Ju Fufu stood on the gray street corner, holding the popcorn pot that was blackened by time and fireworks. She knocked the pot body with the pot lid, making a series of crisp and desolate sounds. The sound drifted in the winter wind, like a long-ignored cry, and also like the silent lament of the silent.
The knocking sound of the pot lid is her only proof of being alive. Life for her is not bright, not lively, only this pot of popcorn and endless cold. Her face is full of the vicissitudes of life, her fingers are white because of the cold, but there is a trace of stubbornness in her eyes that refuses to extinguish.
The popcorn crackled in the pot, and the flames licked the bottom of the pot, just like the ruthless pressure in life, which would burn her painfully at all times. She knew that the taste of this popcorn was like her life, very bitter, and difficult to be sweet. The sound of her knocking on the pot lid was like telling the world about her suffering, even if no one heard it.
People on the street hurried by, and no one stopped to look at her. Those passers-by may never really understand Ju Fufu’s life, her struggle, and her helplessness. Her existence is like an inconspicuous dust in the corner of this city, fragile and brittle. The sound of the pot lid knocking is her struggle and her cry for help.
Her story slowly unfolds in this cold wind. Once, she also had dreams and hopes, but fate was not kind. The departure of her family and the burden of life, like an invisible yoke, tightly bound her. She can only use this pot lid to knock out her own rhythm, telling herself that she is still alive and can continue to persevere.
Ju Fufu’s hands are covered with calluses due to long-term hard work. Although her movements are clumsy, they are still powerful. Every knock is like a tremor of the soul, knocking the long-silent despair. It’s not that she doesn’t want to change, but it’s too difficult to change. The world is too big, and she is too small.
The crackling of popcorn, the jumping of flames, and the knocking of the pot lid interweave into a sad song of life. The song has no melody, but it has the most sincere emotions, telling the unyielding soul of a small person in a difficult situation. Ju Fufu did not choose to remain silent, she chose to use this simple knocking to express her struggle against life.
The winter wind is getting colder and colder. She wrapped her worn-out clothes tightly, and the sound of the pot lid knocking still persisted. She knew that this sound was not only for others to hear, but also for herself, for herself who was still looking for light in the darkness. Her life, like the gradually expanding popcorn in the pot, is fragile, but also has the power to explode.
The knocking sound of the pot lid is her confession of life and her unwillingness to fate. It reminds those who pass by in a hurry that there are many people like Ju Fufu in the world, and their pain and struggle are far more serious than you and I can imagine. Her voice may be weak, but it is enough to pierce the indifferent heart.
Ju Fufu is not alone. The sound of her knocking is a microcosm of the lives of countless people at the bottom of society, a symbol of their struggle in hardship and their search for hope in despair. Although her life is small, it has an indelible weight. Every knock of the pot lid is ringing the truth of life and awakening the compassion deep in people’s hearts.
When night falls and the street lights come on, Ju Fufu’s figure gradually becomes blurred, but the sound of the pot lid knocking still echoes in the cold wind, like an invisible hammer, knocking on this cold world and knocking on every neglected soul.
This sound is the pain of life and the power of life. Ju Fufu uses her knocking to tell the story of an ordinary person, telling the forgotten suffering and tenacity. She tells us: No matter how cruel life is, as long as there is sound and knocking, there is hope and reason to live.