After the mountain flood, Xiangyang Brigade was filled with a complex mix of loss, lingering fear, and determination to rebuild. The livestock shed was badly damaged and needed reconstruction; some of the flooded fields required drainage and clearing, followed by replanting late-season crops. The whole brigade functioned like a machine that had been drenched by a sudden downpour and restarted: after a brief slump, everyone threw themselves into the more hectic work of repair and recovery.
Gu Jingci’s injury became a topic of quiet yet unspoken concern among the people. The cut on his back from the fallen timber reportedly needed seven or eight stitches, and the barefoot doctor advised several days of rest to avoid infection. But after only a day, with a bandage wrapped around his neck, he reappeared in the threshing ground and the fields. His face looked paler and sterner than usual, but his decisive gaze and commanding presence were undiminished. Occasionally, a fleeting grimace betrayed the pain he was trying to suppress.
Mu Yao had been reassigned some chores. The yard work was temporarily light, so she and a few women were sent to clear the gullies and roads damaged by the flood, digging out the mud, stones, and debris with hoes and pickaxes. The work was hard; by the end of the day, her back ached, and her hands bore fresh scrapes. Yet she worked diligently, as if the physical exhaustion could dilute certain worries in her heart and the unspoken attachment she felt.
She still visited the old warehouse every day during the brief midday break. Old Xu was sometimes present, more often absent. She didn’t mind, reviewing, practicing, occasionally taking out the abacus and clicking the beads. The clicks remained crisp but seemed to lack something—until one noon, she accidentally opened an old book that Old Xu had casually tossed in the corner to prop up a table leg.
It was a very old Practical Accounting Manual for Rural Areas. The pages were yellowed and brittle, the corners tattered, yet the content made her eyes light up. Though many terms were unfamiliar, the basic bookkeeping methods, simple cost accounting, and even some ideas about managing a production team made her feel enlightened. Compared to learning to recognize characters or practicing the abacus, this was far closer to practical application and helped her understand what Gu Jingci, Old Xu, and the others actually did in managing and coordinating the brigade.
Feeling like she had discovered a treasure, she obtained Old Xu’s vague approval (he glanced at the worn book and waved dismissively, “A piece of junk—if you want to read it, just don’t lose it”) and carefully brought it back to the wood store. At night, by the faint glow of the oil lamp, she leafed through it page by page. Whenever she encountered unfamiliar characters or concepts, she jotted them down and asked Old Xu the next day. Initially impatient, he gradually became interested when he saw her diligence; sometimes, her questions touched on real challenges in managing the brigade, and he would explain a little more.
A deeper world of knowledge opened up to her. Those dry numbers and tables gradually came to life in her eyes, connecting to the work in the fields, the fodder in the livestock shed, and the supplies in the warehouse. She began to understand, from a fresh and broader perspective, how the vast, rough collective machinery around her operated. This understanding gave her an unprecedented sense of security—and a faint sense of influence. At least, when Aunt Zhang complained about this year’s fertilizer quota being insufficient, she could vaguely grasp that it was a balance between procurement plans and production needs; when people debated whether work points were allocated fairly, she recalled the quota management and incentive mechanisms mentioned in the manual.
Days flew by in the tense post-flood reconstruction and her eager studies. Gu Jingci’s bandages had been removed, the wound scabbed over darkly; he still moved with some visible inconvenience, yet he seemed to entirely ignore it, focusing all his energy on restoring production. Between him and Mu Yao, the same distant, silent parallel persisted. Only in rare moments—such as when he checked repair supplies with Old Xu at the brigade office and Mu Yao happened to return tools—would their eyes meet for a brief instant. He looked at her, an unfathomable gaze, emotion unreadable, lingering imperceptibly on the worn cover of the Practical Accounting Manual for Rural Areas she carried, just before she slightly lowered her head.
As the summer solstice approached, the weather grew increasingly sultry. One evening, after clearing a stretch of gully, Mu Yao dragged her tired body back to the wood store. Passing the village’s old well, she saw Gu’s mother drawing water. She was a slightly plump, kind-faced woman, once a capable laborer in her youth, now managing the household and tending her injured son, her brow lined with obvious fatigue and worry.
Mu Yao hesitated, recognizing her but never having spoken to her. Watching her struggle with the well, she decided to step forward.
“Aunt Gu, let me help you,” she said softly, taking the rope from her hands.
Gu’s mother paused, looking up and seeing Mu Yao. Her expression was complicated; she recognized this “not-so-good-reputation” educated youth and vaguely sensed that her son seemed to feel something “special” about her. But she said nothing, simply relaxing her grip and watching as Mu Yao skillfully drew up the water and poured it into the bucket she had brought.
“Thank you, girl,” Gu’s mother said, her tone gentle, but her eyes quietly appraising Mu Yao. The girl was thin, sun-darkened, with short hair and calloused hands, but her movements were clean and precise, far from the “spoiled” image the rumors suggested.
“You’re welcome, Aunt Gu,” Mu Yao said, lowering her head and hanging up the rope, preparing to leave.
“Wait.” Aunt Gu suddenly called her, pulling two still-warm boiled eggs from her apron and pressing them into Mu Yao’s hands. “Take these, girl. You’re so thin…working hard, you need the nourishment.”
Mu Yao was taken aback, looking at the round, warm eggs, then at Aunt Gu’s kind, pitying gaze. Her nose pricked, and she hurriedly refused, “No, Aunt Gu, I can’t accept this…”
“Take them. The hens laid plenty. Jingci…that boy is stubborn, still running around before fully healed, and as a mother, I can’t stop him. You educated youths, away from home, it’s not easy for you either.” She paused, her voice softening, “The other day…thank you.”
Though abrupt, Mu Yao understood—she meant the ginger soup and clam oil. Gu Jingci had told her?
Her cheeks warmed. She lowered her head, clutching the warm eggs. “Aunt Gu, please…Captain Gu was hurt for the collective. We…all should thank him.”
Gu’s mother looked at her embarrassed yet sincere expression, and the slight resentment caused by gossip seemed to fade. She nodded and carried the water bucket away.
Mu Yao stood there, watching Aunt Gu’s slightly plump back disappear into the alley. The warmth of the eggs traveled from her palms to her heart. These were more than eggs—they were a subtle, elder’s acceptance and kindness. Even if motivated by pity or gratitude for her son’s injury, it was invaluable to her.
That night, Mu Yao didn’t eat the eggs immediately. She carefully placed them in a broken bowl on the windowsill, gazing at them in the moonlight. Then, she continued studying the Practical Accounting Manual for Rural Areas. The oil lamp’s glow danced across the yellowed pages, and the once-dry numbers and entries now seemed to carry warmth.
Life remained tough. Rumors had not entirely died down, Liu Caixia’s occasional resentful glances persisted, and the harsh sun and arduous rebuilding work continued to wear on everyone.
But Mu Yao felt as though, on this barren land, she had quietly begun to take root. Some roots came from her sweat and relentless study; others, from silent protection, clumsy care, and the serendipitous warmth and kindness from elders.
She was like a transplanted plant in a harsh environment, initially near withering, but adjusting stubbornly under wind, rain, and occasional dew, quietly stretching toward light and nourishment.
That day, the brigade held a general assembly, summarizing the flood disaster, commending those who excelled in rescue efforts, and assigning the next stage of production tasks. Mu Yao, as an ordinary member, sat at the edge of the crowd. The summer night at the threshing ground was bright with lights, bustling with people.
Gu Jingci stood on the temporary podium, still wearing his half-worn blue jacket, upright and commanding. His voice carried steadily through the metal megaphone. He summarized the rescue, praised everyone’s unity and effort, and calmly analyzed the losses and upcoming challenges. His words were concise, his data clear, his instructions specific. The crowd listened intently, nodding from time to time.
Mu Yao watched the familiar yet slightly unfamiliar figure from afar. The light outlined his sharp features, the calm demeanor contrasting with his pale, injured face. Standing there, he was like the steadfast anchor of Xiangyang Brigade.
During the commendation, he read out the names of several outstanding members, including his own. When he said “Gu Jingci,” applause and cheers erupted from the crowd. He nodded slightly, expressionless, calmly sweeping his gaze across the audience.
When his eyes passed over Mu Yao’s area, they seemed to pause imperceptibly for a split second. Amid the throng and the dim lights, Mu Yao felt his gaze briefly rest on her, light and fleeting, like a shooting star on a summer night.
Then he moved on to the next item.
The assembly dispersed, the crowd chattering as they left. Mu Yao walked back with the flow, the summer night wind brushing the sweat at her temples. Her heart felt calm—a fatigue-laden but solid peace, tempered by the storm she had endured.
She no longer deliberately searched for his figure, nor felt unsettled by those fleeting gazes. She simply walked her own path, step by step, living, learning, growing on this land that both accepted and rejected her.
The knowledge from the old book, the two warm eggs, the thrilling flood rescue and silent protection, the whispered “thank you” in the dusk, and now, this brief, fleeting glance across a crowded summer night—all these, like countless invisible, resilient threads, quietly and increasingly bound her to this land, to its people, and especially to that silent, steadfast man.
She knew the road ahead would still be long and fraught with challenges.
But she also knew she was no longer the pale, fragile Mu Yao who once stood at the village entrance, saying only, “I’m afraid.”
Night deepened, the stars filled the sky. Mu Yao returned to the wood store and lit the oil lamp. On the worn table, the Practical Accounting Manual for Rural Areas lay open, and beside it, the two still-warm boiled eggs.
She picked up one egg, gently tapped it on the table corner, peeled it, revealing the tender, white egg inside. She took a bite—warm, delicate, carrying the simplest, most comforting taste of food.
By the faint lamp light and the warmth of her food, she lowered her head again, studying the densely packed numbers and text on the pages.
Outside, summer insects sang tirelessly.
Mu Yao’s story, in this era, was still long ahead. And those invisible threads were quietly weaving themselves in the silent passage of time.