It all began with a piece of land.
The old house in Bianjiawa stood at the eastern edge of the village—three earthen rooms, with an ancient locust tree behind it.
It had been planted by Bian Shoutian’s father—the grandfather of Feifei—by his own hand.
The grandfather had died young, and the house had never been divided; ever since, it had belonged solely to Bian Shoutian.
The east room was where people lived, the west room stored grain, and the central hall held his grandfather’s ancestral tablet.
That autumn, Uncle Bian Shouye returned from town.
He ran a small shop in town and had grown prosperous, which made him brash in speech.
As soon as he entered, he plopped down on the kang without even removing his shoes and said, “Shoutian, it’s time to divide the house.
This plot of land was left by our father—you can’t just keep it all for yourself.”
Bian Shoutian was squatting by the door chopping firewood, his axe frozen mid-air.
“Brother,” he said quietly, “I’m living here, and my father’s tablet is inside.
I haven’t said I won’t give you anything, but how exactly do we divide it?”
“What’s there to divide!” Uncle snapped, waving his hand dismissively.
“I’ll pay to renovate the west room—it’ll be used for my son’s wedding.
You and Guiying move closer to the edge of the village.” He pointed toward the village entrance.
“There’s an empty lot north of the ditch—I’ve already asked the production team, and it’s okay to build there.”
Guiying listened from the kitchen, where water boiled in the pot, sending white steam rising in waves.
But she couldn’t hear.
Second Uncle and Third Aunt arrived one after another, each taking a seat in the hall, their words sharp as needles: “Shoutian, your leg isn’t good anymore—you can’t farm this much land.” “Yes, your family of three doesn’t need such a big house.” “Guiying is mute anyway; life’s hard enough—moving would make things quieter.”
They called it discussion, yet not a single person asked whether Bian Shoutian agreed.
That night, Bian Shoutian sat蹲 under the locust tree smoking, the red tip of his cigarette flickering on and off.
Bian Feifei crouched beside him, too afraid to speak.
She saw her father’s hand trembling in the dark, again and again.
“Dad,” she whispered, “are we really moving?”
Bian Shoutian fell silent for a long moment before answering, “Houses are dead things; people are alive.
Fine, let’s move.”
“What about my locust tree?”
“It can’t be moved,” he sighed, gently touching his daughter’s head.
“If you uproot a tree, it dies.
If you uproot a person, they die too.
But if you move, you might still live.”
The day of the move didn’t rain, but the sky remained gloomy.
Neighbors gathered along the walls watching, offering no help. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Uncle directed several strong laborers, who carried out belongings from the east room piece by piece.
Once everything was gone, the door was locked and new couplets pasted on.
Guiying stood in the yard, clutching a bundle, glancing back once at the door that had closed over a dozen years ago.
A sound escaped her throat—a soft “ah”—and tears fell.
Their new home was a half-collapsed ruin on the empty lot north of the ditch.
The walls were damp at the base, the roof leaked light, and the wind made the door creak.
Bian Feifei stood at the threshold, staring for a long while.
She had an excellent memory.
She remembered every year, every day, every word spoken by whom.
She kept these memories in her heart, packing them tightly like objects hidden behind a brick, filling it completely.
That night, she wrote no composition for the first time.
Lighting the half-burnt candle brought from the old house, she wrote on a scrap of paper she’d found: “The old house is gone.
They say it’s for my own good.”
When finished, she folded the paper into a tiny square, slipped it into a crack in the wall of the new house, and sealed it with mud.
She didn’t know then that the coldness she recorded that night would later become a nail driven deep into her heart, impossible to pull out.
All she knew was that from now on, life at home would only grow harder.
At night, her father often woke from pain in his leg, gasping breath after breath.
And she stood in the darkness, like that immovable locust tree, learning for the first time that some roots are severed violently by others.