The news spread like it had wings, reaching every corner of the Xiangyang Brigade overnight. The capitalist’s daughter, Mu Yao, was being transferred to a farm in the northwest. People whispered and reacted in various ways. Some thought it was only natural—such “background,” it was most fitting for her to be “reformed” in a harsh place. Others sighed quietly, feeling it a pity: this girl, though of poor lineage, worked hard and studied diligently, and now she was being sent away. And then there were people like Liu Caixia, who, after the initial shock, felt a hidden satisfaction—the annoying presence was finally being completely removed.
Mu Yao’s world, under this sudden transfer order, fell into a strange numbness tinged with dull pain. She went to work as usual, completing tasks assigned by Aunt Zhang in the yard, her movements mechanical, her silence shadow-like. The gazes cast at her became more complex, mingled with scrutiny, curiosity, and a hint of farewell. For the first time, Aunt Zhang didn’t assign her heavy work—just light organizing tasks, occasionally glancing at her as if wanting to speak, but ultimately sighing.
After finishing in the afternoon, she didn’t return directly to the firewood shed, instead heading to the livestock pen. The new pen had been built, more spacious and sturdy than the one she had managed before. The familiar cows and donkeys greeted her with affectionate snorts. She approached, touching each head, adding feed, cleaning the troughs and water bowls, her movements gentle and meticulous, like performing a long, silent farewell. The place where she had poured so much sweat, gained brief moments of peace and hidden strength, was now completely slipping away from her.
Back in the firewood shed, it was still early. She began packing her things. There wasn’t much to pack: a few patched-up changes of clothes, the army-green quilt she had grown familiar with (after much hesitation, she decided to take it), some scattered daily necessities, and her most precious “belongings”—the Practical Rural Accounting Handbook, old ledgers filled with her notes, a worn pencil, and that small, smoothed-over abacus she had treasured.
She took each item out, then put it back, her movements slow, as if delaying time. Her eyes fell on the small cloth bag in the corner, containing two boiled eggs her mother-in-law had given her, long since cold and hard. She picked one up, holding it in her palm; the rough shell pressed against her skin.
Outside, the light dimmed, dusk settling in. She didn’t light a lamp, sitting motionless in the shadow along the kang bed. She still clutched the cold egg, but her mind was blank—or rather, filled with so much that it felt like nothingness.
Tomorrow was the last day. The day after, the commune’s vehicle would arrive.
What could she do? What could she possibly do?
Resist? Impossible. Run? Certain death. There was no choice but to accept.
A deep, icy helplessness washed over her like a tide. Living again, she had tried with all her strength, tread carefully, tried to hold onto even the faintest glimmer, tried to root herself in this land. Yet in the end, the hand of fate merely brushed her aside, crushing all her efforts and fragile hopes.
Her tears had long since dried, leaving only the dry sting of her empty eye sockets.
Then, the yard gate was lightly knocked.
The sound was soft, yet in the quiet dusk, it rang clearly.
Mu Yao froze, her heart jolting. Who could it be? Aunt Zhang? Old Xu? Or…
She drew a deep breath, rose, and walked to the door. She didn’t open it immediately, instead whispering, “Who is it?”
Outside, silence lingered for a moment, then a low, familiar voice spoke, hoarse but unmistakable:
“…Me.”
It was Gu Jingci.
Mu Yao’s fingers instantly went cold as they pressed against the rough door panel, trembling slightly. Why had he come? To say goodbye? Or…
She bit her lip, hesitated for a few seconds, and finally slowly unlatched the door.
The door opened a crack. Gu Jingci stood outside. In the dusk, his tall figure was slightly blurred, expressionless, except for those eyes—deep as two ancient wells, churning with emotions Mu Yao could not read. In his hands, he held a bulging package made from an old sack, and a military canteen.
They looked at each other across the threshold. The only sound was the evening wind rustling past.
“…Captain Gu,” Mu Yao spoke first, her voice dry.
Gu Jingci didn’t reply. He only pushed the package and canteen slightly forward. “For you,” he said, his voice low, pausing briefly before adding, “For the journey.”
Mu Yao didn’t take them immediately. She looked at him—the man who had silently supported her through countless difficult moments—and her heart felt like a jar of mixed emotions had been overturned: sour, bitter, unwilling, grateful, and a faint despairing attachment, all tangled together, choking her.
“No, Captain Gu,” she finally said, her voice eerily calm, almost cruel, “I don’t have much to take. I can carry my things myself. I cannot take yours.”
She knew this might be the last time they would meet. She didn’t want to owe him more. Those clumsy cares, silent protections—she had already been unable to repay them. Any more, and in the barren future, she would remember and suffer even more painfully.
Gu Jingci’s hand froze mid-air. The muscles in his face twitched imperceptibly. He looked at Mu Yao, at the deep, bottomless sadness and determination masked beneath her forced calm, and felt as if something had torn through his chest. He suddenly stepped forward, almost forcibly pressing the package and canteen into her arms.
“Take it!” His voice abruptly rose, carrying a suppressed, almost rough intensity. “I didn’t give it to you for nothing!”
Mu Yao staggered slightly under his push, her arms immediately filled with the heavy package and the cold canteen. She looked up in surprise.
Gu Jingci had already turned his face toward the dark yard, his Adam’s apple rolling fiercely as if summoning great resolve. A moment later, he turned back, his gaze falling on her again. His voice was extremely low but each word was clear, carrying the weight of a desperate gamble:
“In the northwest, I have… a distant relative, an accountant at a branch of the XXXX Farm,” he said, giving a specific address and name. “Once there, if… if it becomes difficult, you can try to find him, mention my name. Perhaps… he can help a little.”
He spoke quickly, then pressed his lips together tightly, as if exhausting all his strength, or awaiting some judgment. Revealing such a connection put him at risk, especially with her about to head to the northwest, uncertain of her future. Yet he still said it.
Mu Yao was utterly stunned. She held the heavy package, staring at Gu Jingci. A distant relative? An accountant? Help? He… he had gone this far for her? Knowing she faced great danger and might never cross paths with him again, he had still provided her with a faint lifeline, representing his utmost care and effort—even if she might never need it?
The shock left her speechless. Tears poured without warning, fiercer than ever. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She only stared at him, letting them blur her vision and obscure his resolute yet now deeply conflicted face.
Gu Jingci watched her silent breakdown, his heart gripped as if by an invisible hand, pain stealing his breath. He wanted to lift a hand to wipe her tears, to shelter her behind him like during the mountain flood, to guard her from afar like during countless late-night patrols.
But he could do nothing.
He could only stand there, outside the threshold of someone he was about to lose, offering a package, a word of advice, and the weight of silent care almost too heavy to bear.
He suddenly turned, back to her, voice squeezed through his teeth, faintly trembling:
“The package has some dry food, pickled vegetables, and… a little money and nationwide ration tickets. The canteen is full. Take care of yourself…”
With that, he left, stepping into the deepening dusk, his figure disappearing quickly. Resolute, yet carrying an unspoken loneliness and desolation.
Mu Yao hugged the heavy package, standing at the door, watching him disappear, tears streaming down her face. The evening wind blew, carrying the chill of late autumn, drying her tears and leaving a cold sting.
After a long time, she slowly stepped back inside, closed and latched the door. She didn’t light a lamp. By the last remaining light, she tremblingly opened the old sack package.
Inside, there weren’t many things, but each was practical: a dozen hard but long-lasting cornmeal cakes; a small jar of oily pickled vegetables; a bundle of carefully wrapped brown sugar; a small cloth bag containing neatly rolled paper money and a few precious nationwide ration tickets—modest in value, yet clearly his all. At the bottom lay a nearly new, deep-blue male cotton-padded jacket liner, washed and faded, but thick and warm.
Not a word was spoken.
Yet each item spoke silently of his concern, his reluctance to part, and his last possible protection.
Mu Yao buried her face deep into the cotton liner, faintly scented of soap pods, and finally could no longer restrain herself. She let out low, broken sobs. In this soon-to-be-abandoned, cold and dilapidated firewood shed, in darkness where no one could see, she allowed herself to cry freely—for everything abruptly halted, and for the silent man who had given her all the warmth he could.
That night, the firewood shed remained unlit.
Only the suppressed sobs broke the silence, mingling with the howling autumn wind, until deep into the night.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the village, in the Gu household, Gu Jingci’s lamp burned late into the night. He sat on the kang bed, a blank notebook open before him, pen in hand, unable to write a single word. His mind was filled with her tear-streaked face, her feigned calm voice, her trembling hands clutching the package.
Finally, he wrote only three words on the first page of the notebook, with force:
Mu Yao. Northwest. October 18.
Then, he struck through them heavily.
The pen almost pierced the paper.
He lifted his head, closed his eyes, Adam’s apple moving violently. In the darkness, it was as if he could see that thin but stubborn figure, stepping, step by step, toward a distant and unknown desolation.
He knew some threads seemed about to snap.
But some things—like the cotton liner he had stuffed in the package, like the name and address he whispered—were already deeply and silently imprinted in both their lives.
Wherever she went, whatever storms lay ahead.
That night, no one slept.