After the lecture, the crowd drained through the side door. Some paused to check their phones, some walked with heads down, some stood staring at cover letters before rolling them into tubes and pocketing them.
I didn't leave. I stowed the tripod, brushed my choker, and the floating interface lit up. Dianzi stood beside me, holding down her wind-lifted skirt.
"Did you darlings watch that lecture? That box—how many cover letters can it hold? What happens when it can't hold any more?"
[chat] Wifey is so sharp
[chat] That box really was shabby
[chat] Where do the cover letters that don't fit go?
At a corner of the corridor stood a man in his early forties, a boy of about ten beside him. The boy's school backpack straps dug into his shoulders. A dark stain marked the cuff of the man's jacket. He looked down at his phone, swiped twice, then turned it off and pulled a palm-sized notebook from his pocket, its pages dense with tiny handwriting. He tracked a line with his fingertip, lips moving silently.
The boy tugged his jacket. "Dad, I'm hungry."
"Wait a little longer. Dad's just finishing tomorrow's route." His eyes never left the notebook. He flipped to a new page, wrote several lines, then added a parenthesis after the last.
The boy crouched and pulled a flattened bread bag from his schoolbag. Empty. He turned it over and poured nonexistent crumbs into his mouth.
I walked over. "What are you planning out?"
He looked up. Bloodshot veins lined his eyes. "Tomorrow's schedule. I've been out traveling. The budget is running low." He showed me the notebook—each line numbered, some ticked, some not. The newest page bore tomorrow's date and three addresses, each with a company name, contact person, transport, and estimated time. After the third, in fresh parentheses: backup.
"You're recruiting."
"The factory is short two senior technicians. Three months, nothing. I heard there was an industry event here—turned out it was canceled. Only this lecture was left." He glanced toward the podium. "All about writing cover letters. Useless to me. I'm here to recruit people, not submit my own."
He closed the notebook. The cover edges were worn white, a folded train ticket tucked inside.
"So that third address—your last shot."
"Pretty much. If this one doesn't work either, I go home. Even the ticket back will be hard to manage."
The boy stood, crumpling the empty bread bag. "Dad, when are we eating?"
"Soon. Let Dad finish this."
Dianzi was already beside the boy, pulling the squirrel from her bag. "Look, it's called Lychee. It says it wants to eat too."
The boy stared, hand reaching out then pulling back. "Will it get hungry?"
"No. It's not real. But it's a very good listener." She placed the squirrel in his hands. He poked its belly. The man, watching, felt the corner of his mouth twitch. The boy's face was smeared with breadcrumbs, a jam stain at his mouth.
"Who's looking after the factory while you're out?"
"My younger brother. He doesn't know the technical side—just answers phones. If I can't recruit anyone, we turn down orders. One order, manageable. Two, the year's profit is gone. Three, next year there's no point starting the machines."
"The requirements?"
"CNC programming, independent debugging, five-plus years. People like that are in demand everywhere. Our factory's in a small town. We can't offer high salaries."
He showed me a phone photo: machines in a row, half-finished products on the floor, a programming manual open beside a chipped enamel mug.
"My dad left the factory. Twenty years. The nearby technical school used to graduate people every year. Now it's closed. Young people won't learn this trade anymore."
"Where's that third address?"
"Industrial park north of the city. A retired master craftsman. Even if he only takes an apprentice, that would be enough."
"Training apprentices is harder than direct recruiting. Takes time, patience, and the apprentice has to want to learn."
He nodded. "No other way. If I can't train them, I scale down. Scale down enough, and a factory is no longer a factory."
——A factory is alive. If you don't feed it, it will devour you.
The boy, still holding the squirrel, leaned against his father's leg. "Dad, this squirrel is called Lychee."
The man bent down and wiped his son's mouth with a tissue. "Where did you get it?"
"The big sisters gave it to me."
Dianzi crouched to the boy's level. "Do you want to give it a nickname? This girl calls it Lychee, but you can give it a special name."
The boy thought. "Steamed Bun."
"Why Steamed Bun?"
"Because I'm hungry."
The man laughed softly. "Thank you. He's been following me all day. No one at home to watch him."
"Where's your wife?"
"Hospital. Surgery last year. Still recovering."
"Before you go to the industrial park tomorrow, try this number." I showed him my phone screen. "Surname Chen—retired CNC. Met him two days ago. He's not willing to go far, but if you provide local housing, he might consider it."
He stared at the screen, then copied the number into his notebook, pressing hard.
"Thank you. This is more useful than everything I heard in that lecture."
"Sometimes the people you meet along the way are more useful than the ones inside the conference halls."
"What do you two do?"
"Fashion bloggers. Photos, dance."
He nodded. "Do what you want while you're young."
"Do you have regrets?"
He took his son's hand. "No regrets. But it's tiring. Sometimes I want to quit, but the next day I'm up before dawn. The factory is alive. If you don't manage it, it dies right in front of you."
The boy looked up. "Dad, let's go eat."
He bent to zip up his son's schoolbag, then returned the squirrel to Dianzi. "Take this back. He'll be reluctant to give it up."
Dianzi took it. "Come find us if you want to hold it again."
The boy waved. "Goodbye, Steamed Bun."
Dianzi lifted the squirrel and imitated its voice. "Steamed Bun, your dad is a good dad. Even if he's a little slow, he's a good dad."
The man's mouth twitched again. He took his son's hand and headed for the exit. After a few steps, he turned back. "That Master Chen—you're sure he won't mind me calling?"
"Absolutely. He said so himself: retired, stuck at home, no one to talk to."
He nodded and left. The boy turned back and waved. Their silhouettes vanished around the corner.
Dianzi rested her chin on my shoulder. "Sister, he said the factory is alive—if you don't manage it, it dies right in front of you."
"I heard."
"Will he find the people he needs?"
"Not necessarily. But tomorrow he'll have one path. It might not lead anywhere, but it's better than standing still."
I turned the camera back. "That's all for today. Darlings, see you tomorrow."
[chat] Daughter is so kind
[chat] That father has it so hard
[chat] Hope he can recruit the people he needs
[chat] See you tomorrow
The floating interface dimmed. Dianzi tucked the squirrel back into her bag. The fire door swung open. The deck was empty. The sea had sunk from scattered gold to cobalt blue. Dianzi placed the squirrel on the wide handrail, facing the sea.
"Lychee, look. The sea changed color."
The squirrel didn't answer.
I stood beside her, hands in my pockets. The sea breeze lifted my ponytail. In the distance, a cargo ship was half-swallowed by the mist.