Volume 1 / Chapter 30 : 4:30 a.m. in Hangzhou

The streets just before 4:30 a.m. were still cloaked in darkness.

The dim streetlights seemed intent only on illuminating the ground directly beneath them.

Everything beyond their reach resembled a pitch-black abyss, as if anyone who wandered into it might be swallowed whole.

Mò Xuěyáo wobbled along on her bicycle, riding beside her father’s three-wheeled cart.

Looking up, she could still spot faint stars twinkling in the dusky sky.

The streets were so quiet that even the smallest noises carried far and wide.

“Would any breakfast stalls even be open this early?” she asked, skeptical.

She knew that breakfast shops opened early—but surely they needed at least an hour of prep time before food was ready, right?

“Don’t worry, there’ll be something. How about fried noodles?”

“Are we eating there?”

“Nope. You take the noodles to school. I’ll just grab a glutinous rice ball.”

“Okay!” Xuěyáo licked her lips, as though the fragrance of fried noodles was already drifting in the air.

The streets were empty at this hour, barely a soul in sight.

The few people who did pass by yawned as they lazily pedaled their bikes.

Sanitation workers had already clocked in, but since it was still early, they weren’t in any rush—slowly pulling on their uniforms by the roadside, then settling down to eat breakfast.

An older man, lean and shirtless, pedaled past them on a tricycle loaded with cargo. His hair was white, but he still looked strong.

“Hey—!” Xuěyáo’s father seemed to know him and greeted him loudly. “Why so early today?”

“Extra five bucks!” the old man shouted back, sweat pouring down his body. The towel draped around his neck seemed purely ornamental—he clearly didn’t have time to use it.

“Rough life…” her father sighed as the old man pedaled away, eventually stopping in front of a small food stall.

There weren’t many shops open at this hour, but this was one of the few.

By 4:30 a.m., a few early customers were already seated outside, hungrily devouring their breakfast.

Some wore paint- and dust-stained clothes—likely construction workers.

Others were decked out in suits, looking respectable at a glance, but their greasy hair and unshaven stubble gave them away.

People from all walks of life, but all unmistakably members of society’s lower rungs.

Each of them grinding away at the same exhausting, repetitive work.

“Boss—” her father yanked the handbrake on his trike and hopped off. Just as he called out, the shopkeeper responded:

“Same as always? Fried rice noodles for ¥1.50?”

“Nope, not today.” Her father shook his head. “Fried noodles this time. Just one yuan’s worth.”

“Is that enough?”

“Sure is. It’s for my daughter.”

“Oh ho, brought your daughter along today, huh?” The boss glanced at Xuěyáo. “She’s a pretty one.”

“Right? Haha.” Her father grinned proudly. “Xuěyáo, want to add any toppings? Come take a look yourself!”

“Toppings?” This was the first time Xuěyáo realized fried noodles could have extra toppings.

She’d always thought it came in fixed portions and ingredients—just size options.

Back in 1999, one yuan got you a generous portion. For someone with a modest appetite, it was more than enough.

Honestly, the smell of those noodles was so tempting she felt she could easily handle ¥1.50’s worth.

But worrying she might waste some, she held back.

The noodles weren’t cooked to order. The shop had three massive flat pans—one each for fried noodles, rice noodles, and fried rice.

Once prepared, the food was kept warm and stirred over low heat. As batches were sold, the shopkeeper would toss in more ingredients and continue frying.

Most people went for the one-yuan portion. Those with bigger appetites got ¥1.50 or even ¥2 servings. For primary school kids, 50 cents was usually enough.

Rarely did Xuěyáo eat breakfast outside, so it was only now she noticed the eight or so small plates next to the flat pan.

Each one held a different add-on.

Sliced pork, sausage, pickled Chinese sausage, shredded potato, pork floss...

Her mouth watered uncontrollably.

She wanted to try them all.

But that would definitely drive the price way above one yuan.

Swallowing hard, she quietly said, “Just the sliced pork... and sausage, please.”

“You got it.” The shopkeeper scooped out a one-yuan portion, pushed the rest of the noodles aside, and cleared half the pan. He seared the already-cooked pork slices, then thinly sliced the sausage using a small spatula-like knife and mixed it all into the noodles.

A few skillful tosses of the pan later—it was done.

He deftly poured it into a foam takeout box, tied it in a plastic bag, and handed it over.

“How much?” her father asked.

“With toppings—two yuan total.”

“Here.” Her father placed two round coins on the small table and took the noodle bag for Xuěyáo. After a beat, he added, “Boss, mind giving me an extra plastic bag?”

“No problem.”

He double-wrapped the noodle container to keep it from leaking, then unzipped Xuěyáo’s backpack and tucked it neatly inside.

“That should still be warm by the time you eat it.”

“Mm-hmm!” Xuěyáo nodded eagerly, already imagining her delicious breakfast at school.

“Let’s grab some tofu pudding next?”

“Yes, please!”

“There’s a stand up ahead that specializes in it. They make it just right.”

“Okay!” Xuěyáo’s face lit up with happiness.

Honestly, it didn’t take much to make her happy.

On the way, her father bought himself a glutinous rice ball from a roadside stall.

No fillings—just asked for extra sugar.

That little gesture tugged at Xuěyáo’s heartstrings.

Something stirred within her.

“Xuěyáo, do you want sweet or savory tofu pudding?”

“Savory, of course.” She stopped her bike and replied as if it were obvious.

Both versions cost the same—50 cents.

But savory pudding came with a half-stick of fried dough, pickled veggies, and scallions—clearly the better deal over the plain sweet version with just sugar.

“Alright then. Boss!” her father shouted, “Two savory tofu puddings, please! Pack them separately! Don’t forget the straws!”

“Got it!”

The vendor, clearly a seasoned expert, quickly ladled the tofu pudding into two cups and handed them over.

Her father dropped a one-yuan coin into the "cash box"—really just an old tin cookie container.

“Dad, what time is it now?”

“4:40,” he replied, glancing at his phone.

“Still early then.”

“Yep. But the sun’s about to rise.” He squinted into the horizon. “Alright, I’ll have to turn off at the next intersection. Be careful riding alone this early.”

“Don’t worry.” Xuěyáo waved goodbye, then hesitated for a moment before awkwardly adding, “...You too. Be careful.”

“Haha, you bet!” Her father answered with the same phrase she’d just used.

As a kid, Xuěyáo rarely expressed concern for her parents.

Not because she didn’t care—it just felt awkward to say out loud.

But now that she’d said it, it didn’t seem so hard after all.

That mutual concern between her and her father felt nice—like two buddies patting each other on the shoulder before parting ways.

It was just a morning goodbye, but to Xuěyáo, it already felt like one of those overly dramatic “we may never meet again” moments.

She watched him ride off, eating his breakfast while pedaling his cart, and suddenly wanted to carve that image of his back into her memory forever.

His figure wasn’t especially tall or broad, but it was solid—reliable. Like a giant stone shielding her from the wind and rain…

Her vision blurred for a moment.

She chuckled at herself, shook her head to clear it, and started pedaling toward Yǔkōng High School.

Even though it was the same street she rode every day, it felt different somehow in the early dawn.

She felt more relaxed, more at ease than usual.

The city, cloaked in darkness, seemed wrapped in a shroud of mystery yet to be unveiled.

A faint glimmer appeared on the horizon, followed by more rays of light streaming over the skyline.

Xuěyáo watched as sunlight slowly climbed into the sky and spread across the earth.

By the time she came back to her senses, she was already at the school gates.

The security guard was either out buying breakfast or napping in the little room behind the booth. He wasn’t in sight.

She tried pushing the side gate—it wouldn’t budge. Seemed locked.

But on closer look, she realized it was only latched, not locked.

Thanks to her slender arms, she was able to reach through the gap, lift the latch, and open the gate.

Wheeling her bike inside, she closed the gate again behind her, her mood soaring once more.

But after parking her bike, a troubling thought struck her:

Who’s going to open the classroom door this early?

It couldn’t be later than 5:30—maybe not even 5:20 yet.

Lǐ Wǎnyán definitely wouldn’t arrive this early.

Which meant...

She’d have to wait at least an hour outside.

Suddenly, Xuěyáo felt a headache coming on.

Maybe arriving too early isn’t always a good thing.