这一声叹气這一聲嘆氣

She was in her forties and had come from the distant countryside. For three years she had looked after a university dormitory, always with a smile on her face. With Spring Festival approaching, she wanted to go home and celebrate with her family. One evening, after cleaning the floor, she sighed quietly, then quickly looked around, afraid someone had heard. She didn’t want anyone worrying about her.

She opened the ticket app on her phone. People were already heading home for the holiday, and train tickets home were almost sold out. She sighed again, longer this time, and tears fell onto the screen. Over the next few days, getting home was all she could think about; she couldn’t even clean the floor properly. The security guard, who came from the same village, tried to cheer her up with a joke: “You’re still here, but your heart’s already gone home, hasn’t it?”

Then a notice arrived from the university office: for safety, the dormitories had to be staffed over Spring Festival. It didn’t say who should stay. She assumed neither of them could leave and felt even worse. But she couldn’t quit: at her age, she wouldn’t find a better job, and her family needed the income. She decided to phone her family and send some presents home.

It was the coldest day of the year, and the students had all gone home for the holidays. She and the guard were cleaning the floor when the head of the college walked in, surprised to see them. “Why haven’t you gone home yet?” She replied, “We’d like to, but the notice says we have to stay.” He explained, “It only means someone has to be here. I’d intended the staff who live locally to take turns. You can go home for the holiday.” He asked where she was from. When he heard it was a distant village, he told them both to hurry and pack. But she sighed again. “There aren’t any train tickets left now.”