The Picky Landlord in the Old Building
The peeling paint on the wall looked especially glaring under the light; a patch of pale gray paint hung suspended in midair, as if about to fall at any moment.
I stopped in my tracks, staring at that patch of paint for two seconds before quickly averting my eyes—there were more important things to focus on now.
The edges of the rental contract in my hand were already wrinkled from the sweat of my palm.
My fingertips repeatedly brushed over the printed address on the paper, and with each touch, my hope grew a little more: No. 28, X Street, Room 302.
This is the place I will call "home" for at least the next year.
It has been almost a month since I arrived in this city to find work.
Before, I had been cramped on a friend's sofa, waking before dawn every day, afraid of disturbing their family; After evening interviews, rushing back to a pitch-dark living room at my friend's place, I had to quietly fumble in the dark just to find some water.
That feeling of being a burden, like a tiny thorn stuck in my heart—not painful, but always making me uneasy.
Leaving early and returning late for interviews every day, there was always a stone weighing heavily in my chest.
Sometimes, when an interview doesn't go well, stepping out of the company building and watching the endless flow of people on the street, I suddenly feel a deep loneliness, with nowhere to rest my feet.
One evening, after an interview, it was already past eight o'clock when a light rain began. Without an umbrella, I had no choice but to take shelter under the bus stop awning.
Watching cars splash water as they passed by and listening to raindrops pattering on the awning, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts, unsure of whom to call to share my troubles.
That day, I stood under the awning for nearly an hour, only starting to walk slowly back to my friend's place when the rain finally eased.
Until three days ago, when I found this listing on the rental app, my eyes lit up—I was surprised to see the rent was nearly thirty percent lower than similar apartments nearby, and it was only two subway stops away from the company where I'd recently interviewed.
I quickly opened the listing details; the photos looked very genuine. The living room was clean and tidy, the bedroom had good natural light, and although the kitchen and bathroom appeared a bit old, they were neatly maintained.
I looked over it several times, afraid I might have misread the information, and compared it against other similar listings to be sure this was definitely the best value for money.
The landlord's reply on the app was brief, simply saying "Keep it clean and pay rent on time," without any complicated demands.
At the time, I just took it as a stroke of luck and didn't think much before immediately arranging a viewing.
To avoid the landlord reconsidering, I even went to the supermarket a day early to buy a fruit basket, picking fresh apples and oranges, hoping to leave a good impression when we met.
This afternoon, I arrived half an hour early outside No. 28, X Street.
The residential community was an old apartment building without an elevator. The iron gate at the stairwell entrance was rusty and let out a creak when pushed open.
The stairwell floor was covered in red cement, worn white in places, revealing the gray cement underneath.
I carried the fruit basket, climbing step by step. With every floor I climbed, sounds from the neighbors reached me — children's cries, news broadcasts from televisions, and the coughs of the elderly.
These scattered sounds, unlike the cold silence of the office building, suddenly made me feel grounded, as if I were truly beginning to belong here, carving out a small corner of my own.
When I reached the third floor, the door of Room 301 suddenly opened.
The door was opened by a woman of about fifty, wearing a dark blue cotton apron, its hem dusted with a few spots of flour, as if she had just been busy in the kitchen.
She looked at me and paused for a moment, probably not expecting me this early. Then her face blossomed into a smile; the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes creased, making her seem particularly warm: "You must be the young lady renting Room 302? Finally, you've arrived. Come in quickly—it's hot outside, isn't it? I just made some chilled mung bean soup. Would you like a bowl?"
I quickly shook my head and handed over the fruit basket, my voice a little nervous, my hand trembling slightly: "No trouble at all, Ms. I'm just here to look at the house. This is a small token; please accept it."
She took the fruit basket, glanced at the apples and oranges inside, and smiled, "You're too polite, child."
After saying that, she casually placed the fruit basket on the low cabinet by the door.
The low cabinet was dark brown, its surface scratched in places. On top sat an old enamel cup with the words "Model Worker" printed in red. The characters were somewhat faded but still clear.
Then she turned and led me inside. "Come on, I'll take you to see Room 302; it's right across from mine." I've lived in this house by myself for over ten years. After my child settled in another city, living alone in such a big place felt strangely empty. So, I thought about renting it out—partly to have some income, but also so someone else could help keep an eye on things.
Room 302 is a two-bedroom, one living room apartment. It's not very large, about sixty square meters, but it's kept very neat. A faint scent of soap lingers in the air.
The living room floor is light brown hardwood, polished to a shine, faintly reflecting the shadow of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
The chandelier is an old-fashioned crystal lamp. Though it has aged, the crystal pendants still shine brightly.
An antique rosewood sofa sits in the center of the living room. The armrests are worn, but the cushions remain flat and firm, topped with an off-white knitted pillow. The pillow's edges are frayed, clearly showing signs of long use.
In the corner, the pothos drapes down, its vines winding twice around the flower stand. The leaves are lush and green, still dotted with water droplets, bringing a touch of life to the room.
The master bedroom faces south, with large windows and white curtains drawn open. Sunshine pours into more than half the room, casting a warm glow on the floor.
The room holds a one-and-a-half-meter bed, its headboard painted off-white, with patches where the paint has chipped away, revealing the wood underneath.
Next to the headboard is a small desk made of light wood, topped with an old-fashioned desk lamp. The lampshade is pale blue, and the lamp's stand bears a few faint scratches.
The smaller second bedroom is about eight square meters but still airy, its window facing the residential community's garden. Below, the leaves of the plane tree sway gently in the breeze.
Although the kitchen and bathroom were a little outdated, with old-fashioned copper faucets that had darkened from oxidation, the taps still worked smoothly.
The bathroom tiles were somewhat yellowed, and a few old newspapers were plastered to the walls, likely to prevent the tiles from falling off.
But whether it was the kitchen or the bathroom, everything was clean, without a hint of odor; even the surface of the kitchen's range hood was wiped spotless, and there wasn't a trace of grease in the tile gaps beside the stove.
"Your place is really clean," I said. I truly admired it, already resolved in my heart to rent it, even beginning to imagine how I would arrange my things.
She smiled even more warmly, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening, her smile especially genuine: "I'm just someone who loves cleanliness. When I lived here before, I cleaned the floors every day and even scrubbed the grout in the kitchen tiles with a toothbrush. Now that I'm renting it to you, I hope you'll keep it the same way. We have to be considerate of each other."
I nodded repeatedly, afraid she might change her mind, my tone especially sincere: "Rest assured, I will take good care of the house, just as if it were my own.""I usually keep things tidy. I won't leave the room in a mess, and everything will be neatly put away."
That afternoon, I signed the rental contract.
The contract was printed by the landlord on ordinary A4 paper; the edges were a bit rough, but the terms were clearly written without any ambiguity.
The rent is 2,200 per month, with a deposit and three months' rent paid upfront. Utilities are paid separately, and it specifies that if the rent is late, a daily penalty of one percent of the rent will be charged.
I carefully read through the contract once more. After confirming there were no issues, I took out the cash I had prepared earlier from my bag.
The cash was something I had deliberately withdrawn from the bank the day before, stacked neatly, bill by bill. I counted out eight thousand eight hundred and handed it to her.
She took the money and sat down on the living room sofa, counting the bills carefully twice. After confirming the amount was correct, she took a set of keys from the drawer and handed them to me.
The keychain was black, holding two silver keys and a small brass key fob.
"These are the keys to 302—two in total. Keep them safe." The payment slips for water, electricity, and gas bills will be sent to the mailbox by your door every month. Remember to pay on time; if you're late, a late fee will be charged. Also, don't leave garbage piled up in the stairwell by your door. There's a trash bin downstairs, and someone collects the trash every night at seven. If you forget, I sometimes help by taking it down for you, but I don't want to be a bother.
"Okay, I'll remember everything, Ms. Thank you for the reminder; I definitely won't forget." I answered one by one, clutching the key tightly in my hand. The metallic touch brought a sense of relief—the heavy weight that had been pressing on me for a month finally lifted, leaving me feeling much lighter.
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