The journey to the city was a jarring transition from the world Liu Banxia knew. The bus, an old, rattling contraption, belched black smoke and felt like a metal coffin on wheels. The rice paddies and familiar green hills gave way to an endless blur of concrete, telephone poles, and billboard after billboard advertising things he couldn't afford and didn't need. When he finally stepped off the bus, the air felt thick and heavy, not with the humidity of the fields, but with the exhaust of a thousand cars and the unseen particles of industrial smog.
The city itself was a monstrous symphony of noise and chaos. Horns blared, people rushed past him with a singular, determined purpose, and the buildings rose so high they seemed to scrape the sky, casting long, impersonal shadows that made him feel small and insignificant. He clutched his worn bag, a gift from his mother, and a crumpled map that had been passed down from Old Man Zhao. The map was already outdated. A new overpass had been built where a major intersection was shown, and the street names seemed to have changed.
His scholarship covered his tuition and a dorm room, but it provided nothing for food, books, or living expenses. He was a student, but he was also the sole breadwinner for his education. The weight of his father's sacrifice—the memory of the water buffalo—was a heavy stone in his pocket. He had to find work.
The first few days were a blur of classes and a desperate search for a job. He was a brilliant student, devouring the complex medical texts with an almost frightening speed, but outside the classroom, he was lost. He applied for every part-time job he saw—a cashier, a waiter, a delivery boy. Each time, he was met with a polite but firm rejection. His clothes were too plain, his hands were calloused from farm work, and he lacked the polished, confident air of the city kids.
Finally, at a large university building complex, a tired-looking janitorial supervisor took a chance on him. The job was simple but physically demanding: sweeping floors, mopping up spills, and emptying trash cans in the dead of night. The pay was a pittance, but it was enough to buy instant noodles and a few cheap books.
He told no one about the job. His classmates, with their expensive clothes and brand-name backpacks, spoke of lavish dinners and weekend trips to the countryside. They came from a world of privilege he couldn't even imagine. He learned to keep his head down, to sit in the back of lecture halls, and to make himself as invisible as possible. During the day, he was a medical student with a mind as sharp as a scalpel. At night, he was a janitor, a ghost in the long, silent hallways of his own university.
The loneliness was a constant ache. He would watch his classmates gather in groups, laughing and talking, and feel a deep sense of separation. He was an outsider looking in, a stranger in a strange land. One evening, as he was mopping the glossy floor of a grand lecture hall, a classmate, a boy with slicked-back hair and a condescending smirk, walked past him, dropping a crumpled paper cup on the freshly cleaned floor.
"Clean that up, country boy," the student said, not even looking at him.
Liu Banxia felt a flush of humiliation, but he bit his tongue and simply picked it up. He told himself it didn't matter. The money mattered. His education mattered. Mei's health mattered. His dream, a quiet, flickering flame in the dark, was the only thing that kept him going. He was no longer just learning for himself; he was learning for them. He was a doctor in training, and every floor he mopped, every bit of trash he collected, was a step towards a future where he could finally belong—a future where the city's shadow could no longer loom over him