To the Wonder · Chat

### Chapter 1: The Eight-Square-Meter War The winter of 1977 arrived exceptionally early, and the evening in Ren'an Lane was shrouded in a layer of gray mist. In the Zhuang family's shared kitchen, which was less than six square meters, the flames of the briquette stove were feebly licking the bottom of the pot. The air was thick with the salty, fishy scent of braised hairtail and a faint smell of coal smoke. "Zhuang Tunan! Your notebook crushed my coal briquettes!" A sharp childish voice pierced the silence of the lane. Seven-year-old Lin Dongzhe was like a cat that had its tail stepped on. Wearing split pants and waving half a honeycomb briquette in his hand, he stood at the kitchen door with his face covered in black soot. Zhuang Tunan, who was doing his homework at the stove, looked up sharply. He pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose—the arms of which were wrapped in tape—and frowned deeply. "Lin Dongzhe, keep it down! It took me three tries to solve this math problem, and your shouting just broke my train of thought." "I don't care! I need to cook! My mom said we're having braised pork today. If it's late and Dad comes home to no food, he'll scold me for being inconsiderate again." Lin Dongzhe said righteously, throwing the broken coal briquette onto the ground with a sharp "crack" right at Zhuang Tunan's feet. This wasn't just a child's tantrum; it was the daily life of the two families sharing a kitchen in Courtyard 23, Ren'an Lane—a zero-sum game of space and time. The kitchen was only a little over six square meters in total. Subtracting the two stoves, a wobbly cutting table, and the pile of coal briquettes in the corner, the remaining space was barely enough to turn around in. Right now, Zhuang Tunan's spread-out notebooks took up two-thirds of the cutting table, leaving no room for the half-basket of vegetables and the slab of pork belly Lin Dongzhe was holding. "I'm doing something important too. I need to get into a key middle school." Zhuang Tunan didn't budge an inch, leaning forward slightly to try and block the precious tabletop with his thin shoulders. "Go wash the vegetables in the backyard and come back when you're done." "Xiaoting is using the backyard tap to scrub the toilet!" Lin Dongzhe stiffened his neck and reached out to grab Zhuang Tunan's notebook. "Move! Let me put my stuff down!" The winter of 1977 arrived exceptionally early, and the evening in Ren'an Lane was shrouded in a layer of gray mist. In the Zhuang family's shared kitchen, which was less than six square meters, the flames of the briquette stove were feebly licking the bottom of the pot. The air was thick with the salty, fishy scent of braised hairtail and a faint smell of coal smoke. "Zhuang Tunan! Your notebook crushed my coal briquettes!" A sharp childish voice pierced the silence of the lane. Seven-year-old Lin Dongzhe was like a cat that had its tail stepped on. Wearing split pants and waving half a honeycomb briquette in his hand, he stood at the kitchen door with his face covered in black soot. Zhuang Tunan, who was doing his homework at the stove, looked up sharply. He pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose—the arms of which were wrapped in tape—and frowned deeply. "Lin Dongzhe, keep it down!" <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>