That night, silently, I dug out the money my mom had hidden under the stove.

A colorful stack of bills, placed in a rusty iron box.

A total of three thousand yuan.

I stuffed all three thousand yuan into my pants pocket, and put the empty iron box back under the stove as it was.

The next day, I, as usual, slung the basket on my back, took the rusty sickle, and went to the mountain to cut grass for the pigs.

Walking once again to the familiar hillside, stepping onto the winding muddy path.

The thistles on both sides of the path grew in patches, stubborn and lush.

I walked faster than usual, taking big strides along the path, heading straight up the mountain.

The further I walked, the faster I went, and the more unsettled my heart became.

I remembered the first time my mom took me to cut grass for the pigs, and how she guided me back when I got lost.

I also remembered the first time I collapsed while carrying manure, mocked by neighbors, losing face as they pushed me to the ground.

At sixteen, as my body matured, I was treated as a tool, bought and sold at will.

But from today onwards, none of that matters.

The debt of life and upbringing I owed, accumulated over sixteen years of continuous labor, has long been repaid.