In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 76. Mailing via the Post Office

Li Weidong was the last to enter and quietly walked to his seat.

He naturally sensed the subtle change in the air—Zhou Bingsheng's attitude towards Yang Guangming seemed to have become more... intimate?

That invisible sense of distance has been shortened!
A vague, indescribable feeling swept through him, like a sense of loss or bitterness.

But soon, this feeling was suppressed by the sense of security he gained from his efforts to repair the relationship and his careful behavior in front of Han Mingqian.

He told himself it was okay, as long as he worked hard, opportunities would come.

The sharp ringing of the end-of-get off work bell shattered the office silence. People began huddling together, quietly packing their belongings.

Yang Guangming and Zhou Bingsheng tacitly slowed down their movements, intentionally or unintentionally leaving it until the end.

When the office fell completely silent, with only the twilight light and shadows outside the window, Zhou Bingsheng took out a small, square package carefully wrapped in old newspapers from deep inside the drawer.

The newspaper was yellowed and brittle, with badly worn edges.

He stroked the paper package as if weighing its weight, then solemnly handed it to Yang Guangming.

"This is……"

Zhou Bingsheng's voice was very soft, with a hint of embarrassment, as if he were revealing a secret he had treasured for many years: "I used to... keep some fragmented notes."

Some are about tips and tricks for writing materials, and some are...

Well, some old, worn-out lessons and experiences, all sorts of random notes I jotted down.

Take it back and take a look; perhaps... it might be of some use.

He spoke casually, but the gesture he made was unusually solemn.

Yang Guangming immediately stood up and solemnly took the paper package with both hands. It felt heavy in his hands, and through the rough old newspaper, he could feel the shape of a thick, hard-covered notebook inside, with its edges worn and frayed.

Sunlight-drenched fingers could clearly feel the unique texture of the paper, bearing the marks of time.

He knew this was much more than just a notebook!
This is the most private and precious crystallization of experience gained by a senior through a lifetime of ups and downs! It is truly priceless!

A warm feeling mixed with a heavy sense of responsibility welled up in my heart.

"Thank you, Master Zhou!" Yang Guangming's voice was deep and powerful, filled with heartfelt respect.

The two walked out of the factory gate side by side, the afterglow of the setting sun casting long shadows that slanted across the oil-stained cement road in the factory area.

When they parted at the alley entrance, Zhou Bingsheng stopped, reached out his hand, and gently patted Yang Guangming's shoulder with a slightly awkward but genuine care and expectation from an elder.

Yang Guangming did not flinch, but returned a calm and firm smile, a smile full of understanding and a silent promise.

Yang Guangming held the notebook wrapped in old newspaper tightly in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the paper.

The weight of wisdom is conveyed through your fingertips!
The debt of gratitude he owed Zhou Bingsheng for those two kilograms of life-sustaining milk powder has now quietly transformed and sublimated. It has become a deeper bond, one of mentor and friend, mutual understanding and support. This bond, like the wisps of smoke rising from the depths of the alley, mingles with the aroma of food and the whispers of neighbors—simple, warm, and full of the warmth of everyday life.

As the sun sank below the horizon, only a dark red remained on the sky.

Yang Guangming looked up at the small gray building where Deputy Factory Director Zhao's office was located.

Regarding the competition for the position of Deputy Factory Director's full-time secretary, Zhao Guodong's meticulously drawn blueprint became clearer and more certain than ever before, thanks to Zhou Bingsheng's unreserved sharing of his knowledge today, and he was filled with unwavering confidence in his victory.

The road ahead remains bumpy, but the direction is clear, and our baggage is now filled with a weighty sense of confidence.

In the afternoon, the bright sunlight of Shanghai dappled the slightly worn streets.

The crisp sound of bicycle bells pierced the sweltering air as people in blue-gray overalls hurried along, their expressions blurred by the heat.

A figure walked out from the gate of the Hongxing State-owned Cotton Mill, a gate marked by the passage of time.

Yang Guangming had taken leave in advance, and his military satchel was heavy on his shoulder—it contained four kilograms of dried rice noodles and two small jars of clear amber honey that he had painstakingly "prepared".

He walked steadily, not turning towards the familiar alleyway leading home, but heading straight for the largest post office in the district.

He harbored a burning desire to send these rare "goods" in his bag to his brothers and sisters who were suffering from hunger and cold in the educated youth settlement in Northeast China.

The "treasure" in his portable refrigerator gave him confidence, but to transform that confidence into real warmth and fullness in the hands of his older siblings on the black soil of Northeast China, he had to carefully navigate the steel-like rules and thorns laid out by this fiery era.

In his and the original owner's understanding, food definitely could not be sent through the post office, but processed products such as rice noodles and biscuits might be able to find a loophole?
But he had never tried it before, and he was still unsure, so he had to go to the post office "checkpoint" himself to find out.

The post office lobby was filled with a complex odor: the musty smell of old paper, the sour smell of cheap glue, the earthy smell of dust, and a faint, lingering smell of sweat from fatigue.

The tall, dark green counter stood like a barrier, with a few staff members sitting sparsely behind it, their faces bearing the weariness of years of bureaucratic routine.

Sunlight swept across the room with sharp eyes and headed straight for a window at the back.

There sat an elderly gentleman with gray hair and reading glasses.

He was slowly and methodically arranging a stack of receipts, his movements carrying the composure that comes with years of experience. His finger joints were large, his skin rough and cracked, and ink stains that could not be washed off were embedded in his fingernails, as if recording countless secrets he had handled.

"Hello, comrade."

Yang Guangming spoke in clear and calm Mandarin, with a humble attitude and sincere eyes, "I would like to inquire whether it is possible to send certain items to the educated youth settlement in Heilongjiang Province in Northeast China?"

He emphasized the words "educated youth settlement" in the hope of prying open a crack of human sentiment or policy sympathy in this cold rule.

The old man looked up. Behind his thick, scratched glasses, his gaze was calm as if veiled by a thin mist, revealing a professional detachment and a weary, all-knowing wisdom.

His Shanghai accent was heavy: "Send it to the educated youth settlement? What kind of things are you sending? Explain clearly so I can check the regulations for you. The policies are very strict; you can't send just anything." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an invisible pressure.

(End of this chapter)