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墨書 Inktalez
I opened a charity noodle shop locally. The normal price for customers is ten yuan, but for those in need, it’s just one yuan. However, one day, a group of bloggers, who seemed to come out of nowhere, started accusing me:
"Your shop is clearly a scam, targeting tourists! Why do you sell to others for ten yuan and to us for one?"
The situation escalated, and many bystanders began cyberbullying me without knowing the truth. Relevant authorities ordered me to shut down for rectification, and I obediently closed the shop. But not long after I shut my doors, people began asking in the comments of my initial response video for me to reopen. This time, I chose to refuse.
My father learned to make noodles when he was young and later became an old chef. After working in a large restaurant and saving some money, he opened a noodle shop near the county hospital, becoming a boss. But this "boss" was different; our family business not only failed to make money but also continuously lost funds. This went on for thirty years.
Near our shop is a hospital that opened in the early years. It started as a small clinic with just a few people but grew into a second-class hospital with the support of policies, developing like a snowball. Even though the conditions and facilities were not perfect, it alleviated the needs of local residents and miners; some would only go to larger hospitals for illnesses that couldn’t be treated there. For decades, my father has been helping those in need.
As prices rose, what started as one yuan per bowl of noodles evolved into ten yuan per bowl today. But regardless of the normal price, we always kept our prices at the lowest for patients and impoverished individuals needing help, even if it meant losing money ourselves. For five yuan, you could eat well; for six yuan, you could feel full. This pricing is hard to find even in big cities, let alone locally.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand this and thought my father was foolish; I even argued with him about it several times. But my father would just smile while holding his cigarette.
"Three or five yuan doesn’t mean much to us; it won’t make us rich or poor. But for them, it could mean an extra day for a patient."
"You don’t know; after seeing so much life and death around here from running a shop, you start to see money as something external."
"For so many years, I have seen countless people trek through mountains and rivers to come here, only to receive bad news and find they have no money for treatment, forcing them to return to the village in despair. I have witnessed many terminally ill friends endure pain just to come here for one last meal. You may never remember what their faces looked like, but you can recall their voices, their postures, and their sense of inferiority."
"Child, running a store is not just about making a profit; sometimes, having a rich spirit is enough."
I was surprised that he could express such cultured thoughts despite not having much education. However, amidst my surprise, I still thought he was foolish.
My mother had quarreled with him several times over opening this store; in fact, she spent eight months a year back at her parents' home. After repeated suggestions from my mother, my father finally made a concession in the past two years and fixed the prices.
For regular customers, a bowl of noodles costs ten yuan; for those in need, we offer a compassionate price at half off.
People inevitably grow old; after pulling noodles for thirty years, my father finally found he could no longer manage it. It wasn't that cooking was particularly strenuous; it was just that he was getting older and his legs weren't good, preventing him from standing for long periods.
He once considered closing the store because of this, but he couldn't bear to part with those who needed help or his well-regarded establishment. Weighing everything, I took over.
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