The winter wind, like a ghost, passed through the row of empty old locust trees at the entrance of the village, bringing with it a rustling sound, and also brought the jingling sound of the pot lid on the corner of the street. Ju Fufu was wearing a tattered cotton jacket, skinny, like a dead branch that could be broken by the wind at any time. She held the old pot and a rusty pot lid in her hand, and the pot was crackling with popcorn. The knocking sound of the pot lid knocked out a symphony of life on this cold street.

The sound of the pot lid was not a simple greeting, but a struggle between Ju Fufu and the world. She knocked on the pot lid, as if knocking on the iron door of fate, and also knocked on many dusty stories. The corn kernels in the pot exploded into white flowers, like snowflakes falling from the sky, but quickly dissipated in the wind, just like her life over the years, changing rapidly, but never grasping a trace of stability.

Ju Fufu is the kind of old tree root in the village that still stands after being beaten by wind and rain. Her figure appears lonely and strong on the street corner. Her face is full of ravines, but her eyes are shining with stubborn light. Her popcorn pot and pot cover are her weapons and her shield. In this cold and unfamiliar corner of the big city, she relies on this pot to maintain the dignity of life.

Those passers-by attracted by the sound of the pot cover may only see the fireworks on the street, but ignore the story hidden behind the sound of the pot cover. Ju Fufu’s story is like the roots buried deep underground. Although invisible, it still nourishes her life. Her husband died early, and her two children left home. She is alone guarding this pot, her life, and the hope that she is unwilling to give up.

The sound of popcorn popping jumps in the pot, and the corn kernels turn into snow-white clouds one by one, floating in the cold wind. The rhythm of her pot cover is sometimes fast and sometimes slow, as if telling the ups and downs of life. People come and go on the street, but few people stop. Only a few hungry stray cats linger around the pot, waiting for one or two popcorns to fall.

The sound of the pot lid is like an ancient war drum, beating the most secret emotions in people’s hearts. It reminds every indifferent pedestrian that this world is not only bright and beautiful, but also those lives bent by the wind and snow. Ju Fufu’s figure is like a plum blossom blooming in the severe winter. Although it has experienced frost, it blooms with the fragrance of life.

The prosperity of the city has covered up the stories of too many people. The sound of Ju Fufu’s pot lid is the forgotten sound, knocking on the warmth and pain under the iron curtain of modernization. The sound of the pot lid knocking is the simplest questioning of life and the most silent accusation of fate. She lives in the sound of the pot lid, struggling, waiting for the warm sunshine to fill the street corner one day.

Amid the sound of the pot lid, there came a scent of popcorn, mixed with the cold air, but with a little bit of the fireworks of the world. Ju Fufu’s hands kept knocking on the pot lid, and the sound echoed in the wind, like a call for the future and a persistence in reality. She didn’t ask whether tomorrow would be gentle, but only asked for strength at this moment. Even if the wind and snow were cold, she would knock on the sound of her own life.

The sound of the pot lid carries the fate of countless ordinary people, witnessing suffering and hope. Ju Fufu’s life seems simple, but it has a complex texture, like a rough rural oil painting, with wind and frost, tears, and an eternal flame. The sound of her pot lid is the warmest music in winter and the most sincere cry in the world.

In this cold street, the sound of the pot lid is her weapon to fight fate and her tribute to life. It tells us that every neglected corner has a story to tell, and every forgotten life is shining in its own way. Ju Fu Fu uses the sound of pot lids to beat out the rhythm of life and the deepest voice of human nature.