For a long time, I couldn't even afford food and clothing. I

Host: The factory floor lay quiet under the late evening sky, a cavern of steel, echo, and forgotten work. The air was thick with the smell of oil and dust, the machines asleep after another long day of human labor. Through the broken windows, the city lights flickered faintly in the distance — like stars that had decided to live lower, closer to the ground.

Jack sat on a stack of old wooden crates, his shirt sleeves rolled up, grease staining his hands. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a fallen piece of pipe, her notebook balanced on her knees. Between them, a single light bulb swung on its wire, casting slow, uneven shadows across the concrete floor.

They’d stayed behind after a long shift, the kind where the hours grind through your bones, where silence feels like a wage you’ve earned.

Jeeny: “Zong Qinghou once said, ‘For a long time, I couldn’t even afford food and clothing. I climbed from the very bottom of the society.’”

Jack: “Yeah. The kind of story people love to repeat when they want to believe the system works.”

Host: The light bulb flickered, humming softly like an exhausted memory. Jeeny looked up, her eyes deep, reflecting the bulb’s faint halo.

Jeeny: “It’s not about the system working, Jack. It’s about someone refusing to stay where it broke them. Zong built one of the biggest companies in China from nothing. He started selling ice pops and bottled drinks on the street. That’s not privilege — that’s grit.”

Jack: “Grit doesn’t always win. For every Zong Qinghou, there are a million people who never make it out of that bottom. Luck has a bigger hand in success than anyone likes to admit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But luck doesn’t show up for people who stop trying. Climbing from the bottom isn’t about luck — it’s about refusing to die where you fell.”

Host: The wind pushed against the windows, rattling the loose glass. Somewhere, a cat yowled in the alley — the voice of the city’s underside, unpolished and raw.

Jack: “You talk like pain is some kind of blessing. You know what the bottom feels like? It’s not poetic. It’s hungry. It’s standing in line for rice and pretending you’re not embarrassed. It’s wearing the same shoes for five winters. I’ve been there. There’s no ‘art’ in that kind of survival.”

Jeeny: “No one said it was art. But it’s truth. Zong Qinghou didn’t glamorize it either. He said it plainly: ‘I couldn’t even afford food and clothing.’ That’s the part everyone skips when they tell his story. The dirt under the nails. The hunger. The humiliation. The courage it takes not to stay bitter. That’s what matters.”

Jack: “And yet the world doesn’t reward courage — it rewards profit. He made it because he found a product that sold, not because the universe decided to be fair.”

Jeeny: “Maybe success doesn’t need to be fair to still be meaningful. Maybe the climb itself is the point.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but her words struck with quiet force. The light bulb swayed gently, painting her face in alternating bands of light and shadow — half faith, half fatigue.

Jack: “You sound like every motivational poster I’ve ever ignored.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten how far he’s already climbed.”

Jack: “Climbed? I’m still one paycheck from falling. The ladder just looks taller from here.”

Host: A long pause. The silence between them grew heavy, like dust settling after a storm.

Jeeny: “You ever read about how Zong used to sleep in his shop? He’d wake up at dawn, make deliveries himself because he couldn’t afford workers. He didn’t talk about dreams — he talked about survival. And yet, he said he was grateful. Can you imagine that? Grateful while starving.”

Jack: “Gratitude doesn’t fill an empty stomach.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps you moving until you find something that does.”

Host: The light bulb buzzed louder now, the filament glowing a deep orange. Jack rubbed his temples, his fingers leaving faint smudges of grease across his skin.

Jack: “You think everyone can climb like him? You think everyone has the strength?”

Jeeny: “Not everyone, no. But someone has to. Someone has to prove it’s possible.”

Jack: “That’s a cruel kind of hope, Jeeny. The kind that keeps people working for a dream they’ll never see.”

Jeeny: “It’s not cruelty — it’s necessity. Hope is the only thing that costs nothing when you’ve lost everything else.”

Host: The rain began outside, slow and uncertain, tapping against the roof like a hesitant confession. The factory seemed to breathe with it — a vast, weary creature waiting for morning.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like Zong? Not the money. The endurance. The ability to keep walking through humiliation like it’s just weather.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. That’s what he understood. The storm always passes, Jack. But only for those still standing when it does.”

Jack: “And what about those who fall before it clears?”

Jeeny: “Then we climb for them too.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled — not from weakness, but from something like reverence. Jack looked at her, and for a moment, the sharpness in his eyes dimmed. The light caught on a single tear she hadn’t noticed, tracing down her cheek before disappearing into the fabric of her collar.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That every climb means something.”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s left? Just numbers and luck?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s all there ever was.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. If that were true, people like Zong wouldn’t exist. He wasn’t supposed to make it. But he did. And every time someone like that climbs, it cracks open the ceiling just a little for the rest of us.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, a steady percussion against the factory roof. The sound filled the empty space, wrapping around them like an old blanket.

Jack: “You know… when I first started here, I used to eat instant noodles every night. Slept in the storeroom for a year. Told everyone I was ‘saving on rent.’ Truth is, I couldn’t afford one.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I own a car I can’t afford to fuel. Progress, right?”

Jeeny: “Progress isn’t measured in things, Jack. It’s measured in distance from despair.”

Host: The light bulb flickered again — once, twice — and then held steady, humming softly. Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that knows both defeat and defiance.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the bottom isn’t a curse. Maybe it’s just the first chapter.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Zong didn’t climb because he wanted luxury — he climbed because hunger has a voice that doesn’t let you sleep.”

Jack: “And when he finally reached the top?”

Jeeny: “He built schools. Hired workers from his old neighborhood. He remembered the ground he came from — that’s what made him great.”

Host: The factory clock struck midnight. The rain eased into silence. The air felt cleaner somehow — washed of something heavy.

Jack: “Funny. I used to think success meant leaving the bottom behind. Now I think maybe it’s just learning to carry it with you without shame.”

Jeeny: “That’s what climbing really is. Carrying the weight — but still rising.”

Host: They stood, gathering their things, the light still swinging gently above them. Jack reached for the switch, but paused. The light threw their shadows across the floor — tall, distorted, yet undeniably human.

He looked at Jeeny and smiled — weary, real.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the real business of living. Not getting rich. Just refusing to stay small.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The richest climb isn’t made of money — it’s made of miles survived.”

Host: The light clicked off. The darkness took its place — soft, not empty — like a curtain closing at the end of a long play. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the first faint light of dawn edged across the horizon.

And in that silence — in the echo of the machines, the ghosts of labor, the promise of another day — their footprints remained: two small proofs that even from the bottom, the climb still continues.