Chapter 18: Not Forever
848 Words
Nora was not easy to know.
That became clear quickly.
Leo could tell me half the factory's gossip in one meal break. Who was dating whom, which supervisor gambled, which line paid late last winter, which vending machine stole coins.
Nora gave information like she was signing out tools from storage.
Necessary.
Specific.
No extra.
She was twenty-six.
She had worked quality inspection for two years.
She rented a room two streets from the factory.
She took freelance design jobs when she could find them.
She liked black coffee, hated sweet milk tea, and carried bandages because "people are careless around sharp edges."
That was all I learned in two weeks.
It was more than she learned from me.
At least, more than I said.
But Nora watched.
She noticed that I wrote notes during breaks.
She noticed that I checked product codes faster than most workers.
She noticed that I went to the small business district on my days off wearing my old office shirt, then returned with tired eyes and cheap steamed buns.
One morning, after shift, she walked beside me toward the bus stop.
"You are not only working here," she said.
I adjusted the backpack on my shoulder.
"No."
"Looking for office work?"
"At first."
"And now?"
"Trying something else."
"What?"
I hesitated.
The instinct to hide was strong.
Not because I did not trust her.
Because dreams looked ridiculous before they had money attached.
"Small business consulting," I said finally.
She did not laugh.
"For factories?"
"Factories, shops, small brands. Many of them have products but no clear sales story."
"Sales story?"
"Why a customer should care. Why this product and not another. Why now."
She thought about that.
"That sounds useful."
"It sounds useful. Convincing people to pay for it is different."
"Do you have clients?"
"One small product page. Three hundred."
"Three hundred is not zero."
I looked at her.
She said it so simply that I almost believed it.
We reached the bus stop. The first bus arrived, packed tight with factory workers.
Nora did not get on.
"Not yours?" I asked.
"I can walk."
"It's twenty minutes."
"Good. I need air."
I looked at the bus.
Then at the road ahead.
I was exhausted.
My bed was calling like a paid vacation.
But I stepped away from the bus line.
"I'll walk too."
She glanced at me.
"You need sleep."
"I need air."
"You are copying me."
"Learning from quality inspection."
The corner of her mouth moved.
We walked through streets waking up for the day. Breakfast stalls steamed. Delivery riders checked orders. A man sprayed water in front of his shop, pushing dust into the gutter.
Southport in the morning looked nothing like the city I left.
Rougher.
Less polished.
More alive.
At a corner, Nora bought two soy milk drinks from a vendor.
She handed me one.
"I owe you?" I asked.
"You can owe everyone if you keep count like that."
"I used to keep count for a living."
"Maybe stop doing it with breakfast."
I accepted the cup.
The soy milk was hot enough to burn my fingers.
"What kind of design jobs do you do?" I asked.
"Posters. Menus. Product images. Sometimes ugly logos people insist are beautiful."
"Can I see?"
She stopped walking for half a second.
"Why?"
"Because if I ever get real clients, I may need someone who can make my words look less poor."
"Your words are poor?"
"My PowerPoints used to be expensive. My current laptop disagrees."
She considered that.
Then she pulled out her phone and opened a folder.
The designs were simple but clean. Product posters, social media banners, a tea shop menu, a set of labels for handmade soap. Nothing fancy. Everything clear.
"These are good," I said.
"They are acceptable."
"No. Good."
She looked away.
"People usually ask for cheaper after saying that."
"I know the feeling."
We walked again.
Near her street, she stopped.
"Send me one of your small projects."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see if your sales story is as useful as you think."
"And if it is?"
"Then maybe I will make it look less poor."
I smiled.
"How much?"
"Later."
"Nora."
"Later," she repeated. "If you become rich, hotpot. If not, soy milk."
"That's a risky payment plan."
"I inspect risk for a living."
She turned toward her building.
"Sleep, Ethan."
"You too."
She walked away.
That afternoon, I sent her the product page project I had done for a phone case seller. She replied four hours later with a redesigned layout.
Cleaner product hierarchy.
Better image placement.
Headlines that actually breathed.
The seller messaged me that night.
Looks more professional. Can you help with two more products?
I stared at the message in my tiny room.
Three hundred became nine hundred.
Not much.
Not enough to rebuild a life.
But Nora was right.
It was not zero.
I looked at the scrap of paper above my desk.
Right now does not mean forever.
For the first time, the sentence felt less like comfort and more like a plan.
- Writer
