Guangzhou. That winter. Before the New Year.
---
The city was dressing up.
Red banners. Gold characters. Firecracker stands on every corner.
You could smell the New Year before you saw it.
But on the site, no one was celebrating.
---
Liu got a job. A big one.
Part of a new development. Woodwork. Framing. The kind of job that could pay for months.
He gathered everyone. Said: "We work hard. We finish before the holiday. Then we get paid."
You believed him.
You always believed him.
---
You worked through the short days.
The sun went down early. The lights on the scaffold were yellow and weak.
Your hands cracked from the cold. The wood splintered under your fingers.
You measured. Cut. Nailed. Measured again.
The days blurred into each other. You stopped counting.
---
The building grew. Floor by floor.
The wood frame became a skeleton. Then a shape. Then something that looked like rooms.
You stood back sometimes. Looked at what you made.
It wasn't much. But it was straight. It was solid.
You thought: this is what I can do.
---
The New Year was close. A week away. Maybe less.
You could feel it in the streets. The crowds. The queues at the train station.
Everyone leaving. Going home.
You thought about Hải Phòng. Your father on the porch. Your sister's new schoolbag.
You thought about sending money. More than before.
---
Then Liu disappeared.
---
Not slowly. Not with warning.
One day he was there. Shouting. Smoking. Pointing at things.
The next day — gone. His phone dead. His room empty. His van gone from the parking lot.
You stood at the site entrance. The wind was cold.
Someone said: "He ran."
Someone else said: "He took the money."
No one said: "What do we do now?"
---
The suppliers came first.
Men in jackets. With invoices. With angry faces.
They stood at the gate. Pointed at the building. Pointed at you.
"You worked for him. You pay."
You said: "I have no money. I'm a worker. Same as you."
They didn't believe you.
---
Then the other workers came.
The ones from Hunan. From Sichuan. The ones who laughed at your accent.
Now they weren't laughing.
They stood in a circle. Looked at you. Looked at the three Vietnamese men behind you.
One of them said: "You knew him better than us. Where is he?"
You said: "I don't know."
He didn't believe you either.
---
The next days were long.
You couldn't leave the site. Couldn't go back to the village.
People followed you. Not in a straight line. But they followed.
You ate instant noodles in the unfinished building. Slept on a pile of wood shavings.
The three countrymen stayed with you. No one said: "This is your fault."
But you felt it anyway.
---
You thought about running.
The train station was full. Tickets were sold out. But there were other ways.
Buses. Shared taxis. Walking.
You could go south. To the border. Cross somewhere dark.
Start over.
Then you thought about your father. His leg. His words.
*Don't end up like me.*
---
So you didn't run.
---
You found the developer.
Not through Liu. Through a piece of paper. A permit posted on the gate. A company name. An address.
You borrowed a bike. Rode across the city.
The office was in a tall building. Glass doors. A receptionist who looked at your clothes and didn't want to let you in.
You waited in the lobby. Two hours. Three.
People walked past. Looked at you like you were furniture.
You didn't move.
---
Finally, someone came.
A man in a suit. Tired eyes. A name tag you couldn't read.
He said: "What do you want?"
Your Cantonese was bad. Your Mandarin was worse.
But you had practiced the words. On the bike. In your head. On the cold night.
"Liu. Contractor. He run away. We work. No pay. Forty-three workers. Two hundred thousand yuan."
The man looked at you.
"Not my problem. I paid Liu."
You said: "I know. But we have families. New Year. No money. No home."
You paused.
"Not your problem. But I have nowhere else to go."
---
The man looked at you for a long time.
Then he said: "Wait here."
He went inside. Closed the door.
You waited.
---
He came back twenty minutes later.
Held an envelope.
"Twenty thousand. Not from the company. From me. Personal. Take it. Leave. Don't come back."
You took the envelope. Didn't open it.
"Thank you, sir."
He turned. Walked away. Didn't look back.
You stood there. The envelope in your hand. Thin. Not enough.
But something.
---
Outside, the wind was colder.
You opened the envelope. Counted.
Twenty thousand. Not two hundred thousand. Not even close.
But enough for the three of them to go home. Enough for tickets. Enough for rice. Enough to look their families in the eye.
Your own share? You didn't take one.
---
That night. The stairwell. The same one.
The three countrymen sat around you. You handed each of them an envelope. Different sizes.
One said: "What about you?"
You said: "I stay."
He said: "No money to go home."
You said: "Home is not there anymore."
You didn't know if you believed that. But you said it.
---
They left the next day.
The train station. Crowded. Loud. The smell of instant noodles and luggage.
You watched them walk to the gate. One of them turned. Waved.
You waved back.
Then they were gone.
---
You walked back to the village. The empty room. The mattress with no sheets.
You sat on the floor. The fan was broken. The window didn't close.
You thought about Liu. About the developer. About the envelope.
You thought about the forty-three workers. The ones from Hunan. From Sichuan. The ones who laughed at you.
You didn't know what happened to them. You hoped someone helped them. Maybe not.
---
That was the moment.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a thought. Sitting on a dirty floor. In a room that wasn't yours.
You thought: *I can't work for someone else anymore.*
Not because you were better than them. Because they would always leave. And you would always be the one holding nothing.
---
The next week. You looked for a way.
A Vietnamese friend knew someone who knew someone.
A retired local man. Old. Sick. Needed money for medicine.
He had a business license. An individual business license. The kind that could sign contracts.
You went to see him.
---
His apartment was small. Dark. The smell of herbs and old skin.
He sat in a chair. A blanket over his legs.
You told him your idea. He listened. Didn't say much.
Then he said: "You use my name. I take twenty percent."
You said: "Fifteen."
He said: "Eighteen."
You said: "Deal."
---
You shook hands. His hand was thin. The bones felt like bird bones.
But it was a handshake. A real one.
For the first time in months, you felt like you had something.
Not much. A name. A piece of paper. A old man who didn't ask where you came from.
---
You walked out of his building. The sun was low. The streets were getting dark.
You put your hands in your pockets.
The fake permit was still there. The expired one was still under your mattress.
But now, in your other pocket, a phone number. The old man's.
And a name you could use.
Not yours. But close enough.
---
That winter. Before the New Year.
You learned two things.
One: people leave. Always.
Two: if you want to stay, you need a name that isn't yours.
---
**End of Chapter 25**