The battlefield of the college entrance exam was filled with smoke and fire—yers upon yers of difficult questions and hidden traps. But my mind was already shaken because I knew that no matter how hard I fought, the final victory was unlikely to be mine.

  On the first day of the exam, I went through it in a daze. Every time I left the exam room and saw the other students rushing toward their parents, who were waiting outside, I wished more than anything that my father was among them.

  If only he could say to me:"Son, take the exam with all your might. As long as you pass, even if we have to sell everything, we’ll make sure you can go to school!"

  I knew that if I heard those words, I would regain my confidence, unleash my full potential, and perform at 120%—seizing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change my fate.

  But that didn’t happen.

  For three days, my father never showed up.

  When the exams ended, I felt like my soul had been drained. That despair sank from my throat into my stomach, cutting deep like a knife—severing the st fragile thread of hope I had.

  When I got home, I locked myself in my room and refused to come out. My father was a rough, uneducated farmer—ignorant, stubborn, and completely clueless about comforting someone. Whenever I was upset, his response was always the same: Endure it. Swallow it. Let time wear it away.

  Tears streamed silently down my face. I clenched my fists and ground them against the wall until the skin tore, and blood trickled down into the cracks.

  I knew—I had no more chances left.

  I accepted my fate.

  That night, I stayed up and flipped through the Aquaculture Farming Techniques Guide, skimming through the key points and taking notes.

  The next morning, I picked up a hoe, put on a straw hat, rolled up my jeans, and stepped under the scorching June sun—just like any other vilge farmer. Together with my father, I began working on the fish pond.

  From analyzing the previous failure, I identified two main causes:

  When the storm hit, the air pressure dropped, causing an oxygen deficiency in the pond.

  Dirty runoff from the surrounding fields, full of pesticide residue, flowed back into the water, poisoning the fish.

  Once we figured out the problem, my father and I got to work. First, we drained the polluted water, cleared out the sludge, and disinfected the pond. Then, we built higher embankments around it, refilled it with clean water, and added organic fertilizers.

  After days of exhausting physical bor, my entire body felt like it was falling apart. But I never compined—I never said a word.

  Because when you’ve lost all hope, nothing matters anymore.

  You simply survive—just like every other poor person.

  That day, my father sat by the pond, smoking a cigarette. I took off my straw hat, walked over, and, somewhat embarrassed, smiled and said, "Dad, give me a cigarette."

  In our vilge, boys my age who worked in the fields had already learned to smoke—it was a symbol of maturity.

  My father didn’t refuse. In fact, he insisted on lighting the cigarette for me himself.

  This was his way of acknowledging that I had grown up. It was like a coming-of-age ceremony in its own rough way.

  When his hands lit the cigarette at my lips, a flood of memories rushed back.

  I knew—I had grown up.

  It was time to take on the burden of life.

  It was time to let go of that distant, hazy dream of college.

  "I’m sorry," my father muttered, head bowed, ashamed to look at me. "It’s all because I’m useless."

  "It’s okay…" I forced a smile and looked into the distance. "At least… at least I tried."

  The moment I said those words, my throat tightened, and an unbearable sorrow filled my chest. I held it back, forcing a weak smile.

  "Being a farmer isn’t so bad."

  Not long after, the college entrance exam results came out.

  Back then, cell phones weren’t common. In our vilge, students had to crowd around the local grocery store, using the public phone to check their scores.

  Every time I passed by, I pulled my straw hat lower, pretending to be mature as I carried a hoe over my shoulder—because none of that had anything to do with me anymore.

  The fish pond renovation went smoothly, and my father managed to borrow money to buy a batch of new fish fry.

  This was our st chance to turn things around.

  To make sure nothing went wrong, my father and I stayed by the pond, setting up a makeshift tent.

  The tent was hot, damp, and swarming with mosquitoes. My father worried about me suffering and urged me to go home to sleep.

  But I didn’t want to go back.

  I didn’t want to walk past the grocery store.

  I didn’t want to feel tempted to check my exam results.

  I didn’t want that na?ve dream to come back to life, only to be crushed once again.

  But the phone call still came.

  It was from my homeroom teacher.

  The grocery store owner’s son ran all the way to the pond to call me, shouting that there was a call for me.

  "Who is it?" I asked.

  The boy stammered, unable to answer.

  I went to the grocery store and picked up the phone.

  My homeroom teacher’s voice came through immediately:

  "Why haven’t you come back to school to fill out your college application?!"

  He told me I had done exceptionally well—I had passed the top-tier university cutoff line.

  Then he ordered me to return to school immediately.

  In that moment, all the emotions I had been suppressing burst forth like a raging flood.

  Tears streamed uncontrolbly down my face.

  "Teacher… we don’t have money. I can’t afford college!"

  I smmed the phone down and ran.

  I ran so fast that I lost a slipper, yet I didn’t stop.

  Under the golden hues of the sunset, a barefoot boy ran, stumbling and struggling—but this was my life, drawn in its rawest, truest form.

  With proper farming techniques, our fish pond began to thrive.

  I forced myself to stop thinking about anything else.

  I worked tirelessly, hoping our first batch of fish would sell quickly, hoping we could finally clear our debts.

  But life is always unpredictable.

  In early August, a vilge broadcast announced that I had received a letter.

  When I went to pick it up, I saw it—a beautifully printed admission letter from a top provincial university.

  But how?

  I never even filled out an application!

  I immediately rushed to the grocery store and called the university’s admissions office.

  They confirmed that I had indeed applied—and had been accepted.

  As I walked back to the pond, it finally hit me.

  It must have been my homeroom teacher who filled out the application for me.

  Because my acceptance would boost our school’s statistics.

  It didn’t matter if I actually attended or not—as long as I was accepted, it would bring honor to our school.

  When I got home, I didn’t want my father to see.

  So I crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it into the pile of firewood by the pond.

  To hell with dreams.

  To hell with college.

  People have to face reality—sooner or ter.

  At the end of August, my father had to go out for something—probably to borrow more money.

  Feeding fish required food, fertilizer, and countless other expenses.

  And at that time, our family was on the brink of starvation.

  He left early in the morning but hadn’t returned by sunset.

  It started to rain, and the dirt roads became muddy.

  As night fell, I grew restless.

  My father had never been gone for this long before.

  Fear gnawed at my chest.

  I grabbed a fshlight and followed the path eastward.

  When I reached the vilge entrance, I saw it—a bicycle overturned in the mud.

  I ran forward and found him lying on the ground, covered in dirt, still gripping a pstic bag in his hand.

  "Dad!" I panicked, pulling him up.

  He was pale, gasping for breath. "Damn… I used to bike to the city so easily when I was younger… but not anymore. I barely made it back to the vilge before colpsing."

  "Why did you go so far?" My heart ached as I looked at him.

  Shaking, he opened the pstic bag.

  Inside—a stack of money.

  And a train ticket.

  "Take it. Go to school. I picked up your admission letter a long time ago… It’s already packed in your bag."