On the night of September 30, students at Anhui Normal University were preparing to sleep when social media suddenly exploded. Screenshots began circulating on Weibo: a student card balance had mysteriously increased by 150 yuan. No prior notice, no official announcement—even the counselors looked puzzled.

Within minutes, dormitory buildings went from silence to chaos. “I got it too!” echoed through the halls as students rushed to check their accounts. Parents were equally astonished: one mother replied in the family group chat, “So thoughtful! No need to send mooncakes this year.”

Traditionally, the university issued Mid-Autumn vouchers for six small mooncakes stamped with the school emblem. This year, however, things changed. Instead of coupons, every student received a direct cash transfer of 150 yuan.

According to the finance office, the funds came from an alumni business donation originally earmarked for a campus construction project. But after hearing that students were not thrilled about the “hard” mooncakes, the donor made a bold choice: “The building can wait—let’s make the kids happy first.” As a result, 26,000 students simultaneously found an “invisible red envelope” in their accounts.

The news went viral within half an hour, reaching 420 million views on Weibo in just half a day. A TikTok clip using the card notification sound racked up 260 million plays. The most-liked comment summed up the envy in just five words: “Is it too late to transfer?” Students from other universities flooded Anhui Normal’s official social media with playful complaints: “Look at them!” Meanwhile, Anhui students proudly set their balance screenshot as profile photos, captioned: “+150, thanks to my alma mater.”

One campus counselor explained the deeper meaning: “It’s not about the money. What students feel is the comfort of being quietly cared for.”

Indeed, 150 yuan cannot buy a graphics card or pay rent, but it can buy an extra fried rice with sausage and egg for an exhausted graduate exam candidate, or cover a train ticket for a student in a long-distance relationship. Educational experts praised the move: “Holiday care should be like this—no slogans, no fuss. Just real support that warms both stomach and heart.”

The first day after the holiday, long lines formed at the cafeteria—not for food, but for photo ops. That simple balance update had become the warmest memory of autumn 2025. Some students vowed to save the gift until graduation as a “time capsule.” Others immediately topped up their parents’ phone bills to pass on the joy.

With just 150 yuan, Anhui Normal University showed what love looks like: silent, practical, and meaningful. It landed not in speeches or ceremonies, but directly in meal cards, milk tea cups, and every small moment of being remembered.