After the turmoil in the yard, life returned to its surface-level calm. Liu Caixia had sulked for a few days and submitted a vague self-criticism. The deduction of her work points hurt her deeply. Whenever she saw Mu Yao, she deliberately avoided her, yet her eyes held an even deeper malice. The attitudes of others in the yard toward Mu Yao had subtly shifted as well. The overt exclusion lessened, replaced by a more formal distance. Occasionally, she even received one or two unemotional instructions about the work. Aunt Zhang’s voice remained loud, but when assigning tasks, she no longer deliberately gave Mu Yao the hardest or most exhausting jobs—a silent acknowledgment of sorts.
Mu Yao remained silent, burying herself in her work. She strove to do every task in the yard as perfectly as possible—spreading grain evenly under the sun, selecting seeds with exceptional care, carrying heavy sacks without ever complaining. Her clothes were soaked through with sweat, her skin tanned under the sun, her palms blistered and forming new calluses over the old ones. The exhaustion was real, but her heart felt a peculiar steadiness, thanks to that public confrontation and Gu Jingci’s silent “backing.” At least she knew that in this seemingly isolated situation, it was not completely dark. There was a pair of eyes quietly watching, and when necessary, a line would be drawn that no one could cross—his way.
Yet that night in the old literacy class warehouse, the crisp clicking of the abacus beads already felt like a distant memory. She had carefully stored the abacus and old ledgers in a corner of the woodshed, now covered with a thin layer of dust. Returning to the cold woodshed at night, her fingers too tired to move, practicing seemed impossible. The faint light of knowledge seemed temporarily buried under the sun’s scorching heat and the dust of hard labor.
That evening, after work, Mu Yao dragged her leaden legs home. Passing the team office, she happened to see old accountant Xu, carrying a thick stack of ledgers and forms, staggering out from inside and nearly tripping over the threshold.
Instinctively, Mu Yao quickened her pace and steadied him. “Accountant Xu, be careful.”
Old Xu steadied himself, adjusted his glasses, and upon seeing her, sighed. “Ah, getting old, becoming useless. My eyes are nearly failing with all these accounts.” In his hands were summary sheets for spring plowing material losses and preliminary yield estimates, numbers densely packed.
Mu Yao’s eyes scanned the sheets, and her memory of numbers and the abacus was stirred. Hesitating for a moment, she said softly, “Accountant Xu, if… if you don’t mind my clumsy hands, I could… help copy some of these numbers tonight, or lend a hand?” She remembered that Gu Jingci had mentioned old Xu might be overwhelmed.
Old Xu lifted his eyes, examining her carefully. The girl looked tired, yet her eyes were clear, carrying a cautious sincerity. He recalled her diligence in literacy class, her stubbornness with the abacus, and her upright stance during the yard incident a few days ago. This girl was not easy… not ordinary.
“You?” Old Xu clicked his tongue. “You can recognize all these numbers? Can you handle abacus calculations too?”
“I recognize most of them, and I know a little about carrying and subtracting… though not very well,” Mu Yao answered honestly. “I can learn. I promise to be careful and make no mistakes.”
Old Xu pondered. These accounts were complicated and urgent; one person truly struggled. Mu Yao’s background was questionable, but merely copying and checking numbers, without touching the core decisions, seemed… acceptable? And that Gu Jingci boy seemed to have hinted before…
“All right,” Old Xu finally nodded, as if he had made up his mind. “After dinner, come to the warehouse. Remember, just copy and check numbers—don’t ask what you shouldn’t, don’t look at what you shouldn’t. And,” he lowered his voice, “keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I understand! Thank you, Accountant Xu!” Mu Yao felt a surge of excitement and quickly nodded.
That night, after quickly eating a few bites of cold rice, Mu Yao hurried to the old warehouse. Old Xu had already lit the dim lamp and spread out ledgers, forms, and a large black wooden abacus—not the old one she had used, but the team’s heavier, larger one.
“Here, start by copying the numbers from this stack of requisition slips onto this summary sheet by category. After each category, use the small abacus to total, then check it again with my big abacus,” Old Xu instructed, handing her a worn pencil and a few blank sheets.
Mu Yao took a deep breath and sat at the table. The familiar smell of paper and ink, the long-lost numbers and forms, made her slightly dazed but oddly exhilarated. She composed herself, picked up the top requisition slip, and began deciphering the messy handwriting and numbers: XX jin of fertilizer, XX bottles of pesticide, XX shovels…
She wrote slowly, carefully, each stroke neat and clear. Whenever she was unsure of a character or a number, she quietly asked Old Xu. At first, he answered offhandedly, but seeing her diligence, he grew more patient, occasionally offering tips on formatting.
After copying a category, she picked up her small abacus and clicked the beads energetically. Her fingers were a little unskilled at first, misplacing beads a few times, but she didn’t rush, silently starting over. The crisp clicks echoed clearly in the quiet warehouse. Old Xu checked other accounts nearby, glancing at her from time to time, and when he saw her frowning in concentration, he nodded silently in approval.
Time passed quietly amid the scratching of pencils and clicking of abacus beads. Without realizing it, the night had deepened. Mu Yao stretched her sore neck and wrists, noticing she had copied and calculated a thick stack. More ledgers still awaited Old Xu.
“Accountant Xu, shall I come tomorrow night to help with the rest?” Mu Yao asked softly, glancing at the night outside.
Old Xu yawned, looking at her work—neat, clear, and the totals verified with the big abacus, basically correct. “Yes, that’s enough for today. You… did well,” he said, rare praise though still mild. “Tomorrow night, same time.”
“All right,” Mu Yao nodded, helping him tidy the table before leaving the warehouse.
Walking back to the woodshed that night, her body still exhausted, yet her heart felt a long-lost fullness. Her fingertips seemed to retain the smooth touch of the abacus beads, her nose the distinct smell of ledger paper. This was a focus and satisfaction unlike physical labor, making her feel that she wasn’t merely an exiled tool, selling only her strength.
For several consecutive nights, Mu Yao came to the warehouse on time to help. She quickly got the hang of it; her copying grew faster, her abacus work more proficient, and her subtraction smoother. Old Xu gradually gave her more work, from simple copying to categorizing and summarizing, even letting her do preliminary checks of small expenses. She always completed the tasks meticulously, asking nothing, sharing nothing.
Gu Jingci seemed aware but never “happened” to appear in the warehouse. One day, while sorting through old forms, Mu Yao found a paper that looked familiar. Pulling it out, she saw it was the IOU she had written when borrowing the bean buns. Her neat signature and date were clearly visible, and below, in bold, decisive strokes, were the words: “Cleared. Gu Jingci.” The ink was fresh, obviously just written.
Mu Yao stared at the IOU for a long time. Cleared? What did that mean? The money for the bean buns… or the cornmeal—he didn’t want her to repay?
She recalled the ten bean buns he lent, his stiff but respectful manner when handing her the IOU. Her nose tingled. Did he leave it for her to see, deliberately, or was it accidental? She didn’t know. But the words “Cleared” burned onto her heart like a tiny hot iron. It was not just a debt canceled—it was a silent declaration: the help he gave her was never meant to be repaid. His clumsy care was pure, without ulterior motive.
She smoothed the IOU carefully, looked at it again and again, then tucked it back into the stack of old forms, leaving it there. Let it stay as a small secret only they knew.
A few days later, the spring plowing accounts were preliminarily organized, and Old Xu’s face seemed to relax. Mu Yao’s assistance also concluded. On the last night, she helped classify and bundle the ledgers. Old Xu handed her a small cloth bag, heavy in her hands.
“Here,” Old Xu said matter-of-factly, “by the rules, helping with accounts earns extra work points. But your situation… we’ll just give it directly. This cornmeal is a small token from the team, and it’s yours. Don’t make a fuss.”
Mu Yao took the bag. It was solid, top-quality golden cornmeal, probably five or six jin—a much more generous reward than she expected. She knew it probably contained Old Xu’s consideration, perhaps… also Gu Jingci’s tacit approval.
“Thank you, Accountant Xu,” she said solemnly.
“Why thank me? You did the work carefully yourself,” Old Xu waved his hand. “All right, go back. In the future… if you have time in literacy class, you can still come. And don’t abandon the abacus,” he added with a knowing tone.
Mu Yao carried the precious cornmeal back to the woodshed. She didn’t put it away immediately but set it on the worn table, staring at it in the dim oil lamp light for a long while.
This bag of cornmeal and the IOU marked “Cleared” were like two small, weighty counterweights in her precarious life.
They weren’t just food and debt repayment.
They represented recognition—of her labor and competence—even if in a hidden way.
They also symbolized a bond—an almost broken, faint connection with knowledge, with the abacus, and with the silent man, quietly renewed in another form.
The path ahead remained thorny, and the yard’s scorching sun and windblown dust still unbearable. Yet Mu Yao felt her steps steadier than before.
She blew out the lamp and lay down in the dark. In her arms, she seemed to still feel the weight of the cornmeal; before her eyes, she could still see the decisive “Cleared” on the IOU.
The click of abacus beads seemed to sound again in the silent night. This time, it was no longer just her lone faint light—it resonated secretly and firmly with a certain solid, silent strength.
The resonance was subtle, yet enough to let her grasp a glimmer of warmth through the long night and see a tiny spark—perhaps what could be called “hope.”