Guangzhou. That spring. The year the buildings grew faster than the weeds.
The old man fell sick.
Not suddenly. Slowly. The way things break in a city that never stops.
You visited him once. His apartment still smelled of herbs and old skin. The blanket was still over his legs. But his eyes were somewhere else.
He didn't recognize you.
You sat beside him for a while. Then left.
His family came a week later.
A daughter. A son-in-law. They stood in the doorway of your site office — which was just a room with a plastic table and a fan that didn't work.
The daughter held the license. Your license. His name. Your work.
"We're taking it back."
You said nothing.
The son-in-law said: "He's sick. Can't help you anymore. We need the license for our own things."
You wanted to say: I paid for it. Eighteen percent. Every month.
But you didn't. Because they were right. It was never yours.
They left. The license went with them.
You sat at the plastic table. The fan turned. No wind.
The room felt smaller.
That night. The stairwell.
You thought about finding another old man. Another license. Another eighteen percent.
There were always old men. Always licenses. Always a price.
But you were tired of borrowing.
The Vietnamese community. Auntie's house.
You went on a Sunday. The room was full. Countrymen eating, talking, sending money home.
You sat in the corner. Didn't eat.
Auntie saw your face. She came over. Sat beside you.
"Something wrong?"
"The license. Gone."
She nodded. Didn't ask more. Then she said: "There is another way."
She told you about a new rule. A crack in the wall.
Foreign individuals could register their own business now. Not a company. A small thing. An individual business license. But it would have your name on it.
"You need money. For the agent. For the paperwork. Not much. But some."
You asked how much.
She told you.
You had half. Maybe.
The next weeks were about the other half.
You worked more. Slept less. Every extra job went into a different pocket. The pocket for the license.
You stopped buying cigarettes. Stopped going to the internet cafe.
One night, you called a countryman who owed you money from last year.
He said: "Next month."
You knew next month would never come.
You sold the used excavator. The one you bought with Auntie's loan. Took a loss. But the pocket got heavier.
Auntie found you an agent. A thin man with glasses and a briefcase that looked older than him.
He met you at a tea house. Plastic chairs. Sticky floor.
He spread papers on the table. Forms. Stamps. Boxes.
"Your Vietnamese name. Your Chinese name. Your address."
You asked: "How long?"
"Two weeks. Maybe three."
You paid him half. The pocket was lighter.
The waiting was worse than the working.
Every day you checked your phone. No calls from the agent.
You walked past the old man's building sometimes. The windows were dark. You didn't go up.
The call came on a Tuesday. Or a Thursday.
The agent's voice: "It's ready. Come pick it up."
You went to his office. A room above a noodle shop. The stairs were narrow. The walls were yellow.
He handed you a piece of paper. A license.
You read the words.
Qiang Ji Construction Decoration Engineering Department.
Your name. Ruan Qiang.
Not borrowed. Not rented. Yours.
You held it in both hands.
The paper was thin. The stamp was black and white. No gold. No shine.
But it was yours.
You walked out. The sun was bright. The street was loud.
You stood there. Holding the paper.
For the first time in two years, you felt something in your chest. Not hunger. Not fear.
Something else.
You thought about the old man. His bird-bone hand. His blanket.
You thought about all the nights on the stairwell.
You thought about your father. His words.
Go to China. Learn something.
You learned. Not just the walls. The rules. The cracks in the rules.
You put the license in your pocket. Started walking.
Your phone buzzed.
A text from a number you didn't save.
"Big project in Panyu. Need a licensed contractor. Can you do it?"
You typed back: "Yes."
Three dots appeared. Then: "Show me your license and a 50,000 yuan deposit. Then we talk."
Fifty thousand.
You had three.
You stopped walking. Stood on the sidewalk. People flowed around you.
The license in your pocket. Light. Almost weightless.
But not enough.
That night, you called Auntie.
She listened. Then said: "I know a Vietnamese in Hangzhou. He does something with the internet. Maybe he can help."
She gave you a name. A number.
You wrote it on your hand. Next to the fading address from last week.
You didn't call that night. You sat on the bed. The mattress.
The license on the blanket beside you.
You looked at the name on your hand. Hangzhou. A city you had never seen.
You thought: the wall you were building might not stay in Guangzhou.
That spring. The one with the new rule and the agent with the old briefcase.
You learned that a name is not given. It's taken. Piece by piece. Paper by paper.
And when you finally hold it — it doesn't weigh much.
But it's not enough either.
Not yet.
End of Chapter 27