When I was about 7, I often played games in our yard with four pals, who were one or two years older.

One winter day the sun was glorious. We played hard and got tired, so we roamed the yard. Approaching the gate, we found on the street outside an old man lugging behind him a big round stove, which was used to roast sweet potatoes. It was a potato man.

He was progressing ahead slow but steady, yelling, “Sweet potatoes, hot and warm sweet potatoes.” His clothes were in tatters, face smudged and wrinkled. He was a picture of penury but his smile was genuine.

When he saw us kids, he paused. To my surprise, he beckoned me to go over. And I did. He picked out a lukewarm potato and put it in my hand. “It’s free for you, girl,” he said. Although my parents often warned me not to accept food from strangers, yet the temptation of eating the unexpected treat got the better of me. It tasted great.

Year after year, I had wished to meet the potato man again, but such a chance never presented itself. Because his image came back to my mind repeatedly, I suspected that the entire experience might have been one of my dreams where I desired to meet my grandad. I had lost Grandad very early on. I shared my idea with Dad, who said that very likely the potato man was the work of my fancy. I was a bit sad.

Time flew and I turned 14. One afternoon that winter, just days before the Spring Festival, Dad and I were taking a walk in an almost deserted lane when a potato man was coming in our direction. He was lugging behind him a big round stove. The man was old and in rags. The nearer he came to us, the more excited I became.

Tugging at Dad’s sleeve, I whispered, “Look, Dad. It is the man who gave me a potato so many years ago. It is him. I recognised him.”

Feeling the excitement in my tone, Dad took out his wallet and gave me a 50-yuan banknote. I walked up to the potato man and asked him to get me a potato, a small one.

The man picked a well roasted potato, still nice and warm, from the stove. He got it weighed and wrapped in a paper before it was handed over to me.

I passed the 50-yuan bill to him and ran away. I ignored the voice coming from behind, which was pleading with me to wait and get the change.

Even today, I still have no clue why the man gave me a potato for free in the first place the winter I was seven. One of my hypotheses is that the sight of me probably evoked memories of his family or his own granddaughter.