Wang Jianguo’s face flushed to the tips of his ears as he listened. He rubbed his hands together, his gaze drifting toward the dirt road outside the window, where a few villagers were passing by with shoulder poles, mud still spattered on their pant legs.
"Director Song, Director Liu," he said, swallowing hard, his voice slightly muffled. "I... I do have my own private troubles. But you can rest assured—if you were to open up my heart and look, you would see that my intentions for our Beidahuang are absolutely sincere."
Suddenly, he remembered the hot steamed bun Grandpa Zhang had pressed into his hand the year he first arrived in Beidahuang, and the cotton-padded shoes Auntie Li had spent all night sewing for him. A lump formed in his throat, as if a ball of cotton had been stuffed inside.
Chapter 668