Chapter Eighty-Two: A World of One

It was unclear whether Zhang Congwen's voice was too soft, or if something else was at play, but the little girl had no reaction to his inquiry. She remained there, vacant-eyed, as if the entire world had nothing to do with her.

Zhang Congwen was not discouraged; he wanted to step forward and ask again, but saw an elderly woman come out from a nearby door. The old woman carried a load of cardboard boxes on her back, and in one hand she held a bag full of empty plastic bottles.

The size of the boxes and bottles was considerable, obscuring most of the old woman's body, making it seem as though she was bearing a mountain on her shoulders.

She approached the little girl, set down her burdens, untied the rope fastened to the railing and tied it to her own wrist, then picked up the boxes and bottles once more and silently led the girl forward.

The little girl still showed no reaction, simply allowing herself to be guided by the rope, following behind the elderly woman.

Her pace was slow, often unable to keep up with the old woman's steps. Yet the woman showed no irritation, only patiently adjusting her stride so the girl could keep up.

“Auntie, let me help you carry some of those,” Zhang Congwen, holding Tuantuan, stepped forward and offered politely.

The old woman was startled at first, but quickly smiled, a little embarrassed. “No need, young man, thank you. I can manage.”

After Zhang Congwen insisted, he finally took the cardboard boxes from her hands.

These boxes appeared light, but as soon as he picked them up, Zhang Congwen felt their weight. For someone of his build, it wasn't exhausting, but it certainly wasn't easy either.

“Young man, perhaps it's better I carry them. Don't soil your clothes,” the old woman said kindly. Seeing Zhang Congwen’s attire, she felt uneasy about the cardboard dirtying him.

“It’s alright, Auntie,” Zhang Congwen replied with a smile.

Seeing his determination, the old woman said no more, lowering her head and moving forward.

Her temperament was somewhat similar to Zhang Congwen’s: reserved and not fond of conversation, so the journey was mostly silent. Her steps unconsciously quickened, often tugging at the little girl behind her.

When the rope on her wrist grew taut, she slowed again, wanting the girl to keep pace. But remembering that Zhang Congwen was helping to carry her burdens, she would quicken her steps once more.

The little girl mostly followed the old woman's lead, but occasionally would veer off in another direction without warning.

“It’s alright, Auntie, you don’t need to walk so fast,” Zhang Congwen noticed the woman's internal struggle.

She wanted the girl to keep up, but also didn’t wish Zhang Congwen to shoulder the load for too long, hence her conflicted pace.

After his words, the old woman nodded and finally slowed down.

Throughout, the little girl barely reacted or spoke. But Zhang Congwen keenly observed that her gaze was no longer as vacant as before; from time to time she focused her attention on Tuantuan.

That look was neither curiosity nor affection; it was a feeling Zhang Congwen couldn’t describe, something he had never seen.

The old woman lived in a run-down apartment complex. Only after entering did Zhang Congwen realize the small house was crowded with piles of cardboard and plastic bottles, leaving very little space for movement.

The furniture in the living room was old, much of it appearing to be relics from a past era. The television was a bulky, outdated model.

There was no air conditioner, only the television, a somewhat rusted floor fan, and a refrigerator that looked well-used.

After welcoming Zhang Congwen inside, the old woman apologized, “Thank you, young man. The house is a bit messy, please don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” Zhang Congwen replied.

He was born in a rural area that wasn’t wealthy; in his childhood, the environment was no better than this. Although the place was cluttered, it was not dirty, and he could see the woman cleaned regularly.

Once she had sorted the recyclables, she settled the little girl onto the only shabby single armchair, then brought out two stools for Zhang Congwen to sit.

“I noticed you always lead her by a rope. Is it because…?” Sitting down, Zhang Congwen finally voiced his curiosity.

Tuantuan seemed very fond of the little girl, always circling her. The girl remained expressionless, yet in her hollow gaze something had changed, her focus fixed on Tuantuan.

Hearing his question, the old woman’s eyes dimmed. With a sigh, she revealed the truth.

Her name was Yu Yixiang. The little girl, who looked different from ordinary children, was nine years old and called Xiaoxiao. She was her granddaughter. They depended on each other.

Xiaoxiao was indeed different from other children; she had autism. Her parents divorced because of her illness, each forming their own families, neither able to care for her, seldom visiting. As her grandmother, Yu Yixiang had to shoulder the responsibility of raising a child who was not like others.

The rope on Xiaoxiao’s wrist was to prevent her from wandering off while Yu Yixiang worked. She knew it was not ideal, but had no other method.

Moreover, Yu Yixiang had never given up on Xiaoxiao’s treatment, but the monthly fee of six thousand was a heavy burden.

With no other income, Yu Yixiang relied on collecting recyclables and odd jobs, supplemented by occasional money from Xiaoxiao’s parents. It barely covered the medical expenses and their basic needs.

Zhang Congwen listened with mixed emotions. Xiaoxiao’s outward appearance was no different from any other child, but her hollow eyes revealed otherwise.

Yet unexpectedly, Xiaoxiao, who was indifferent to everything around her, seemed very fond of Tuantuan the dog.

Yu Yixiang explained, “Xiaoxiao has always liked dogs. Only dogs elicit a response from her.”

Zhang Congwen tried handing Tuantuan’s leash to Xiaoxiao, and she responded, reaching out to take it and holding it tightly.

Tuantuan, too, liked Xiaoxiao, lying down beside her. To Zhang Congwen’s surprise, Xiaoxiao began to gently stroke Tuantuan.

Her gaze wasn’t fully on the dog, but her hand found Tuantuan’s head with precision.

Her touch was gentle, as if afraid she might break the puppy.

“No children are willing to play with her. They call her mute, shun her. Only dogs don’t mind, willing to stay by her side,” Yu Yixiang explained.

She spoke calmly, as if recounting something ordinary, perhaps long accustomed to such a life. Yet Zhang Congwen saw tears glimmering in her eyes, betraying the calm surface.

“Xiaoxiao, do you like dogs?” Zhang Congwen watched Xiaoxiao stroke Tuantuan and asked softly.

Her hand paused, then quickly withdrew. She no longer petted Tuantuan, nor spoke, just sat there in silence.

A bit lonely.