Su Huaijin sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the tightly shut door, her heartbeat still a little fast.
What had just happened felt like a dream.
That man who was always fierce and growling at her to “get lost” had actually defended her and shut down every wife in the compound for her sake.
“Cheng Beitang…”
Her fingertips gently rubbed over the stack of money and ration coupons in her hands.
It was what Cheng Beitang had stuffed into her hands earlier.
It wasn’t much—just a small wad of crumpled bills, barely twenty yuan altogether. There were quite a few grain and fabric coupons though, softened by sweat from being carried around so long.
Su Huaijin had never lived a hard life, but even she knew this was probably all the money the man had.
“Idiot.”
She muttered the word, but the corners of her lips still curled upward.
Looking around at the room that resembled a pigsty, Su Huaijin sighed, carefully hung up her silk dress, and rolled up her sleeves.
“Fine. For the sake of the milk candy and this money, this young lady will generously help clean up your doghouse.”
It was the first time in Miss Su’s life that she had voluntarily done housework.
…
As she cleaned, Su Huaijin finally realized just how rough Cheng Beitang’s life really was.
Cigarette butts under the table.
Mismatched socks stuffed beneath the bed.
Dust thick across the windowsill.
Holding a rag and suppressing her disgust, she wiped everything little by little.
When she crouched down to sweep years of dirt out from under the bed, the broom suddenly hit something hard.
Clang.
The sound was dull and metallic.
Su Huaijin froze.
She lowered herself and squinted into the deepest corner under the bed.
In the darkness sat a black iron box covered in dust and cobwebs, as though it had been hidden there for many years.
“What’s this?”
Curiosity scratched at her like a cat’s claws.
Could this be Cheng Beitang’s secret stash of money?
Her eyes lit up instantly.
If there was a lot of cash inside, maybe she could pay a local villager for a sleeper train ticket back to Beijing. Even if the man wasn’t bad, she truly couldn’t survive in this place.
Stretching out her arm with difficulty, she dragged the iron box out.
It was heavy.
An old-fashioned biscuit tin, its paint rusted and peeling away, revealing a dark reddish layer beneath that looked disturbingly like dried blood.
There was no lock on the lid, only a tightly fastened clasp.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Su Huaijin dusted it off, took a deep breath, and pulled hard.
Click.
The rusty lid opened.
A stale paper smell mixed with faint gunpowder drifted out.
Full of anticipation, she looked inside.
But the smile on her lips froze instantly.
There was no money.
Not a single cent.
The box was instead packed full of neatly stacked papers and several small medals wrapped in red cloth.
“What is this…”
For some reason, Su Huaijin’s heart skipped a beat.
Her fingers trembling, she picked up the stack of envelopes on top.
The envelopes had yellowed with age, each one stamped with a postmark.
She pulled out a remittance receipt.
[Sender: Cheng Beitang. Recipient: Zhao Xiulan (mother of martyr Wang Dali). Amount: 15 yuan. Message: Dali is gone. I’ll be your son from now on.]
Su Huaijin’s hand shook violently.
She pulled out another.
[Sender: Cheng Beitang. Recipient: Li Cuihua (widow of martyr Zhang Erniu). Amount: 10 yuan.]
A third. A fourth.
The entire thick stack was filled with remittance stubs.
The dates stretched across ten years. Every single month, without fail.
The recipients were scattered all across the country, but every one of them was the family of a fallen comrade.
Su Huaijin stared at the amounts written there.
15 yuan. 10 yuan. 5 yuan…
In an era where military stipends were only a few dozen yuan a month, he had sent away nearly all his money.
No wonder he lived in such a shabby house.
No wonder he wore patched underwear.
No wonder even his toothbrush was worn bald and he still refused to replace it…
It felt like a wet lump of cotton had been stuffed into her chest, clogging her breath.
She carefully put the remittance slips back down and looked toward the red booklets beneath them.
That red color was painfully vivid.
Her fingers turned cold as she picked up the first booklet and opened it.
A black-and-white photograph came into view.
The man in the photo looked seventy percent like Cheng Beitang. He wore an old military uniform and smiled honestly.
[Certificate of Revolutionary Martyr. Comrade Cheng Weiguo heroically sacrificed during the 1962 border self-defense counterattack. Approved by the Ministry of Civil Affairs of the People’s Republic of China.]
This was… Cheng Beitang’s father?
Her hands shook even harder.
She picked up the second booklet.
[Comrade Cheng Donghui (eldest brother), sacrificed in 1970 while carrying out a mine-clearing mission.]
The third.
[Comrade Cheng Nanjun (second brother), sacrificed in 1974 during flood rescue operations while saving drowning civilians.]
One booklet.
Two.
Three.
Inside this small rusted iron box rested the souls of the entire Cheng family.
The world spun around Su Huaijin.
Grandfather had only told her the Cheng family came from loyal martyrs and that marrying into the family was a way of repaying a debt of gratitude.
But he never said they were a family of martyrs to this extent.
Every male in the family was dead.
Only Cheng Beitang remained.
Looking at the empty room, Su Huaijin suddenly understood where Cheng Beitang’s coldness came from.
It wasn’t indifference.
It was the weight of the dead he carried on his back.
He had survived by stepping over the corpses of his father and brothers.
He didn’t dare laugh.
Didn’t dare spend money.
Didn’t even dare love someone.
Because he was always prepared to go join them at any moment.
Without warning, tears crashed down her face.
Plop.
A teardrop landed on the last sheet of paper at the bottom of the box.
It was the newest paper inside.
The page was still white, the handwriting still fresh. The ink had not even fully dried.
Through blurry tears, Su Huaijin made out the words.
It was Cheng Beitang’s handwriting—powerful strokes pressing deep into the paper, every word written like a final farewell.
[Last Will and Testament]
[If I, Cheng Beitang, die during a mission, I request the organization transfer all of my compensation funds and military savings to my wife, Comrade Su Huaijin.]
[She is delicate and has never suffered hardship. Leave this money for her protection and send her back to Beijing. I hope the organization approves.]
[Date: June 12, 1983.]
That date…
It was the day before she arrived at the Northwestern Military District.
Which meant before he had ever seen her—before he even knew what she looked like—he had already prepared himself to die for his country and had already accepted her as his final responsibility.
With his mouth, he said things like “annoying,” “get lost,” and “divorce.”
But hidden inside this rusted iron box, he had left all the money earned with his life to her without reservation.
“Liar…”
Su Huaijin clutched the thin will tightly, trembling as she cried.
“Cheng Beitang, you big liar!”
She had thought this was nothing more than an absurd arranged marriage, two strangers forcibly tied together.
But to him, this was a promise he intended to fulfill even in death.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want a wife.
He was afraid that one day he would die and leave his wife a widow, so he desperately tried to push her away.
“Wuuu…”
Hugging her knees, Su Huaijin sat on the cold concrete floor, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
Her heart hurt.
It hurt so much it felt ready to shatter.
For this foolish giant.
For this man who swallowed every bit of suffering alone.