Chapter 25: Technical College Life, He Yushui's Growing Closeness

Yi Zhonghai's paper lay on the Zhao Family table, its corners curled like an underbaked pastry crust. Zhao Jianguo didn't touch it, nor ask about it; he just closed the door, turned and packed his bag. Dawn was just breaking, and he had to catch the early bus to school—first day of enrollment at the technical college, being late was unthinkable.

When he stepped out carrying a canvas bag, San Daye was squatting at the doorway brushing his teeth, the toothbrush clanking in the enamel jar with a crackle. Seeing him leave, he mumbled through foam, "Yo, the college kid's off?"

Zhao Jianguo laughed, "Technical college, not university."

"Either way we all wear Blue Cloth," San Daye spat out frothy saliva, "looks respectable."

The wheel rolled over the dirt road for forty minutes before the school gate finally appeared. The Iron Gate was heavily rusted, and a Wooden Sign hung on the post, half its paint peeled off. He brushed the ring in his pocket and silently whispered "sign-in" in his mind.

The system interface popped up; he stared at the words "Directed Sign-in" for two seconds, then tapped a finger.

"Location locked: Tushuguan Jixie Yuanlu Qu."

"Check-in Successful, obtained knowledge fragments of 'Fundamentals of Metal Cutting' and 'Lathe Structure Illustrated'."

A buzz rang in his head, as if someone had jammed a thick manual into his ear and flipped a few pages. He shook his head, and the sensation vanished, yet when he recalled the book's content it was crystal clear, even remembering the font sizes of the annotations in the diagrams.

The first class was "Mechanical Drafting", and the teacher drew a projection on the Blackboard, speaking slowly and methodically. Zhao Jianguo lowered his head to flip through the textbook, and as he turned the pages he began to laugh—he had already dissected that diagram last night from the knowledge he signed in, covering seven drawing methods along with common error analysis.

His desk mate glanced at him, "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," he closed the book, "just think the line is drawn quite straight."

At noon in the cafeteria, he carried an enamel bowl looking for a seat, and at a glance saw a few senior students pulling overtime in the corner murmuring. As he approached, he heard clearly: "... I heard the newcomer is from the old Zhao Family, his father is a technical backbone at the Steel Rolling Factory?"

"Shh— that's the one," someone mouthed at him.

Zhao Jianguo pretended not to hear, took two bites of rice, then suddenly remembered something, got up and walked to the back kitchen door of the cafeteria. The light flickered, and he knocked, "Master, the light's flashing badly, may I take a look?"

The master peered out, "Student?"

"I studied it in the electromechanical elective."

Ten minutes later, he tightened the loose terminal in the Electric Box and, in passing, replaced the fuse with a thicker one.

"Good job!" the master handed over a bowl of millet porridge, "I steamed a couple of buns extra today, brought them along, thanks to you."

Zhao Jianguo didn't decline, took it and left. He knew the bowl of porridge wasn't given for free, but it also wasn't a pure gift.

On the weekend, returning home, he pushed the door open and immediately smelled the scent of scallions sizzling in a wok. Li Xiaohua was bustling at the stove, while He Yushui squatted on a small stool peeling green beans, her hair tied casually with a red headband, her cuffs stained with a bit of mud.

"Jianguo back?" Li Xiaohua said without turning her head, "Yushui is helping your mom prepare lunch."

Zhao Jianguo set his bag down, glanced at the steaming bamboo steamer on the table, where white flour buns were piled sky‑high.

"Why are we eating this today?"

"Oh," Li Xiaohua said lightly, "you fixed the cafeteria's electric switch this morning, they gave us some rice and flour, we shouldn't waste it."

He understood.

He walked over, opened a drawer, took out several half‑drawn mechanical sketches, and placed them before He Yushui, "Yushui, could you do me a favor?"

She looked up, her eyes a little watery, probably from chopping hot scallions.

"Your handwriting is nice, could you copy some notes for me? It's due next week; my hand‑drawn diagrams are okay, but my writing looks like a chicken's claw."

She froze for a moment, bent down to look at the drawing, dense with lines and annotations, not a single character written.

"This... can I do it?"

"If you can't, who can?" he laughed, "Besides, after copying we can compare answers; I can't guarantee all my drawings are correct."

She finally smiled, the corner of her mouth moving, like the first ray of winter sunshine entering a house.

After that, every weekend He Yushui came more and more often. Sometimes she brought a bunch of greens, sometimes a jar of soy sauce, saying it was "repaying my mom for the salt she borrowed last time." Zhao Jianguo never exposed her, but each time he would pull out some newly drawn diagrams or a workbook he brought back from school, asking her to transcribe them.

Once, when she was halfway through copying, her pen stalled, "This problem... is it missing a condition?"

Zhao Jianguo leaned over to look, and indeed it was.

"Impressive," he raised an eyebrow, "even the class learning officer didn't notice."

She blushed, lowered her head to continue writing, but the pen tip moved noticeably more briskly.

The school Laboratory was usually empty at night, but Zhao Jianguo, having repaired the training workshop's drill press, was granted an exception to use it after dark. That night, after checking in, he was tidying his tools when a sudden whoosh sounded outside the window—rain was pouring, quite heavily.

He slipped on a raincoat to leave, and his peripheral vision caught an old cotton coat hanging in the corner, left by a previous‑year student and never claimed.

He paused, took out paper and pen, wrote a note: "Laboratory has spare cotton coat, don't forget to take it," and slipped it under the coat.

The next evening, He Yushui came in carrying a notebook, the cotton coat neatly folded in her arm.

"Thanks for the coat you left," she said softly, "the rain was too heavy that night, I... didn't dare go home."

Zhao Jianguo didn't ask why, just took the coat, hung it up, "Next time bring an umbrella, don't get soaked."

"I did," she lowered her head, "but the roof at home leaks badly, my mom and younger siblings are all cramped in the Main Hall, I... don't want to disturb them."

She stood by the workbench, her fingers unconsciously rubbing the edge of the notebook. The book was bound from scrap paper, its corners curled, the cover bearing the three characters "He Yushui" written neatly, each stroke as tidy as a child's.

Zhao Jianguo looked at it for a while, then said, "What I'm learning now can be used to repair machines in the future, and also to fix houses."

She looked up.

"You're not useless," he said evenly, as if commenting that today's cafeteria food was salty, "just not the right time yet."

Her eyes reddened instantly, but she didn't cry.

"Sometimes I feel," her voice trembled, "like a shadow, no one remembers whether I'm there or not."

"Then you're here with me now," Zhao Jianguo opened a drawer, took out a fresh blueprint, "could you check if these dimensions are marked correctly? I'm afraid I miscalculated; later the practical training class will scold me."

She took the drawing, her fingers trembling slightly, but her gaze gradually steadied.

"Here," she pointed at a note, "the tolerance range is missing; the workshop master would say your work is too rough."

"Right," he nodded, "that's what I feared."

The rain stopped, and outside came the sound of droplets falling from the eaves—one drop, another, unhurried.

She returned the drawing to him, then suddenly asked, "Jianguo, will you stay here forever...?"

"Where?"

"In our courtyard."

"For now, yes," he said while packing the Toolbox, "after graduation we'll be assigned elsewhere, but..." he paused, "where a person goes, the heart doesn't always follow."

She didn't ask again, just held the notebook tighter.

Since then, she came more often. Sometimes to deliver an umbrella, sometimes to return a book, and most often she sat on the small stool in the corner of the Laboratory, watching him draw diagrams, calculate data, and disassemble parts.

One time he was soldering a circuit board, and the solder smoked a little; she suddenly reached out and pushed the window open: "Do you smell it? There's a burnt smell."

"The nose is sharper than the instruments," he laughed.

"My mom burns the rice pot, and I can smell it from far away," she laughed too, "Otherwise the whole family would have to eat the charred stuff."

He rummaged through the signed‑off supplies and pulled out a pack of biscuits, handing it to her: "A reward for you."

She took it, didn't eat it right away, but broke it in half, and slipped one half back into his hand: "Half for each of us."

"Alright," he took a bite, "Next time I solder a board, you can be the quality inspector."

The Laboratory's light bulb flickered, and he casually tapped the lampshade, stabilizing it.

"This light should be replaced, too."

"Can you fix everything?"

"Not yet, I'm learning."

She lowered her head, looking at her half‑biscuit, and suddenly said, "Zhao Jianguo, tell me… what can I do in the future?"

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," her voice softened, "but I don't want to spend my whole life only picking vegetables, washing dishes, and watching children."

"Then you're already doing something else now," he pointed at the notebook in her hand, "You proofread thirty‑seven problems for me and corrected five mistakes. That's called technical assistance; in the future factories will need to hire people for this."

She looked up at him, her eyes bright for a moment, then dimmed: "But I have no diploma."

"A diploma is dead, skill is alive," he tightened the last screw, "If you want to learn, I have books, diagrams, parts here; tell me what you lack."

She said nothing, but when she left that night, her back was a little straighter than before.

Another weekend, Zhao Jianguo brought back a box of Gear Set models, saying they were teaching aids for practical training and could be taken apart. He cleared the Desk, spread the parts out one by one, and explained while assembling them.

He Yushui sat opposite, listening attentively, occasionally asking, "Why does this need a chamfer?"

"To prevent bumps, and to make assembly easier."

"What if you don't chamfer it?"

"The machine would jam within three days."

She nodded, then suddenly reached for a Gear Set, held it to the light and said, "This tooth surface… is it a bit off?"

Zhao Jianguo was startled, took it and examined it; indeed—one tooth was unevenly worn, as if the mold had been misaligned during production.

"Your eyesight is sharp," he laughed, "This is a standard part taken from the factory, yet it has a defect."

"I… I just felt it was asymmetrical," she said, a little embarrassed.

He put the Gear Set away: "Next time I'll bring a Magnifying Glass, and the two of us can be a 'quality inspector' for once."

"What?"

"Oh, just an inspector," he corrected, "That's what they call it in the factory."

She laughed out loud: "Whenever you use foreign words, I get confused."

Rain started again, pattering against the Laboratory's glass window, like someone gently tapping.

Zhao Jianguo installed the last piece, and the Gear Set rotated smoothly, emitting a faint hum.

He looked up and saw He Yushui staring at the Gear Set, her gaze calm, as if for the first time she saw something she could also find "useful."

"Zhao Jianguo," she suddenly said, "Why are you so kind to me?"

His hand paused, he didn't look up: "Am I being kind to you? I'm just looking for a free proofreader."

"But you can clearly write it yourself."

"One person writing makes mistakes easily," he closed the Toolbox, "Two people reviewing is always better than one."

She didn't ask further, just turned that old notebook to the last page and wrote a title in pencil in the blank space: "Gear Set Assembly Precautions."

The characters were written stroke by stroke, as if being carved.

Outside, the rain eased, and the drip from the eaves slowed.

Zhao Jianguo stood up, turned off the light.

"Let's go," he said, "Go Home for a Meal Ticket."

She hugged the notebook, stood up, and just as she reached the doorway, she suddenly stopped: "Zhao Jianguo."

"Mm?"

"Next time… can I still come?"

"If you don't come," he pushed the door open, "who will point out errors in my drawings?"

She smiled and followed him out of the Laboratory.

Morning sunlight leaked through a gap in the clouds, shining on her shoulder; the corner of that old notebook was lifted, like a butterfly about to take flight.

She clutched it tightly, her steps light as she followed behind him.