan stopped his scooter. The stand was modest but well-stocked, tucked into a familiar corner near the school.
"Huizhou Cultural News, please," Duan said, his voice steady.
"Seventy cents," the owner replied, passing him the latest issue with a friendly smile.
The owner, Li Yu, was now 30 years old. A decade earlier, he had been one of Duan's students in first-year math at No. 1 High School. Despite the years that had passed, Li Yu still called him "Mr. Duan" in his heart, a title reserved for someone he deeply respected. Li Yu had been running this newsstand since 2005, a steady business that had become part of the neighborhood's rhythm. Even on weekends, Duan came faithfully to buy his newspaper.
Duan reached into his money pouch, carefully extracting seven one-cent coins. At first, Li Yu had been hesitant to accept money from his former teacher, but Duan's insistence left no room for argument. Over time, they had settled into a routine, their transactions no different from any other. Goods exchanged for money, plain and simple.
"You're here early today, Mr. Duan," Li Yu remarked casually.
"I like to get my reading in before the day starts," Duan replied as he pocketed the paper. He paused, looking at his former student. "Do you regret it?"
Li Yu hesitated, the weight of the question pressing on him. He remained silent.
"You were the second most talented student I ever had in math," Duan continued. "The best was a girl I taught last year. Her family situation was just as difficult as yours back then, but she didn't give up."
Duan's words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. He placed the newspaper into the basket of his scooter, started the engine, and rode off.
Li Yu watched the familiar figure disappear down the road, a mix of emotions stirring within him.
Regret? Not really.
His grades had been excellent, his potential undeniable. But his family had been dirt poor, with two younger brothers to feed and clothe. Dropping out of school wasn't a choice; it was a necessity. If he hadn't left, his family wouldn't have survived.
Regret? How could he not?
The newsstand stood as a quiet testament to his unfulfilled dreams. Its location, so close to the school he had left behind, wasn't coincidental. It was a constant reminder of what could have been.
"Boss, a copy of the Provincial Cultural News, please," another customer interrupted his thoughts.
"Seventy cents," Li Yu said, his tone businesslike.
The customer, Cheng Xing, searched his pockets awkwardly. Aside from a crisp 100-yuan bill, he had no smaller change. "Can you break a hundred?" he asked hesitantly.
"I can, but most of the change will be in small coins," Li Yu replied. His newsstand primarily dealt in small denominations—customers usually paid with fifty-cent and ten-cent coins or gave a yuan note and took back coins. Therefore, large denominations were rare, and Cheng Xing could only receive his change in coins.
From the 1950s to the early 1980s, the largest currency denomination in China was 10 yuan, followed by 5 yuan. Both yuan and jiao were paper money, commonly called "notes," while fen were coins, often referred to locally as "fèng kè'er" (coin shells). Older generations, accustomed to using coins, viewed yuan and jiao as substantial sums.
Small coins, like the ten- and fifty-cent "fen shells," would require at least several hundred to make up the amount. Cheng Xing doubted that even both of his pockets would suffice to hold them all. And even if they did fit, walking to school with jingling coins would make him resemble those people from the old days who, after earning a bit of money, stuffed their pockets with copper coins, as if trying to flaunt their wealth with every clink.
As Cheng Xing pondered whether he should wait until noon to buy the newspaper again, he noticed a familiar figure in the distance. Beneath the dim streetlights, the shadow of her ponytail swayed gently on the ground.
Cheng Xing instinctively reached out, stopping her.
Jiang Luxi halted her bike, her clear eyes filled with confusion as they met Cheng Xing's gaze by the roadside.
"Can you lend me a yuan?" Cheng Xing asked without preamble.
"Cheng Xing, what are you doing?" A voice interrupted. It was Chen Qing and Wang Yan, approaching from behind.
"Don't worry about it," said Li Yu, the newsstand owner, with a genial smile. "You can take the paper now and pay later. You're both from the school and pass by here every day."
"Did you forget your money?" Wang Yan asked, tilting her head curiously.
"It's not that I forgot," Cheng Xing explained, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I only have a hundred-yuan note, and it's hard to get change for that."
Li Yu nodded understandingly. "It's true; breaking a hundred-yuan note for something small like this can be tricky."
Chen Qing, dug into her pocket and fished out 1.50 yuan in coins. "Here," she handed them to Li Yu. "This is for him. And can I get a copy of the Provincial Cultural News as well?"
"Of course," Li Yu replied, handing Chen Qing the newspaper and giving him fifty cents in change.
Nearby, Jiang Luxi quietly reached into the tightly wrapped cloth pouch she carried and took out a single yuan coin. But after hesitating, she slipped it back inside.
Her cautious habits stemmed from past experiences. Back in her village, she'd often lost money while walking on the unlit, uneven roads. Falling off her bike had been a frequent occurrence as well. She didn't carry much money, and if it was lost, she'd be forced to go hungry for the day.
The sensation of hunger was something Jiang Luxi couldn't bear—her head would spin, and her chest would tighten with each pang. To avoid such mishaps, she'd made the habit of carefully tying her money inside the cloth pouch she'd sewn herself. During breakfast or lunch, she would clutch it tightly in her palm, the weight of the coins giving her a sense of security.
"Thanks, Chen Qing. I'll pay you back when we get back to school," Cheng Xing said with a smile, feeling a wave of gratitude.
"With our relationship, there's no need to talk about repayment," Chen Qing laughed. "Anyway, you've spent so much buying things for me in the past. I don't need you to pay me back."
"Oh, by the way, this paper is the one my dad asked you to buy for me last week," Chen Qing added, holding up the Provincial Cultural News. "I've been dying to know what he found so special about this issue. He wouldn't tell me no matter how many times I asked. Today, I'm finally going to find out!" Her crescent-moon smile glinted under the streetlight.
As she spoke, Jiang Luxi carefully placed the coin back in her pouch, got on her bike, and rode away.
"What's all this mystery-solving about the paper? Now I'm curious too," Wang Yan said, handing over some money to Li Yu. "I'll buy a copy as well!"
Li Yu, momentarily surprised, handed her the newspaper. Since its founding in 1988, the Provincial Cultural News had gained a reputation in the province for its high-quality content. It was the second most popular publication after the Provincial Daily. Yet it wasn't common for students to buy it. Most of them preferred lighter reads, like Reader, Youth Digest, Mysteries, or pocket-sized collections of horror stories. This sudden interest among students puzzled him.
By the time they reached the school, Zhang Huan had already opened the gates. Cheng Xing went straight to his desk and sat down, placing the newspaper in front of him.
"Zhou Yuan, do you have any money on you?" Cheng Xing asked his deskmate.
"Yeah, what's up, Brother Cheng?" Zhou Yuan replied.
"When the morning self-study ends, can you lend me a yuan? I need to pay back Chen Qing," Cheng Xing said.
"Sure," Zhou Yuan agreed without hesitation.
Feeling reassured, Cheng Xing opened his book and began to study.
Meanwhile, in the teachers' office, Duan Weiguo poured himself a fresh cup of tea. After inspecting the memorization work in Class 2, he returned to his desk, where the Provincial Cultural News he'd just bought awaited him.
Duan had been an avid reader of the Provincial Cultural News since his early teaching days in Ancheng—a habit that had persisted for over two decades. As he flipped through the autumn issue, the familiar scent of freshly printed paper mingled with the earthy aroma of tea.
On the left side of the cultural section, Duan noticed a modern poem about autumn written by Li Bo, the president of the Luzhou Writers' Association.
Li Bo's name was well-known in the province's literary circles. His works often graced the pages of the Provincial Cultural News. As such, seeing his poem didn't surprise Duan. He read it leisurely, savoring the imagery, before turning to the next piece.
It was then that Duan froze, his teacup halfway to his lips.