Qiao Yujie pushed the door open with the enamel basin in her arms, set it on the table with a thud, and let out a puff of white breath.
A bath was bliss in the moment, but cleaning up afterward was murder. She glanced at the two huge sacks and the trunk.
The stitching on the sacks was still intact. Most of what was inside were odds and ends from the Guangdong home, plus the clothes Grandma had made for her over the years. It was the old woman’s only hobby.
The original owner had hauled them from Guangdong to the capital, then here. A month, and she’d never opened them.
Now, with her future uncertain, it wasn’t a good time to start.
She bent down, dug out a pair of thick socks, and pulled them on, then stepped into a pair of black suede cotton shoes.
Her toes curled inside them. Standing on solid ground, she finally felt a bit of that down-to-earth vitality return.
She rummaged through the trunk, quick and efficient, picking only the new and the good-looking.
Rule one of a modern person: if you have the means, never shortchange yourself.
Even in 1975.
She picked out an army-green woolen coat and put it on.
In this era, army green was a pass all on its own. Walk anywhere and you’d carry three extra degrees of backbone.
She added a dark gray beret and a pair of date-red half-finger gloves.
Before she could put them on, Gu Mingyang’s voice rang out from outside the door, full-throated, vibrating through the door panel.
“Comrades! Dinner!”
Qiao Yujie tucked the gloves into her pocket, pulled the hat onto her head, and quickly smoothed her half-dry hair in the mirror.
The mirror reflected bright features, lips faintly red from the hot water, like a freshly bitten cherry.
She winked at the girl in the mirror. The fresh, vivid look of twenty-one. The calm composure of thirty-four.
She turned and opened the door. Cold wind rushed in, and she shivered, then went back to grab a cream-white scarf and drape it loosely around her neck.
She couldn’t let this newly recovered, tender face freeze.
After a moment’s thought, she dug out a small cloth bag from the trunk, packed her enamel mug, lunchbox, and chopsticks into it, then counted out some money and ration tickets and tucked them in too.
All set.
She slung the cloth bag over her wrist and pushed the door open to head downstairs.
Her steps were unhurried, her back straight. This was the first advantage she’d revealed in this era.
The confidence forged through thirty-four years didn’t need to be put on. It was simply there.
Downstairs, the five of them had just gathered. Only she was missing.
Gu Mingyang was rubbing his hands and making conversation with Qiao Yuxin. Nothing but pleasantries. “Cold?” “Was the trip hard?”
Qiao Yuxin answered briefly. Mm, ah, it was fine. Three syllables for every question. Her face showed no impatience, just a faint detachment.
Qiao Yurou stood beside Gu Mingsong. Not too close, not too far. Close enough to seem familiar, far enough not to offend.
Every so often she’d turn her head and say a few words to him, her voice soft and gentle.
“Is training hard for you, Brother Gu?” “The winter here is much colder than the capital.”
Gu Mingsong answered each one, his tone warm but polite. Not rude, but not overly friendly either.
Huo Zheng stood on the outermost edge, his cap brim pulled low, half his face hidden in shadow.
His hands were in his pockets, one leg slightly bent, his whole body leaning against a pillar. He looked lazy and indifferent.
Only his gaze flicked, now and then, toward the stairwell, then quickly pulled back.
Qiao Yurou noticed. Her heart sank slightly, but her face betrayed nothing. She kept up her composed smile.
In her past life, Huo Zheng had never been like this.
In her past life, he couldn’t even be bothered to look at her. After they married, he was rarely home, leaving her alone in that cold family compound, enduring year after year.
She’d thought he was like that with all women. But now… she followed his gaze toward the stairwell. Empty. Nothing there.
“Comrade Yurou.” Gu Mingsong’s voice sounded beside her. “Was your journey smooth?”
Qiao Yurou withdrew her gaze and sighed softly, her voice carrying just the right amount of delicate frailty.
“Fairly smooth… just long. My younger sister is young, and she had a hard time adjusting.”
“Your younger sister?” Gu Mingsong tilted his head slightly. “You mean the one from earlier—”
“Yujie.” Qiao Yurou nodded, her tone taking on a note of worry.
“She grew up in Guangdong. She’s hardly ever traveled far from home. She’s been quiet the whole way. And it’s so cold here. I’m worried she—”
She didn’t finish. Footsteps came from the stairwell.
Not heavy, but steady. One after another, unhurried. Everyone’s gaze was drawn over.
First, a cream-white scarf drifted out from around the corner of the stairs, draped casually over one shoulder, one end hanging down her chest, the other flung behind her, lifted by the wind into a soft arc.
Then the army-green woolen coat. The crisp fabric caught a matte sheen in the twilight. Brass buttons fastened neatly. The waist gathered slightly, tracing a clean silhouette.
The hem fell just below her knees, revealing the tops of black suede cotton shoes.
A dark gray beret sat tilted on her head, a few strands of not-quite-dry hair escaping to cling to her temple and ear, trembling faintly in the wind.
A small cloth bag hung from her wrist. Her other hand was tucked into her coat pocket. Her steps were neither fast nor slow.
The moment she stepped out from the corner of the stairs, she lifted her chin slightly, her gaze sweeping lightly over the five people below.
Not sizing them up. Not a timid, tentative glance. A calm, composed appraisal. As if to say: I’m here.
Then the corner of her mouth curved faintly. A greeting, of sorts.
Not warm. Not cold either.
But it was exactly this perfectly measured bearing that instantly seized everyone’s attention.