Spring ran deep as the months slipped into May. The fields of the Xiangyang Brigade had completely changed their colors: winter wheat was heading and filling with grain, corn sprouts shot up tall, and everything pulsed with a vibrant green life. The workload around the compound slightly eased with the main crops entering their growth period, yet the minor tasks never ceased: repairing farm tools, drying herbs, twisting hemp rope, mending shoes… Mu Yao moved like a forgotten screw in the corner—placed wherever she was needed, silent and compliant.
The weather grew steadily warmer; the morning chills finally disappeared, and the midday sun began to scorch with real intensity. Mu Yao changed into her only thin, patch-ridden shirt. Her short hair had grown enough to be tucked behind her ears, revealing a lean but well-defined jawline. Long hours of outdoor labor had turned her pale skin into an even light wheat tone, making her eyes appear even sharper. Yet most of the time, the spark in her eyes was veiled by a quiet fatigue.
Her interactions with Gu Jingci remained like two lines briefly intersecting before continuing on separate paths. She had glimpsed him a few times at the fields, giving instructions for production, allocating tasks at the threshing yard—still the composed, capable, and disciplined Captain Gu. He never came to the compound on his own, and she never tried to “coincidentally” meet him. The confrontation at the compound, the abacus sounds that night in the old warehouse, the “Cleared” IOU—all of it remained buried in her heart like pebbles under a riverbed, silent yet unyielding.
Only one thing Mu Yao stubbornly maintained—literacy class. Though she had briefly stopped after the Liu Caixia incident, she returned quietly after helping Old Xu tidy the accounts. The class time remained the short, precious hour during the noon break. Fewer people attended now—often just her and two or three drowsy children. Old Xu sometimes came, sometimes didn’t, and when he did, he lazily read a few lines from the newspaper. Mu Yao didn’t care. Sitting in a corner with her old account books and worn-down pencil, she reviewed old words, practiced new ones, occasionally took out her abacus, and silently recited subtraction rules. The gentle clack of the abacus beads became her sole weapon against daytime exhaustion and the barrenness in her heart.
That noon, as usual, Mu Yao was “studying” in the old warehouse. Old Xu hadn’t come, and the other children had slipped outside to play; the warehouse was empty except for her. Sunlight slanted through a broken window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. She bent over her writing, absorbed, when suddenly the doorway was blocked by a tall figure.
Mu Yao’s heart skipped. She lifted her head.
It was Gu Jingci. He had clearly just returned from the fields; his pant legs were speckled with fresh mud, sweat glistened at his temples, and he held a military water canteen. He stood at the doorway, backlit, his expression hidden, but his gaze was firmly fixed on her—and on the old account book in front of her.
Time seemed to freeze. The abacus beads paused under her fingers, slightly chilling her skin.
Mu Yao had not expected him to appear here. At noon, shouldn’t he have been at the brigade office or home for lunch?
She hurriedly stood, instinctively trying to close the book, yet her hands froze in midair, feeling that covering it up would draw more attention. “C-Captain Gu…”
Gu Jingci didn’t respond, stepping inside. His footsteps were light yet carried an invisible pressure. The warehouse was empty except for the two of them. He stopped before her, eyes lowered, studying the open book. Neat, delicate handwriting filled the pages—production slogans, simple sentences, some poetry she had copied from memory, arithmetic problems densely written beside them.
“Still studying?” he finally asked, voice low and hoarse, betraying no emotion.
“…Yes.” Mu Yao lowered her head, fingers curling unconsciously. “No reason to do anything at noon… just came to practice a bit.”
Gu Jingci said nothing, his gaze shifting from the book to the top of her bowed head, then to her slightly pursed lips from nervousness. The girl had grown thinner than in spring; her chin was sharp, her neck slender, wrists exposed outside the worn shirt, the knuckles prominent. Yet that calmness and… stubbornness seemed deeper.
Suddenly, he reached out—not for the book, but for her small, personal abacus on the table. It was very old, the frame worn smooth, but the beads were polished clean. His long fingers moved over the beads, sending a crisp “clack” through the air, casual yet precise.
Mu Yao’s heart rose and fell with each sound. She didn’t know what he meant.
“You’ve mastered subtraction?” Gu Jingci asked, still looking at the abacus.
“…A little,” she whispered.
He placed the abacus back on the table with a soft “click.” Then he lifted his gaze to her face, examining her closely, as if trying to see beneath her calm exterior.
“The work at the compound… is it tiring?” he suddenly asked, voice still flat.
Mu Yao hesitated, then nodded honestly. “Yes.” How could it not be? Day after day of heavy labor was more exhausting than tending the livestock shed.
He was silent for a moment. “Can you endure it?”
“Yes.” Mu Yao didn’t waver. No matter how exhausting, she had to endure. It was her only way out.
Another pause. Only the movement of sunlight and dancing dust filled the warehouse.
Gu Jingci seemed about to say something, lips moving, but instead he untied a small cloth bundle from the strap of his water canteen and placed it gently on the table before her. The bundle was small and flat; its contents were unrecognizable.
“For you.” His voice was slightly hoarse, eyes cast to the side at the broken wall. “…Shepherd’s purse, dried. Soak it in water, or cook in soup, clears the heat.”
Shepherd’s purse? Mu Yao looked at the tiny bundle. Early summer fields did have some, but it was rare, requiring careful searching. He… had gone out of his way to dig it up? Or… had someone given it to him?
Before she could think further, Gu Jingci turned to leave.
“Captain Gu!” Mu Yao blurted out, courage seeming to come from nowhere, calling after him.
His steps paused, but he didn’t look back.
Mu Yao stared at his tall, silent figure, a storm of words surging inside: Thank you for the IOU… thank you for the cornmeal… thank you for that day at the compound… and sorry for dragging you into it… But in the end, all those words stuck in her throat, forming only a small, careful question: “Are… you alright?”
Having spoken, she immediately regretted it. She had overstepped. Who was she to ask?
Gu Jingci’s back stiffened for a moment. Long after, he slowly turned, face expressionless, yet in his ever-sharp, quiet eyes swirled a complex emotion Mu Yao could not read—deep as the cloudless sky outside the warehouse.
“I’m fine,” he said in a low voice, pausing, then added, “You… just take care of yourself.”
He left without lingering, striding out into the blazing noon sun, his figure quickly vanishing as if it had never been there.
Mu Yao stood frozen for a long time. The small bundle of shepherd’s purse lay quietly on the table, exuding a faint, dry, vegetal scent. The air still seemed to carry the unique mixture of sun, soil, and sweat from him, and… the unfathomable depth of emotion in his eyes moments ago.
She slowly sat, picked up the bundle, and inhaled its scent. It was shepherd’s purse, dried thoroughly and well-preserved.
She suddenly remembered long ago, when her mother was alive, springtime walks to dig shepherd’s purse in the countryside, returning home to make dumplings or cook fragrant shepherd’s purse and tofu soup. Those were her memories—distant yet warm.
Tears unexpectedly welled up, uncontrollable. She hurriedly buried her face in her arm, shoulders trembling slightly. Not from grievance, not from sorrow, but from… a sudden stir of complex emotions, mixing distant warmth and present loneliness, with a delicate, unspoken flutter in her chest.
He remembered. He noticed her exhaustion, her persistence, perhaps even the tiny warmth she still carried for past memories—and that’s why he had brought this small, inconspicuous bundle of dried shepherd’s purse?
This bundle was lighter than anything else, yet heavier than anything else. It carried not just the cooling relief of the plant, but a silent understanding that crossed boundaries of rank and rumors.
Mu Yao cried for a long time. Only when the tears dried did the tempest of emotions slowly subside. She lifted her head, wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, and tucked the bundle close to her heart.
Then she picked up her pen and opened her book again. The sunlight still slanted across the paper; dust still danced in the rays.
But something was different.
After that day, whenever Mu Yao returned to the old warehouse, her heart carried a secret hope. Though he never “coincidentally” appeared at noon again, every time she pushed open the broken door and saw the empty warehouse bathed in slanting sunlight, she instinctively glanced at the spot he had once stood, as if his presence still lingered there.
Days continued to pass in labor. Early summer brought frequent rain, sometimes for two or three days straight. When fieldwork was affected, Mu Yao helped the women’s team twist hemp ropes or mend sacks. Her stitching was clumsy at first, but necessity gradually taught her.
That afternoon, the rain finally stopped, leaving the sky washed in a deep blue. The team organized members to rush up the hillside to harvest early potatoes drenched by the rain, fearing they’d rot in the ground. Mu Yao was included in the women’s team, carrying a basket, stepping carefully through the mud.
The hillside was muddy and uneven; potato plants toppled in all directions. The workers spread out, squatting in the dirt, digging the mud-smeared potatoes by hand, tossing them into baskets. It was dirty, exhausting work; her waist quickly ached, hands and clothes covered in mud.
Mu Yao bent over, laboring. Sweat mixed with mud obscured her face. Her basket grew heavier; she gritted her teeth and moved step by step. Slipping on the wet path, she nearly fell, spilling a few potatoes into a nearby puddle.
She hurried to pick them up. At that moment, a large, mud-covered yet strong hand beat her to it, scooping up the potatoes and tossing them back into her basket.
Mu Yao looked up, astonished.
Gu Jingci had silently walked up beside her. He, too, had come to check on the harvest. His pant legs were rolled high, shoes caked with mud, mud speckles on his face, yet nothing concealed the hard lines of his features. He glanced at her, eyes sweeping her mud-smeared face and heavy basket, brows habitually furrowed.
But he said nothing, only lifted the heavy basket from her shoulder, placing it on his other shoulder—he was already carrying a basket of tools.
“Keep up.” Two words, then he turned and walked, steady as ever, as if the extra weight of her basket meant nothing.
Mu Yao froze, watching his tall, silent figure. Her shoulder felt lighter, yet her chest sank, then a rush of warmth surged through her. Many nearby watched secretly, their eyes varying. Her face heated; she hurried to follow.
They walked in silence along the muddy hillside, only the sound of footsteps and heavy breaths. Gu Jingci didn’t rush, seeming to match her pace. His broad back blocked most of the view ahead, shielding her from prying eyes.
Mu Yao trailed behind, watching his sweat-darkened shirt, his steady steps, and the basket belonging to her, covered in mud, resting on his shoulder. Her emotions were tangled: gratitude, embarrassment, concern, and a faint, indescribable mix of bitterness and sweetness.
She knew his action would stir gossip—but he seemed unbothered.
They reached the temporary potato depot at the foot of the hill. Gu Jingci set the basket down carefully, ensuring no potatoes rolled out, and said simply, “Here.” Without looking back, he brushed mud off his hands and went toward the deputy counting stock, as if he had only casually helped a regular member.
Mu Yao stood by her basket, watching him merge into the crowd, mouth slightly open, saying nothing. Silently, she dumped the potatoes into the pile and carried her empty basket aside to wash the mud off her hands.
Cold stream water washed her fingers, slightly cooling her flushed face. Yet the spot over her heart, where she had been touched, still burned.
On the way back to the village, the setting sun dyed the sky orange-red. Mu Yao walked at the rear of the group, tired but no longer suffocated by exhaustion. She watched Gu Jingci a short distance ahead, speaking with a few cadres. The sun gilded his upright figure with a warm glow.
Suddenly, two young wives walking just ahead glanced back at her, then at Gu Jingci’s back, exchanging a knowing look. One deliberately raised her voice just enough for nearby people to hear:
“Ah, some people are just lucky, everything they do, someone’s always ‘helping’ them.”
“Exactly, even carrying potatoes, someone jumps to help. Wonder what skill they’re using.”
The malicious implication hit like a needle. Mu Yao’s steps faltered; her face went pale. The air seemed to freeze, many slowed, ears perked.
Gu Jingci seemed to hear too. He stopped talking to the cadres and slowly turned.
The sunset light fell on his face—half bright, half in shadow, expression indiscernible, yet the atmosphere dropped sharply. He didn’t glance at the two gossiping wives, nor at Mu Yao, but swept his gaze across the suddenly silent crowd before resting on Mu Yao’s pale yet upright face.
Then, in a hush, Gu Jingci spoke. His voice was not loud, yet piercingly clear, carrying a cold authority that cut through the dusk and the malicious whispers:
“Comrade Mu Yao is not feeling well today. I told her to carry less and return early to rest. Any objections?”
He called her by name.
Not “that girl,” not “Mu the youth,” but clearly, calmly, without any emotion—“Comrade Mu Yao.”
For the first time, he publicly called her by her proper name, formally yet casually.
Mu Yao trembled, snapping her head up in disbelief.
Gu Jingci had already turned back, as if that statement had been merely a casual clarification of an ordinary matter, and resumed discussing the next day’s work arrangements with the cadres.
The crowd was silent. The two gossiping wives flushed red, shamefully lowering their heads, daring not to speak again. Others averted their eyes, quickening their pace.
Mu Yao stood in place, hearing those four words echo in her mind: “Comrade Mu Yao.” In the sunlight, his tall figure receded, yet in her blurry vision, it remained clear, towering… majestic.
He had called her name publicly.
Using the most direct, proper reason, he had defended her and shut the mouths of malicious onlookers.
Her supposed illness was false. Yet the “reason” he gave her, and that clear, firm “Comrade Mu Yao”, were real.
Real, like the early summer evening breeze brushing her sweat-damp temple, carrying the scent of mud and grass, and a weighty warmth almost too much to bear.
She lowered her head, looking at her mud-stained, still rough hands, yet the corners of her lips involuntarily curved into a faint, nearly invisible arc.
Tears welled again, and this time she didn’t stop them, letting them roll, mixing with the mud on her face.
Mu Yao.
He had called her, Mu Yao.