Chapter 4

“Director Fang, your chain keeps slipping because the sprocket’s worn. I’ll replace it. No extra charge.”

She looked surprised.

“You understand that too?”

“A little.”

I found a spare sprocket in the toolbox and replaced it in a few quick movements.

“Try it.”

She rode a circuit and returned, her brow relaxing.

“Much smoother. Have you done this work before, Xu?”

“I taught myself.”

She took out two yuan.

“No need. Master Chen charges fifty fen for a puncture. Refitting the chain is free.”

“Keep the rest as a tip.”

“We don’t take tips in the repair shop.”

I returned one yuan fifty.

She pocketed it, studied me a little longer, then left without saying more.

I crouched outside the shop.

No hurry.

I’d observed Fang Zhiguo for a long time in my first life.

Her strongest trait?

She remembered people.

Who worked efficiently. Who didn’t grab at small gains.

When she needed someone, she remembered.

Before, I’d kept my head down tightening bolts. I’d never stood out to her.

Now I needed her to remember me.

Without rushing. Without forcing it.

This one encounter was enough.

Time could do the rest.

**Part 4**

Spring, 1975.

Master Chen’s health worsened. She coughed constantly, sometimes bringing up streaks of blood.

I urged her to see a doctor.

She waved me off.

“What for? Old people are like this. No point wasting money.”

Yet her hands shook harder when she worked. Once, she nearly drove a file into her palm.

I took the work from her.

“Rest, Master. I’ll handle the customers.”

She leaned against the doorframe and watched me for a long time.

Then she said, “This shop will be yours.”

I looked up.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

She coughed twice.

“I’ve no children. Who else would I leave it to? That bastard grocer next door? He’s had his eye on it for ten years.”

“Master—”

“Don’t argue.”

She glared.

“You’re the only apprentice I’ve ever taken. Refuse it, and I won’t rest easy in my grave.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came.

Last time, she’d died alone. No one saw her off. The neighbor took her shop.

This time, at least I could make her passing easier.

“All right. I’ll accept it.”

She smiled until the wrinkles crowded around her eyes.

“Good girl.”

After spring, I did nearly all the work.

She came out to sit occasionally, but spent most days lying in the back room.

I cooked porridge every morning and carried it to her bedside.

Sometimes, she talked about her youth.

She’d been ambitious too, wanting to make her way in the provincial capital. Then a leg injury made long journeys impossible. She’d spent her life repairing bicycles in the county town.

“Not such a bad life,” she said. “Do one thing well, and it’s worth living.”

I tucked in her blanket.

“Sleep, Master.”

She closed her eyes.

A moment later, she murmured, “You’re better than me, Xu Heng. Don’t bury your whole life in this little shop.”

She died that autumn.

Peacefully.

When I brought her porridge one morning, she was gone, a faint smile still on her face.

She clutched a paper packet containing the shop’s ownership documents and a note.

*The shop belongs to Xu Heng. Anyone who tries to take it, I’ll come back as a ghost and bite them.*

After the funeral, I sat outside the shop all night.

The next morning, I wiped the sign clean and opened for business.

Life had to go on.

But I’d marked a date clearly in my mind.

1978. Policy would change.

Private business would gradually be allowed more room.

I had to prepare.

Repairing bicycles was only the first step.

I wanted something bigger.

**Part 5**

From 1976 to 1978, I established myself in the county town.

Business grew.

Half the county’s bicycles had passed through my hands.

Not boasting. I really was better.

I didn’t merely repair them. I modified them.

If a part was unavailable, I made it. If a frame bent beyond what other repairers could fix, I straightened and welded it until it rode like new.

One bicycle at a time, I earned my reputation.

By the end of 1978, customers rode in from neighboring counties.

That winter, Fang Zhiguo returned.

The same twenty-eight-inch roadster.

But this time, she hadn’t come for repairs.

She’d come for me.

“Xu Heng.”

“Director Fang. Please sit.”