九零年的北京 ，空气里还不是后来那股子汽车尾气和钱混合在一起的躁味儿 。

那会儿的味儿
，是蜂窝煤烧得不完全的呛，是冬储大白菜码在墙根儿有点烂了的甜 ，是公共厕所飘出来的那股子氨水冲天的霸道
。

我叫张伟，那年二十八
，在一家半死不活的国营机床厂里混日子。

说混日子都是抬举我了，厂子效益跟得了场大感冒似的 ，天天打喷嚏
，就是不见好 。

我师傅，一个五十多岁的八级钳工 ，天天端着个大搪瓷缸子
，吹着上面没几根的茶叶末，跟我说：“小伟 ，这天儿
，要变了。 ”

我那时候年轻，不懂什么叫天要变了
。

我只知道 ，我兜里那点钱
，买不起楼房。

当时结婚都讲究“三大件儿
”再加一套房，我低头看看自己 ，除了人是原装的，剩下的
，连个像样的零件都凑不齐 。

女朋友小丽，她妈每次见我 ，那眼神就跟X光似的
，想把我从里到外都扫一遍，看看有没有藏着金条
。

结果每次都失望 ，她脸上的褶子都能多两条。

“小伟啊
，不是阿姨说你，男人得有个担当 ，得有个窝啊 。”

我能说啥？我只能点头
，嗯嗯嗯，是是是 ，阿姨说得对
。

心里那火
，烧得我五脏六腑都疼。

我不想就这么混下去 。

我攒了几年钱，加上我爸妈给的一点 ，全部家当，也就一万出头
。

一万块
，在九零年，听着不少。

可扔到北京城的房价里 ，连个响儿都听不见 。

商品房
，我想都不敢想
。

那天我骑着我那辆二八大杠，在北京的胡同里瞎转悠 ，心里憋着一股邪火。

车链子都快让我蹬出火星子了 。

就在后海边儿上
，一个挺偏的胡同，我看见一个挺破落的院子门口 ，贴了张红纸。

“院子出售 ”
。

字写得歪歪扭扭
，跟喝醉了酒似的。

我心里一动，鬼使神差地就把车梯子一打 ，停住了 。

院门是那种老旧的木门
，红漆早就掉光了，露出里面干裂的木头茬子
。

我推了一下 ，门“吱呀”一声，像是快断气的老头在呻吟。

一股子尘土和烂木头混合的味儿扑面而来 。

院子不大
，也就百十来平，东西厢房都塌了半边 ，屋顶的瓦片七零八落
。

院里长满了荒草
，比我都高。

正对着我的北房，看着还算完整 ，但窗户纸也破了
，跟叫花子的烂棉袄似的，在风里抖 。

就这么个破地方 ，我眼睛却亮了
。

因为它是个完整的院子
，有天，有地 ，有四面墙。

是个家 。

一个男人从北房里走出来
，四十多岁，戴个眼镜 ，一脸的愁苦
。

“你……你看房？
”他问我，语气里带着点不确定。

我点点头
，“卖啊？”

“卖，卖 ， ”他赶紧说
，“我这……急着出国 。
”

我哦了一声，心里大概有数了。九零年 ，出国潮
，多少人削尖了脑袋想往外跑
。

为了出去，别说房子 ，有的连老婆孩子都能扔下。

“这院子……是您自个儿的？”我问 。

“祖上传下来的
，有房契， ”他怕我不信 ，又补充了一句
，“正经的
。
”

我们俩就在这荒草院子里聊。

他说他要去加拿大，手续都办得差不多了 ，就差钱 。

这院子，他开价两万
。

我心里“咯噔”一下
，凉了半截。

我跟他说我只有一万二 。

他一听，脸拉得跟长白山似的 ，“那可不行
，差太多了
。 ”

我当时也不知道哪来的胆子，就跟他耗上了。

我指着那塌了的厢房 ，“大哥
，您看这，跟废墟有什么区别？我推倒了重新盖 ，那都得花钱 。
”

我又指着那长满草的院子
，“这地，得重新弄吧？”

“还有这北房 ，您看这房梁
，是不是都得加固？ ”

我把自己说成了一个准备舍身炸碉堡的董存瑞，好像买他这院子 ，是替他背了个天大的黑锅
。

那男人被我说得一愣一愣的。

他确实急，急得像是热锅上的蚂蚁 。

我们俩就在那儿磨。

从下午磨到太阳下山
，胡同里都飘起各家各M的饭菜香了
。

最后，他一咬牙 ，一跺脚
，“一万五！不能再少了！我明天就得要钱！
”

我兜里就一万二。

我脑子飞快地转 。

我有个发小，叫胖子 ，在倒腾电子表
，手里应该有点活钱
。

“行！”我一口答应下来，“明天就给钱 ，立字据
，过户。 ”

走出那个破院子的时候，我腿都是软的 。

晚风一吹 ，我才觉得后背都湿透了
。

我这是疯了。

我骑着车
，飞一样地去找胖-子 。

胖子正在他那小平房里，对着一堆拆开的电子表零件发愁
。

听我把事儿一说 ，他眼珠子都快瞪出来了。

“你疯了？！张伟，你是不是让驴踢了脑袋？”

他一巴掌拍在大腿上
，“一万多块钱，买个破烂儿？那地方狗进去都得摇摇头再出来！
”

“那是个院子！”我冲他吼 ，脖子上的青筋都爆起来了 。

“那是个家！ ”

胖子看着我
，半天没说话
。

最后，他从床底下拖出一个木箱子 ，打开
，里面是码得整整齐齐的，一沓一沓的毛票、一块 、两块的。

“我这儿就三千 ，还是准备上货的钱
，
”他一边数，一边说 ，“你小子
，要是赔了，可别上我这儿来上吊 。”

我接过那三千块钱 ，手都在抖。

“谢了，胖子
。 ”

“谢个屁
，
”他摆摆手，“赶紧滚蛋 ，看见你就烦。”

第二天
，我揣着一万五千块钱，又去了那个院子 。

钱是用报纸包着的 ，厚厚的一大摞
，沉甸甸的
。

房主看见钱，眼睛都红了。

我们俩找了个街道的大爷当见证人 ，签了合同
，按了手印 。

他把一沓泛黄的房契交给我，转身就走了 ，头都没回
。

我捏着那几张纸
，站在荒草丛生的院子里，觉得跟做梦一样。

我 ，张伟，在北京
，有自己的院子了 。

虽然它破得像个垃圾场
。

接下来的日子，就是一场战争。

我跟厂里请了长假 ，一头扎进了这个院子 。

第一步
，清垃圾，除草
。

那些草 ，根扎得极深
，我用铁锹铲，用手拔 ，干了整整一个礼拜
，才把院子清理干净。

手上的泡，起了一层又一层 。

然后是拆那两间塌了的厢房。

没有推土机 ，就用大锤
，一锤一锤地砸
。

砖头
、木料，我都小心地码在一边 ，能用的以后还能再用上。

那段时间，我整个人就跟从土里刨出来的一样 。

每天灰头土脸
，吃饭就是俩馒头就咸菜
。

小丽来看过我一次。

她站在院子门口，看着我像个野人一样在废墟里刨食 ，眼圈红了 。

“小伟
，你这是何苦呢？ ”

我咧开嘴冲她笑，露出一口白牙 ，脸上全是土
。

“等我弄好了
，接你过来当女主人。
”

她没说话，给我留下一个饭盒 ，走了 。

后来我才知道
，她妈给她介绍了一个干部子弟，家里有楼房 ，有小汽车
。

她没答应
，跟她妈大吵了一架。

我心里憋着一股劲 。

我得弄出个人样来，不能让人看扁了
。

胖子隔三差五地过来看我 ，每次都提着点酒和肉。

他看我干得热火朝天，也不再说风凉话了
，就是陪我喝两口 。

“你小子，是块铁 ，”他喝多了
，拍着我的肩膀，“就是有点缺心眼。 ”

我知道他是心疼我
。

北房是主体 ，我得先把它收拾出来。

换瓦
，补房梁，糊窗户 。

我找了几个胡同里的老瓦工 ，人家一看我这院子
，都摇头
。

“小伙子，这活儿不好干啊。
”

我递上烟 ，好说歹说
，又加了钱，人家才勉强答应 。

那段时间 ，我就跟个孙子似的，天天给师傅们端茶倒水
。

等房顶弄利索了
，不漏雨了，我就开始收拾屋里。

墙皮都掉了 ，露出里面的夯土 。

我打算把土墙都铲了
，重新抹上水泥
。

那是个力气活。

我拿着铲子，一铲一铲地往下铲 。

尘土飞扬 ，呛得我直咳嗽
。

我先从西边那面墙开始。

那面墙
，是跟邻居家的共用墙 。

铲着铲着，我突然觉得不对劲。

“当”的一声
。

铲子好像碰到了什么硬东西。

我以为是墙里的石头 ，没在意
，换了个地方继续铲 。

“当！ ”

又是一声
。

而且声音很闷，不清脆。

我停了下来 ，用手敲了敲那块墙面 。

“咚咚咚
。”

是空心的！

我的心“咯噔
”一下
，猛地跳了起来。

这老宅子，墙里还能有夹层？

我咽了口唾沫 ，拿起铲子，小心翼翼地把那块的墙皮敲掉 。

墙皮脱落
，露出的不是夯土，是青砖
。

砖头砌得整整齐齊 ，跟新的一样。

我愣住了 。

这面墙
，怎么里面还有一层砖墙？

我用手摸了摸，砖缝里连点白灰都没有 ，像是干砌的
。

我找了根钢筋
，插进砖缝里，轻轻一撬。

一块青砖松动了 。

我把它拿下来。

往里一看 ，黑乎乎的
。

我把鼻子凑过去闻了闻
，什么味儿也没有。

我的好奇心彻底被勾起来了 。

我一块一块地把青砖往外拿
。

拿了大概有七八块，露出了一个一尺见方的洞口。

我找来手电筒 ，往里照 。

手电光柱照进去
，被一片黄澄澄的颜色挡住了
。

那黄色，有点刺眼。

不是土的颜色 。

我把手伸进去 ，摸了一下
。

冰凉，光滑
，而且很硬。

我心里猛地一颤，一个荒唐的念头冒了出来 。

不会是……

我把胳膊又往里伸了伸 ，摸到了一个边缘
。

我用力一抠
，那东西好像被我抠动了。

我把它往外拽 。

很沉。

非常沉
。

我使出吃奶的劲儿，才把它一点一点地从洞里拖出来。

等它完全出来 ，掉在地上
，发出“噗”的一声闷响时，我整个人都傻了 。

那是一块砖
。

一块金砖。

方方正正 ，上面还有戳记
，虽然看不清是什么字 。

在手电筒的光下，它发出一种妖异的 ，让人心跳停止的光芒
。

我腿一软
，一屁股坐在了地上。

脑子里“嗡 ”的一声，一片空白 。

金子
。

是金子。

我活了二十八年 ，见过最大的金子，就是我妈结婚时那个比瓜子仁大不了多少的金戒指 。

可现在
，我面前，是一块砖头那么大的金子
。

我坐在地上 ， staring at the gold brick for a long, long time.

My heart was beating like a drum, pounding against my ribs so hard it hurt.

Is this real?

I reached out a trembling hand and touched it again.

The cold, heavy reality of it shot up my arm.

It was real.

I wasn't dreaming.

After the initial shock, a wave of fear, a primal, bone-chilling fear, washed over me.

Where did this come from?

Who put it here?

The man who sold me the house? The one who was in a hurry to go abroad?

No. Impossible.

If he knew about this, he would have dug out the wall himself, not sell the entire courtyard to me for a measly fifteen thousand yuan.

This must have been from an older generation.

Hidden during the war? Or maybe... before 1949.

My mind was a chaotic mess of history lessons and old movies.

Landlords, capitalists, hiding their wealth before the liberation...

And now, it was mine.

I scrambled back to the hole in the wall.

I shone the flashlight back inside.

The gold brick I pulled out was just the beginning.

Inside, stacked neatly like books on a shelf, was another one.

And another one next to it.

I reached in and tried to move the one behind it. It was just as heavy.

The entire hollow space was filled with them.

I started pulling them out, one by one.

My movements were frantic, almost animalistic.

One, two,three...

I lined them up on the dusty floor.

The yellow gleam slowly spread across the room, pushing back the shadows.

Ten.

Twenty.

I stopped counting.

I just kept pulling.

The hole was deep, going all the way up and sideways.

It wasn't a small compartment.

It was the entire wall.

An entire wall filled with gold bars.

By the time I pulled out the last one, I was drenched in sweat, gasping for air.

The floor of the north room was covered.

A sea of silent, heavy, yellow metal.

I stood in the middle of it, like a king in a treasure chamber.

A terrified king.

My first coherent thought was: I have to hide this.

I have to hide this immediately.

I couldn't leave them here. Anyone could walk in. The workers I hired... what if they came back for something?

I frantically looked around the dilapidated room.

Where could I hide them?

Under the bed? No, too obvious.

In the yard? Bury them? The yard was just loose dirt. Someone could see the freshly dug earth.

My gaze fell upon the pile of rubble from the demolished wing.

Bricks, wood, dirt...

No, too messy, and I'd have to move them again soon.

Then I looked down at the floor beneath my feet.

The floor was just compacted earth.

I could dig a hole. Right here. In the house.

I grabbed a shovel and started digging like a madman.

The dirt was hard. I didn't care.

I dug and dug, the only sound in the silent courtyard the scrape of the shovel against the earth.

I dug a pit nearly a meter deep.

Then, one by one, I started moving the gold bars into the pit.

They were so heavy.

Each one felt like a piece of my own future, my own doom.

After placing the last bar in, I filled the hole back up.

I tamped the earth down, trying to make it look as undisturbed as possible.

I even scattered some dust and debris over it.

When I was done, I stood up, my back screaming in protest.

The room looked empty again, just a dusty, broken-down space with a strange new patch of earth on the floor.

But I knew.

I knew that just beneath my feet lay a fortune that could change everything.

Or destroy everything.

I stumbled out of the room, my legs unsteady.

I sat down on the steps, breathing in the cold night air.

The moon was bright. It shone down on the quiet courtyard, making the weeds look like silver.

I was rich.

I was ridiculously, absurdly, terrifyingly rich.

But I felt poorer and more scared than I had ever been in my life.

What was I going to do?

I couldn't tell anyone.

Not my parents. They were honest, timid people. This kind of thing would scare them to death.

Not Xiao Li. How could I explain it? And what would her mother think? She'd probably want me to hand it all over to her for "safekeeping."

Fatty?

Maybe I could tell Fatty.

He was my best friend. He was street-smart.

But could I trust him? With this?

This wasn't a few thousand yuan. This was a mountain of gold.

It could change a man. It could turn a brother into an enemy.

No. I couldn't tell anyone.

This secret was mine alone.

I sat there until dawn, the cold seeping into my bones.

I felt an immense loneliness, a loneliness that was heavier than all the gold buried under my house.

The next day, the workers came back.

I watched them like a hawk, my heart in my throat every time they got near the north room.

“Hey, Xiao Wei, you’ve been busy! You knocked a hole in this wall yourself?
” one of the older workers, Uncle Li, asked, pointing at the cavity.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “The plaster was all bad. Figured I’d just take the whole layer off. ”

He nodded, not thinking twice about it. “Good idea. We’ll get it plastered up with cement for you. It’ll be stronger.
”

I felt a surge of relief so strong my knees almost buckled.

They were going to seal the wall for me.

They were going to entomb my secret in concrete.

The following weeks were a blur of anxiety.

I lived in the courtyard, sleeping on a makeshift bed in the corner of the north room, right on top of my buried treasure.

Every night, I’d lie there, wide awake, listening.

The sound of the wind, a cat yowling in the distance, a neighbor coughing... every sound made me jump.

I started to lose weight. My eyes were always bloodshot.

Fatty came to see me again.

“Damn, Wei-zi,” he said, looking me up and down. “You trying to become a ghost? You look terrible. ”

He had brought beer and roasted chicken.

We sat in the yard, on a couple of upturned buckets.

“It’s hard work,
” I said, tearing off a chicken leg. I was starving.

“Don’t overdo it,” he said, taking a big swig of beer. “You bought a house, not a coffin. ”

I looked at him, at his round, honest, concerned face.

I was so tempted to tell him.

The words were right there, on the tip of my tongue.

Fatty, I found something. Something crazy.

But I swallowed them back down with the beer.

I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk our friendship.

“I know what I’m doing,
” I said, my voice hoarse.

He sighed. “Alright, you stubborn bastard. Just... take care of yourself.”

The renovation was finally finished.

The yard was paved with new gray bricks. The east and west wings were rebuilt, smaller, but functional.

The north room was transformed. The walls were smooth white cement, the windows had new glass panes, and the floor... the floor was covered with a brand-new layer of concrete.

My secret was sealed. Buried under tons of rock and sand.

It was safer.

But I felt more trapped than ever.

I moved my meager belongings into the house.

A bed, a table, two chairs, a wardrobe. That was it.

I was living in a hundred-square-meter courtyard in the heart of Beijing, sitting on a fortune that could buy a hundred more of these courtyards.

And I was still eating instant noodles.

The irony was so thick I could choke on it.

I went back to work at the factory.

My colleagues were amazed.

“Xiao Wei, you actually did it! You bought a courtyard! ”

“Damn, you’re a landowner now!”

I forced a smile. “Just a broken-down place. Had to rebuild it from scratch.
”

They saw the dirt under my fingernails, the exhaustion on my face. They didn’t suspect a thing. They just thought I was a fool who had poured all his life savings into a ruin.

In a way, they were right.

Xiao Li came to see the new house.

She walked through the moon gate, into the clean, spacious yard. Her eyes widened.

“Wei... you... this is beautiful.”

It was.

The afternoon sun shone on the gray bricks. A few pots of flowers I had bought sat in the corner. It was quiet, peaceful. A world away from the noisy hutong outside.

I had built this. With my own two hands.

“I told you, ” I said, a lump forming in my throat. “I told you I’d give you a home.
”

She hugged me, burying her face in my chest.

“It must have been so hard.”

I held her tight, smelling the faint scent of her shampoo.

For a moment, I forgot about the gold. I forgot about the fear.

I was just a man, holding his woman in the home he built for her.

But the moment passed.

The secret was always there, a cold, heavy weight in the pit of my stomach.

Her mother came over for dinner a week later.

She inspected every corner of the house, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Well, it’s not a building, but it’s spacious, ” she conceded, a rare hint of approval in her tone. “How much did the renovation cost?
”

“Not much,” I lied smoothly. “I did most of the work myself. The materials weren’t expensive. ”

“Hmmph. You’re lucky,
” she said. “Li-li is going to marry you, so you better treat her well. Don’t think that just because you have a house now, you can relax. You still need a proper job. That factory of yours is about to go under.”

I kept smiling. “I know, Auntie. I’m looking for other opportunities. ”

After they left, I sat alone in the yard for a long time, smoking.

Opportunities.

I was sitting on the biggest opportunity in the world.

And I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

How do you spend money that you're not supposed to have?

I couldn't just walk into a bank and deposit a gold bar. The police would be there before the teller could even finish counting.

I couldn't suddenly start buying expensive things. A TV, a refrigerator... maybe. A car? A new business?

In 1990s Beijing, in the tight-knit community of the hutongs, news traveled faster than the wind.

The factory worker Zhang Wei, who was so poor he had to buy a derelict house, suddenly struck it rich?

Questions would be asked. The neighborhood committee, the local police station... someone would come knocking.

I became a ghost.

I went to work, came home, and stayed in my courtyard.

I was living like a monk on a mountain of gold.

The fear was eating me alive.

I started having nightmares.

I dreamt of the police breaking down my door, of being paraded through the streets with a sign around my neck: "Economic Criminal."

I would wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, and I would press my ear to the concrete floor, as if I could hear the gold bars mocking me from their tomb.

I had to do something. I couldn't go on like this.

I needed to turn the gold into cash.

But how?

I thought about Fatty, who dabbled in the gray market. But his business was small-time stuff, electronic watches from the south, jeans... Gold was a different league.

I needed someone professional. Someone discreet.

I started frequenting the Panjiayuan flea market.

In the early 90s, Panjiayuan was a chaotic, sprawling mess of stalls selling everything from fake antiques to revolutionary memorabilia.

It was a place where treasure and trash coexisted.

And it was a place where people with "unclear" origins for their goods came to unload them.

I didn’t bring any gold, of course.

I just went there to watch. To listen.

I dressed in my old factory overalls, squatted by the stalls, and pretended to be interested in old coins and porcelain.

I learned the language. The codes.

"Is this thing clean?" meant "Is it stolen or illegal?"

"Can you eat this?" meant "Can you exchange this for a large amount of cash quickly?"

I spent weeks there, observing.

Finally, I identified a potential target.

He was an old man, probably in his late sixties, who had a small, inconspicuous stall in a corner of the market.

He sold old books and inkstones.

He rarely spoke, just sat on a small stool, his eyes half-closed, like a sleeping cat.

But I noticed that certain people, well-dressed people in sedans, would occasionally stop by his stall.

They wouldn't look at his goods. They would just exchange a few quiet words with him, and then leave.

I had a gut feeling. This was the guy.

One afternoon, when there was no one else around, I approached his stall.

I picked up a dusty copy of "The Analects."

"Master," I said, my voice a little shaky. "I have an old family heirloom. I'd like you to take a look."

He slowly opened his eyes. They were surprisingly sharp, like an eagle's.

He looked me up and down, from my worn-out shoes to my anxious face.

"I only deal in books," he said, his voice raspy.

"It's a very... heavy book," I said, using a phrase I had overheard. Heavy book. A euphemism for gold.

A flicker of interest in his eyes. Just a flicker, but I caught it.

He was silent for a long moment.

"Come to my place tonight," he said, giving me an address. "After nine."

Then he closed his eyes again, as if our conversation had never happened.

That night, my heart was a wild drum in my chest.

What was I doing? Walking into a tiger's den?

This could be a trap. He could be a police informant. He could be a gangster who would just rob me and kill me.

I thought about not going.

But then I looked around my empty, silent house.

I thought about the mountain of useless gold beneath my feet.

I couldn't live like this anymore.

I had to take the risk.

I decided to take just one of the smaller bars.

Which meant... I had to dig.

I waited until midnight, until the entire hutong was asleep.

I closed the main gate, bolted it from the inside.

Then, with a hammer and chisel, I started chipping away at the concrete floor in the north room.

It was brutal, nerve-wracking work.

Every strike of the hammer echoed in the silent house like a gunshot.

I was terrified that a neighbor would hear.

It took me over an hour to break through the concrete and another hour to dig through the dirt.

When my fingers finally touched the cold, hard metal of a gold bar, I almost wept with relief and terror.

I pulled one out. It weighed about a kilogram. A "small yellow croaker," as they used to call it.

I reburied the rest, patched up the hole as best I could, and slid the wardrobe over it to hide the mess.

I wrapped the gold bar in a dirty cloth and stuffed it into the inside pocket of my jacket.

It was a heavy, dangerous weight against my ribs.

The address the old man gave me was in another old hutong, even more remote than mine.

I rode my bicycle through the dark, deserted streets of Beijing.

My mind was a whirlwind of what-ifs.

I found the house. It was a small, unassuming single-story building. No lights on.

I knocked on the door, three short, two long. A pre-arranged signal.

The door opened a crack. A sliver of light fell on my face.

"It's me," I whispered. "The book."

The door opened wider. The old man stood there, holding an oil lamp.

He led me into a room filled with shelves of old books. The air smelled of mold and paper.

He didn't say a word, just pointed to a chair.

He sat down opposite me, across a small wooden table.

"Let me see it," he said.

My hand was sweating as I reached into my pocket.

I took out the cloth-wrapped package and placed it on the table.

He unwrapped it slowly.

The single gold bar lay on the dark wood, glowing softly in the lamplight.

He didn't touch it.

He just looked at it for a long time.

Then he picked up a small scale, a magnifying glass, and a set of tiny chisels from a drawer.

He weighed it. He examined the surface with the magnifying glass. He scraped off a tiny fleck of gold from the corner and placed it in a small vial with some sort of chemical.

The whole time, he was silent.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of an old clock on the wall.

I felt like a patient waiting for a doctor's diagnosis.

Finally, he looked up at me.

"The quality is good," he said. "From before the war. Where did you get it?"

"It was passed down in my family," I lied, my voice cracking slightly.

He smiled, a knowing, toothless smile.

"Many 'family heirlooms' have been showing up recently," he said. "Your family must have been very... well-read."

I didn't know what to say.

"How much do you want for it?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

I had no idea. What was the price of gold in 1990? There was an official price, and then there was the black market price.

"You make an offer," I said, trying to sound calm.

He stared at me for a moment.

"Thirty thousand yuan," he said.

Thirty thousand.

For one kilogram.

I had hundreds of kilograms buried under my floor.

My mind went numb. I couldn't even begin to calculate the total sum.

I tried my best to hide my shock. I had to haggle. It was expected.

"That's too low," I said, shaking my head. "This is old gold. It has historical value."

He chuckled. "Young man, to me, gold is gold. I'm not a museum. Thirty-five thousand. That's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

I pretended to think for a moment.

"Alright," I said, nodding. "Deal."

He didn't have the cash on him. Of course not.

"Come back tomorrow night," he said. "Same time."

I walked out of his house, my legs feeling like jelly.

Thirty-five thousand yuan.

That was more money than my father had earned in his entire life.

And it was for just one of the smallest pieces of my treasure.

The next night, I went back.

He handed me a heavy canvas bag.

I opened it. It was full of stacks of brand-new 10-yuan notes.

I had never seen so much money in my life.

I gave him the gold bar.

Our transaction was complete. No extra words.

I rode home with the bag of cash in my bicycle basket, my heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and terror.

I had done it. I had turned a piece of my golden prison into real, usable money.

But now I had a new problem.

What to do with thirty-five thousand yuan in cash?

I couldn't put it in the bank. A deposit that large would raise red flags.

I ended up doing the same thing I did with the gold.

I dug another hole.

In another corner of the room, I buried a canvas bag full of money.

It was absurd. I was a dragon, hoarding a treasure I couldn't use. First gold, now cash.

But having that first bit of money changed something in me.

It gave me a sliver of confidence.

I wasn't completely powerless.

I started to think.

I couldn't keep living in fear, digging holes in my floor every time I needed money.

I had to find a way to launder the gold. To make it clean.

And then I thought of Fatty.

Not to tell him the truth, but to use his help.

Fatty's dream was to have a real electronics store, not just a street stall.

But he never had the capital.

I went to him.

"Fatty," I said. "I want to go into business with you."

He looked at me as if I had grown a second head.

"Business? What business? You know anything about electronics?"

"No," I said. "But you do. And I... I have some money."

"You? Money?" he laughed. "Did you sell a kidney?"

"I saved it," I said, pulling out a small stack of bills from my pocket. It was about a thousand yuan. I had kept it aside from the big bag. "And my family helped a bit."

His eyes widened.

"I want to invest in you," I said. "We'll open a proper store. You'll be the boss. I'll be the silent partner."

He was suspicious. "Where did you get the money, Wei-zi? Don't lie to me."

"I told you, I saved it. And I sold some old furniture from the house," I said, a lie I had prepared. "The house is big. There was some good stuff left by the previous owner."

It was a weak excuse, but it was plausible.

He looked at me for a long time, searching my face.

I think, in the end, he wanted to believe me. He wanted the opportunity too much.

"How much do you have?" he asked, his voice low.

"Enough to rent a storefront and get the first batch of goods," I said. "Maybe... twenty thousand?"

He gasped.

And that's how it started.

I became a ghost investor in my own best friend's business.

I would dig up some money from my hole, give it to Fatty, and he would use it to buy inventory.

Our store was called "Tengda Electronics." Flying High.

Fatty was a natural businessman. He had a good eye for what would sell.

The store took off.

Calculators, electronic dictionaries, cassette players, knock-off Walkmans... the stuff flew off the shelves.

And the money started rolling in.

Legitimate, clean money.

Every month, Fatty would give me my share of the profits.

I would take the clean money and deposit it into a bank account I had opened.

And at night, I would replenish the investment fund from the hole in my floor.

It was a slow, painstaking process. A money laundering scheme operated by a factory worker and a street hawker.

It was ridiculous.

But it worked.

For the first time since I found the gold, I felt like I could breathe.

I bought a color TV. A refrigerator. A washing machine.

Xiao Li was overjoyed. Her mother's visits became more frequent, and her smile became a little more genuine.

I quit my job at the factory. No one was surprised. Everyone knew my electronics store was doing well.

They were just envious.

"That Zhang Wei, what a lucky bastard," I heard them say. "He bought a pile of rubble and it turned into a gold mine."

If only they knew.

Life was getting better.

But the secret was still there.

The gold under the floor. The cash in the other hole.

They were a constant, silent presence in my life.

I was living a lie. A very successful, very comfortable lie.

But a lie nonetheless.

And I was terrified of the day it would all come crashing down.