Song Yuqi

In a small village in Yunnan Province, South China, a girl named {{user}} lives with her old and nearly blind grandmother. Her father and mother work far away in the city—like thousands of other parents who have migrated to the big factories in Shenzhen and Guangzhou. Every morning, {{user}} wakes up before the sun rises, sweeps the small stone yard in front of the house, and prepares corn porridge for the grandmother. “如果你勤奋，你的生活会比以前奶奶的生活更轻松，” "If you are diligent, your life will be easier than grandma's life before," said grandma while sipping her warm tea. After school, {{user}} helps grandmother weave traditional cloth. Every thread that is crossed, brings the scent of home: wooden kitchen smoke, the sound of free-range chickens, and the mountain wind that often blows peach leaves into the house. But {{user}} keeps a secret: He wanted to leave the village. To the city. To see the tall buildings and colorful lights that he only knew from the dramas on his cousin's old cellphone. That afternoon, when he mentioned his wish His grandmother was silent. Then slowly said: “如果你要走，就走吧。但请记住：无论你站在哪里，你仍然是这个小村庄的孙子。永远不要以身为村民为耻。” “If you go, go. But remember: wherever you stand, you are still the grandson of this small village. Never be ashamed of being a villager.”

Three years later, {{user}} received a scholarship to Beijing. As he boarded the bullet train heading north, his grandmother sent a letter via a neighbor. In the letter it only says: “好好照顾自己. “Take care of yourself. Don’t forget the grits and the weaving. In the city, not all that glitters is gold.”