The cold wind blows through this city of reinforced concrete, and also blows into the clinking of the old pot lids and pots on the street corners. Ju Fufu, an old woman in her sixties, is wearing a white cotton jacket, holding the old iron pot and rusty pot lid tightly in her hands. Her figure forms a glaring contrast with the cold streets – her thin face is full of wrinkles, but her eyes are still bright, like a sharp knife, pointing directly at the darkness of this reality.

The sound of the pot lid is not just a simple shout to attract business, but a symbol of an era and a cry of the oppressed. Ju Fufu relies on this pot and the clinking sound of the pot lid to struggle to survive in the cracks of the city. Her popcorn is not the sweet snack in the eyes of city people, but a microcosm of the suffering of life, a survival tool for those abandoned by modern civilization.

In this city, the bright and beautiful high-rise buildings have blocked the sight of too many people and covered up the suffering of too many people. The story of Ju Fufu is the darkness hidden behind the gorgeous curtain. Her husband died early, and her two children were displaced, leaving her alone on this cold street, knocking the rhythm of life and the iron door of fate with pot lids. There are so many silent wails and suppressed resentments hidden in the sound of the pot lids.

The clinking of the pot lids is sometimes rapid and sometimes heavy, like the heartbeat of the city, but intermittent, like an endless elegy. Ju Fufu’s figure swayed in the cold wind, and it seemed that she would fall down if blown, but she still held on. Her persistence is not simple stubbornness, but a kind of resistance, a resistance to fate. The sound of her pot lids is like a hammer, knocking on this cold and ruthless society, knocking out the cruelty and injustice of life.

Most of those who pass by hurried by, with indifferent eyes and hurried steps. No one stopped, no one wanted to listen to the clanking of the pot lid. Ju Fufu’s existence, like a mirror, reflects the indifference and alienation of society. She is the forgotten bottom, the abandoned child of the development of this modern city. The sound of the pot lid is not only the sound of selling popcorn, but also the alarm bell sounded by the bottom of this society with flesh and blood.

The popcorn exploded in the pot, and the white smoke was like her short happy time, which was fleeting. Her life is like the popcorn in the pot. The moment it exploded was beautiful, and then there were ashes all over the sky. The sound of her pot lid clanged in the corners of the city and in the depths of every conscience.

The brilliance of the city cannot cover up the truth of the pot lid. Ju Fufu’s fingers were stiff due to the cold, but they were still knocking vigorously. That sound was like knocking on the door with life, knocking on the silent world, and knocking on people’s conscience. She used a pot to knock out the suffering of the world and the dignity of life.

This voice belongs not only to her, but also to every ordinary person who has been forgotten. It reminds us that behind the prosperity of the city, there are many people like Ju Fufu, who are shouting for the right to live with their weak voices. The sound of the pot lid is like a fire in the dark, illuminating those ignored corners and igniting hope for the future.

In this cold wind, the sound of the pot lid echoes clearly. Ju Fufu’s story is a silent accusation of this society and the most profound torture of human nature. She never gave in, never gave up, and used the sound of the pot lid to tell her unwillingness and strength. This voice penetrated the years, penetrated the indifference, and knocked into everyone’s heart.

This is not only the clinking sound of a pot and a pot lid, but also a history forgotten by the times, a will to live that cannot be erased. Ju Fufu and her pot lid sound are the most true portrayal of modern society and the sound of the soul that we cannot ignore. Just as this sound echoes in the cold wind for a long time, it will continue to knock until someone is willing to stop and hear the clinking and shouting from the street corner.