At 5:40 PM, on Nantang Street in Wenzhou, Liang Zhen stood by the roadside holding his Lowden guitar. He watched the rush hour crowd pass by, with some people glancing at the open guitar case by his feet and then at the young man who, despite not dressing like a street performer, clearly intended to be one. Some gave him a second look because of his appearance or slowed down a bit, but no one stopped.

Liang Zhen had been standing there for quite a while but hadn’t started singing.

Holding his guitar, he strummed a few chords intermittently, trying several times to start singing but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t because he thought street performing was embarrassing, but he feared the awkwardness of singing in such a busy place and being ignored.

After a long internal struggle, he finally began to sing. It felt ridiculous to rap without accompaniment on a busy street, so he sang songs he thought sounded good. Liang Zhen could play the guitar quite well; in high school, he was both the guitarist and lead singer in his band. After becoming obsessed with hip-hop and rap, he played the guitar less often, but some tunes were deeply etched in his memory. As soon as he touched the strings, muscle memory kicked in.

Once he started, there was no turning back. Even though no one had thrown any money into the guitar case yet, Liang Zhen pressed on. Before coming to Nantang Street, he had thought a lot about his conversation with Liang Chongwei, realizing that he wasn’t entirely wrong. So far, singing hadn’t brought any financial stability.

Music couldn’t support him, and without family funds, he couldn’t support his music.

Feeling dejected, he tried to shake off the negative emotions by performing, but no one seemed interested in hiring him to sing hooks anymore. He thought about Song Zhou’s guitar and the nearby Nantang Street, where he had seen many street performers. He never imagined he would one day be among them.

His feelings were complex, but he knew why he came to Nantang Street to busk like an amateur. He was an amateur after all. His sense of entitlement came from his family background, giving him a false sense of guaranteed success. This illusion prevented him from fully dedicating himself to creating a single complete work. Not having the right songs to remix or not writing catchy enough hooks were just excuses. For the past year, every day he intended to work hard but ended up wasting time and talent.

If he still had any talent left.

This thought filled him with a sense of panic, prompting him to test himself—could he still sing well? Everyone he had worked with had praised him, but now he wondered if those compliments were just polite commercial flattery.

Thus, Liang Zhen found himself on Nantang Road, Wenzhou’s prime spot for street performers. He was on his third song, and the guitar case was still empty.

The longer he sang, the worse he felt, and self-doubt began to grow. If he had stayed in Wenzhou a few more years or simply asked a local, he would have known it wasn’t his fault. During the evening rush hour, everyone was in a hurry to get home, with no time to enjoy street performances. Even in the evening, when buskers set up, they placed signs in front of their guitar cases with phrases like “Requests x yuan” and QR codes for Alipay and WeChat—that’s when business truly began. It wasn’t the right time yet, and the social media-savvy young people hadn’t started their evening strolls. Liang Zhen, having failed to understand the market, naturally faced indifference.

But that wasn’t the worst part—the worst part was the arrival of the urban management officers.

Chased from the west end of Nantang Street to the north, Liang Zhen still held onto a glimmer of hope, wanting to continue singing. Before he could finish his song, another group of officers arrived. Being young, he grabbed his guitar case and ran, not knowing where he ended up. It was another street.

A street bustling with vendors setting up their stalls for the night market, a quintessential scene in Wenzhou.

The sky wasn’t completely dark yet, though a few clouds quickly gathered, hinting at possible rain. Seeing the numerous stalls, Liang Zhen thought this area might be allowed by the urban management, so he decided to continue singing. After finishing a song with little success, a nearby vendor suggested he sing something more appropriate, like “Clouds, Clouds, Go Away.”

Liang Zhen: …

He wanted to make one last effort, but before he could finish the prelude, a loudspeaker from the vendor’s stall drowned him out, announcing, “Clearance Sale! Clearance Sale! Everything starting at one-tenth of the price! Last day! Everything starting at one-tenth!” The vendor approached Liang Zhen with a 20 yuan note, asking if he could sing “The Jiangnan Leather Factory Has Closed Down.”

Liang Zhen: ???

Vendor: “Hey, no one’s listening to you anyway. Why not help me shout ‘Originally priced at over one hundred, two hundred, three hundred yuan wallets, all for just twenty yuan’? This twenty yuan will be yours.”

Liang Zhen: …

Feeling a bit insulted, he understood the vendor’s good intentions, thinking he was down and out. Liang Zhen refused and decided to find a quieter spot. Determined, he decided this would be his last song. If no one stopped to listen, he would go home.

But the street was filled with loudspeakers blaring, “Clearance sale, everything for twenty yuan.” By the time he found a suitable spot, the weather turned against him, and a downpour started. He barely managed to keep his guitar dry, hurriedly seeking shelter under the nearest awning.

Standing there, just out of the rain, he faced a road with a row of storefronts. Directly across was a small shop with a large outdoor umbrella. Liang Zhen wasn’t the only one without an umbrella; a few others had bought drinks or snacks from the shop and were now waiting under the umbrella for the rain to stop. He wanted to join them but realized he hadn’t brought his wallet.

Embarrassed to seek shelter without buying anything, he stayed under the narrow awning. Time dragged on painfully in such moments, and within a few minutes, he felt like he had been waiting for nearly an hour.

As he waited, his stomach began to growl with hunger. He could have held on longer, but the end of the row of stores caught his eye. A crude sign with a picture of a pasture and cow advertised “Lanzhou Beef Noodles.”

When away from Lanzhou, Liang Zhen would always be asked, “What does Lanzhou beef noodle soup taste like?” Each time, he had to explain that there was no such thing as “Lanzhou beef noodle soup” in Lanzhou. All the shops on every street and alley were called “XX Beef Noodles,” and the more authentic term was “Niu Da.” As for the Lanzhou beef noodle soup, which stood alongside Sha County snacks and Huangmen Chicken Rice, it didn’t have much to do with Lanzhou. All the Lanzhou beef noodle shops in China were actually run by Hui people from Qinghai. This is why locals often said that once you leave Lanzhou, there were no authentic beef noodles to be found.

On ordinary days, Liang Zhen wouldn’t give a second glance at a “Lanzhou beef noodle soup” sign due to his pride as a native of Lanzhou. But now, standing under the eaves on a rainy day, he couldn’t tear his eyes away, perhaps because of the first word, “Lanzhou,” or maybe because of the last two, “beef noodles.” It was nearly seven o’clock, and the nineteen-year-old Liang Zhen was still growing; no amount of food seemed too much. Or it could be the first word, “Lanzhou,” his hometown, where he grew up. Those words represented his Lanzhou.

Liang Zhen missed Lanzhou.

He missed the beef noodles, missed Mazilu, Shijianjian, and Wumule Zhangguo. The Mazilu, featured on A Bite of China, was the most famous and the hallmark of Lanzhou beef noodles, but it wasn’t Liang Zhen’s favorite. Most beef noodle shops didn’t stay open past 3 p.m., but Shijianjian on Panxuan Road stayed open until eleven or twelve at night. Many times, Liang Zhen and his friends would drink, and when his stomach felt queasy, he would go to Shijianjian for a bowl of noodles. One sip of the broth, and most of the drunkenness would dissipate.

However, if one were to compare broths, the Wumule potash beef noodles in Qilihe District were exceptional. The entire cow would be cooked in the soup pot, and people would come in droves for the special broth and beef. The beef there was different from Zhangguo’s, or rather, Zhangguo’s beef was unlike any other. After eating all over Lanzhou for over ten years, Liang Zhen found that no other place made beef like Zhangguo’s—thin as a cicada’s wing, melting in your mouth.

Liang Zhen blinked, thinking about Lanzhou. Despite his father’s constant preoccupation with business and his mother’s hands-off attitude as a pampered lady, the lack of familial warmth never dampened Liang Zhen’s love for Lanzhou. It was his eternal hometown, the place his heart would always return to. He didn’t like Wenzhou, where the boss, Huang He, was a jerk; he liked Lanzhou, where the Yellow River flowed through the city.

He also liked the song “Lanzhou, Lanzhou.”

Still holding his guitar, he started playing and singing, even though there was no one around to listen. He sang “Lanzhou, Lanzhou” by Low Wormwood.

He remembered the last time he was in Lanzhou. The statues of Tang Monk and his disciples at the Yellow River’s edge were being gilded with a second layer of gold leaf. At that time, he already had a driver’s license but still rode a mountain bike, with the wind lifting the plaid shirt he wore as a jacket as he spread his arms wide.

He thought of White Pagoda Hill after the rain, and on clear days, the panoramic view of Lanzhou from there, with Zhongshan Bridge and the surging Yellow River. Liang Zhen often talked about taking a sheepskin raft across the Yellow River, but he had never tried it… His memories of Lanzhou were so vivid that he sang about this vibrant Lanzhou.

“Lanzhou—always leaving at dawn

Lanzhou—warm and drunk at night

Lanzhou—the endless Yellow River flowing east

Lanzhou—the end of the dream is the entrance to the sea”

Like a child separated from his mother, he poured all his longing into the song. In the chorus, the elongated “Lanzhou—” ended with a carefree “Lanzhou has arrived.” After that last line, Liang Zhen strummed his guitar, abruptly ending both the music and the singing, leaving him both satisfied and wanting more. Grasping the guitar head, he bowed his head, clenching his teeth as if to suppress some overwhelming emotion.

As he tried to contain his emotions, someone placed a banknote into his guitar case.

Unlike most passersby who casually tossed coins or notes, this person bent down and carefully laid a fifty-yuan note flat in the case. Holding an umbrella, the person straightened up and stood before Liang Zhen, tilting the umbrella slightly forward to shield him from the rain.

Liang Zhen, being taller, had to look down slightly at this person. There was no condescension in his gaze, just a simple look of waiting for the person to speak.

Liang Zhen wondered what this person would say. With a glib tongue, they might mock him for getting drenched in the rain or ridicule the nearly empty guitar case. Or, taking advantage of having given money, they might tease him into singing some vulgar or funny song. Even if they were amicable, they might offer unsolicited advice, like telling him not to busk anymore because it increased the workload for the police.

But what Liang Zhen didn’t expect was for the person to say, so close to him, “That was beautiful.”

Shao Mingyin said, “You sang beautifully.”

These words came from Shao Mingyin, not a collaborating singer who needed to exchange compliments, nor a close friend who would praise his singing regardless of its quality. It was just Shao Mingyin, who happened to pass by, his police car parked behind, still in his uniform.

Liang Zhen slumped his shoulders dejectedly, his eyebrows furrowing, and his mouth turned downward as he moved forward to hug Shao Mingyin tightly, even though the guitar was still between them.

Shao Mingyin’s hand holding the umbrella trembled, wanting to push him away, but he felt Liang Zhen’s shoulders shaking slightly.

He didn’t push him away. He touched Liang Zhen’s back tentatively and called his name softly, “Liang Zhen?”

Of course, Liang Zhen heard him. He tightened his grip around Shao Mingyin, pressing against the guitar strings, which made a faint sound, as if afraid Shao Mingyin would run away. Shao Mingyin patted his broad shoulder gently, like comforting a child, and asked what was wrong.

“Officer Shao…” Liang Zhen’s voice was tinged with sobs, “Does this count as assaulting an officer?”

Shao Mingyin was both amused and speechless, not knowing how to respond. Liang Zhen asked again, “Does it count?”

“Yes, yes,” Shao Mingyin replied.

“Then… if it counts, can you take me back to the station?”

“What’s so good about the station?” Shao Mingyin still didn’t understand the situation, only feeling like he was being hugged by a big, furry dog. He didn’t mind; in fact, he found it quite endearing.

“But I have nowhere to go. Take me to the station, please take me away.”

Because of their posture, Shao Mingyin couldn’t see Liang Zhen’s expression, but he could hear the congestion in his voice. He felt that Liang Zhen was about to cry any second and hurried to comfort him.

“How could you have nowhere to go…” Shao Mingyin suddenly realized something might have happened. If Liang Zhen had had a conflict with his family, given his impulsive and straightforward nature, it was no surprise he was this upset.

“Liang Zhen…”

Liang Zhen still held him, murmuring into his ear, “I miss Lanzhou. This isn’t Lanzhou.”

Liang Zhen murmured, “I miss home.”

Even with the guitar between them, Shao Mingyin could still feel the rise and fall of this big boy’s chest against his own, so real, so strong. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had hugged someone so closely, and now this young man was holding him, telling him he missed home.

And homesickness is contagious.

“Liang Zhen…” Shao Mingyin rarely found himself at a loss for words. The boy in front of him brought up distant memories he had tried to forget, to escape from, to abandon.

But when Liang Zhen, when Liang Zhen whispered in his ear that he missed home, Shao Mingyin had to admit that those images had always been there, because they were about his hometown, about home, the roots of a person, a place one could never forget.

“Then…” Shao Mingyin paused. He wasn’t without hesitation, but as his palm once again touched Liang Zhen’s shoulder and back, he still spoke.

“Then how about I take you to my home first?”