October 18th. Before dawn, the chill of late autumn had already seeped into the bones. A faint line of pale light barely touched the eastern horizon, and the village was silent, most households still asleep.
Mu Yao was already awake—or rather, she had not slept at all. The kerosene lamp on the kang had run out of fuel in the middle of the night, and she lay in the dark, eyes open, listening to the howling north wind outside and the faint coughs of early-rising commune members in the distance. Clutched tightly in her arms was the padded inner jacket that Gu Jingci had given her. It still carried a faintly clean scent of soap from him, mingled with a trace of tobacco, becoming her only comfort in this icy, long night—and also the source of her pain.
She rose slowly and, by the dim light filtering through the window, began her final check of her luggage. There wasn’t much—she had already gone over everything repeatedly last night. The military blanket was neatly tied into a square with a sturdy hemp rope, forming a small green block. The cloth bag with her clothes and “treasures” (old books, account ledgers, abacus) sat beside it. She had not unpacked Gu Jingci’s old burlap parcel; she would carry it as it was. Her military water bottle, filled with cool water, hung from her shoulder.
No breakfast had been prepared, and she had no appetite anyway. She picked up the small leftover half of a corn cake from last night and mechanically took a few bites with cold water. The cake was dry and hard, scraping painfully as it went down her throat.
As daylight grew, she could clearly see the humble, worn interior of the shack: the earthen kang, the broken table, the drafty window frames, the few bundles of dry twigs she had gathered but hadn’t burned… This place had been her first foothold after being reborn—cold, hopeless, yet it had briefly nurtured faint warmth and secret hope thanks to a bed and the occasional presence of a person. Now, she was leaving, perhaps never to return.
Her chest felt hollow, as if a large piece of it had been carved out. It wasn’t sadness, but a deeper, almost numb dull ache.
She put on her thickest old coat—still the oversized padded jacket Gu Jingci had given her earlier—carefully wearing his inner padded jacket underneath. The warmth pressed against her body, making her shiver. Then she slung the tied military blanket on her back, picked up her cloth bag, and carried the old burlap parcel and water bottle.
At the door, she paused, turning back for one last look at this place she had lived in for less than a year but which felt like a lifetime. In the morning light, everything was veiled in a grayish cold tone.
Goodbye. she whispered in her heart. Goodbye, shack. Goodbye, Xiangyang Brigade. Goodbye… Gu Jingci.
She pushed the door open, and the cold morning wind immediately rushed in, making her shiver. The sky was leaden gray, the clouds thick—a gloomy day ahead. She inhaled deeply and stepped out, gently closing the creaking wooden door behind her. It wasn’t locked; there was nothing left here worth locking.
Along the village path, a few early risers were already moving toward the fields or the yard. When they saw Mu Yao stepping out with her luggage, their gazes were mixed: curiosity, sympathy, indifference. No one came forward to greet her; they just watched from afar. This silent farewell felt lonelier than any words could.
Mu Yao kept her gaze down, ignoring the eyes, and walked steadily toward the village exit. Her steps echoed on the frozen, hard-packed dirt road. The luggage on her shoulders was heavy, pressing painfully, but she straightened her back and walked with remarkable steadiness.
Near the village entrance, she spotted an old Liberation truck parked by the threshing yard. The bed was empty, the engine droning, smoke rising. Beside it stood several people: commune officials, the brigade’s deputy leader, and Old Xu. Liu Caixia and a few other educated youths also lingered nearby, whispering among themselves, their eyes flicking between the truck and Mu Yao.
Her heart tightened. She saw the deputy leader and Old Xu, as well as several commune officials, but not Gu Jingci.
He hadn’t come.
Of course—not in such a setting. As production team leader, it would be proper for him to avoid drawing attention. Perhaps he didn’t want to come at all. Last night’s meeting might have already been all he could do.
The tiny, secret hope she hadn’t even admitted to herself flickered and died, like a candle blown out by the wind, leaving only cold ash.
She approached the truck. The deputy leader came up, his expression complicated: “Mu Yao, you’re here? Is everything packed?” Old Xu adjusted his glasses silently, looking at her with regret and a hint of encouragement.
“All packed,” she replied softly.
A commune clerk checked the list: “Mu Yao? Yes, get on the truck. We’ll leave once everyone’s aboard.”
Mu Yao nodded and handed her luggage to a helping member, who tossed it into the empty truck bed. The green military blanket stood out starkly against the gray interior.
She didn’t climb aboard immediately. Her eyes involuntarily scanned the threshing yard again, the familiar yet distant faces, the village road…
Still no sign of him.
She lowered her gaze, her long lashes casting a shadow over her pale face. Then, gripping the cold truck board, she stepped onto the shaky footboard.
At that very moment, a series of rapid, powerful footsteps approached from the village road, shattering the morning silence.
Mu Yao froze, her heart pounding as if it would burst from her chest. She turned sharply.
Gu Jingci strode toward her from the village. He had clearly been running, his breath rapid, sweat forming a thin mist on his temples in the cold morning air. He was still wearing the worn blue jacket, pants spattered with mud, as if he had rushed straight from the fields. His face was expressionless, colder than usual, but his eyes were sharp as an eagle, locking onto the truck and on Mu Yao who was about to board.
Everyone’s attention, including the commune officials, the deputy leader, Old Xu, and the onlookers, was fixed on the suddenly appearing Gu Jingci.
Time seemed to freeze.
He walked straight to the truck and stopped a few steps from Mu Yao, ignoring everyone else. His gaze was calm but carried an invisible pressure.
“Wait.” His voice was soft but clear to all.
The commune clerk hesitated, puzzled: “Captain Gu? What’s the matter?”
Gu Jingci ignored him and said to Mu Yao: “Get down.”
Mu Yao froze, her mind in chaos. Get down? What… what is he going to do?
Seeing her hesitate, Gu Jingci frowned, stepped closer, and grasped her wrist—not to steady her, but firmly holding her hand. Through the rough sleeve, she felt the heat of his palm and the undeniable strength. He gently pulled her off the footboard.
His movement was quick and natural, like helping a nearly falling member. Yet, in front of all those eyes, the sudden contact drew stifled gasps and whispers.
Mu Yao’s legs wobbled, nearly losing her balance, but his hand supported her. She looked up in shock, so close she could smell his familiar scent of sweat mixed with the cold morning air. She saw the restrained waves in his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“There’s one more thing I didn’t make clear.” Gu Jingci released her hand, turning to the stunned clerk and deputy leader, his tone professional and firm: “During her time with the team, Comrade Mu Yao assisted with organizing spring plowing and post-disaster accounts. Some data needs her final confirmation to avoid issues in the report to the commune. It will only take a moment.”
It made sense. She had indeed helped with accounts, though the main credit belonged to Old Xu. The clerk and deputy leader exchanged a glance, slightly surprised but unwilling to object—accuracy in the accounts was crucial.
“How long will it take?” the clerk asked.
“Quickly.” Gu Jingci glanced at Mu Yao, still pale and dazed. “To the brigade office. Old Xu comes too.”
Old Xu nodded hurriedly: “Yes, yes, just a few figures to cross-check.”
Gu Jingci said no more. He gestured for Mu Yao: “Follow me,” and led the way to the brigade office, steps steady, back straight, as if the sudden act of holding her wrist had been nothing more than routine work.
Mu Yao stood frozen until Old Xu nudged her gently. She glanced at the truck, engines puffing white smoke, then at Gu Jingci’s retreating figure, bit her lip, and followed.
Behind her, countless curious and suspicious eyes watched. Liu Caixia’s face looked as if she had swallowed a fly.
Inside the brigade office, away from prying eyes and noise, only the three of them remained: Gu Jingci, Old Xu, and Mu Yao, still shaken.
Old Xu moved to the corner filing cabinet, pretending to search for ledgers, turning his back to them.
The room fell silent, broken only by the faint sounds of the truck engine and Old Xu’s rustling papers.
Gu Jingci stood in the center, back to the doorway light, facing Mu Yao. The coldness in his expression seemed slightly softened with the door closed, but the emotions in his eyes ran deeper and harder to read.
Mu Yao faced him, heart still racing, unsure of what to do. He had pulled her down just to… check accounts? The excuse made her uneasy.
Gu Jingci said nothing, simply staring at her, his gaze moving from her pale face to her heavy luggage and her slightly trembling fingers. The weight of his gaze pressed so heavily she could barely breathe.
Seconds ticked by. Outside, the truck honked impatiently.
Finally, Gu Jingci moved. He stepped closer, close enough for Mu Yao to feel the warmth of his breath. Then, with his thumb, he lightly and quickly brushed the corner of her eye.
There, without her noticing, moisture had gathered again, cold and faint.
His motion was so fast and light, like a feather brushing past, the rough calluses on his fingers barely perceptible, yet carrying an unspoken tenderness and restraint. Mu Yao shivered, as if struck by a mild electric shock, frozen, forgetting to breathe.
Gu Jingci withdrew his hand, as if it had been her imagination. His gaze remained fixed, his Adam’s apple moving slightly. His voice, low enough for only her to hear, carried an almost unbearable husky finality:
“Mu Yao, survive.”
Only three words. Not “take care,” not “goodbye.”
Survive.
With all her resentment, suffering, fleeting hopes, and secret feelings—persist stubbornly, recklessly, survive.
Tears poured down Mu Yao’s face at those words, but she bit her lip, holding back a sound, only nodding hard.
Gu Jingci watched her, the last traces of his composure shattering, surging with pain and unwillingness to part. He said nothing more, simply giving her one final, deep look, as if etching her image into his bones.
Then he turned abruptly, no longer looking at her, and spoke to Old Xu in the corner: “Xu, the ledgers.”
Old Xu quickly brought an inconsequential old ledger, pretending to cross-check a couple of numbers with Mu Yao, jotting down a few notes.
The entire process took less than three minutes.
Gu Jingci opened the brigade office door. The cold morning light and outside noise flooded back. He stepped aside, face returning to its usual cool detachment, and said to Mu Yao in a businesslike tone: “That’s it. Get on the truck.”
Mu Yao wiped her tears, inhaled deeply, straightened her back, and stepped out. She didn’t look back, only walked toward the waiting truck, each step firmer than before.
This time, she climbed aboard without hesitation. The truck already held two other youths, also being transferred, their faces blank. She found a corner and sat down, hugging her luggage tightly.
The truck’s engine roared, the vehicle shook, and it slowly moved forward.
Mu Yao couldn’t help but turn her head, peering through the rough gaps in the truck panels, watching behind her.
Gu Jingci still stood at the brigade office entrance. The morning light outlined his tall, upright figure like a silent statue. He watched the truck carrying her depart, eyes following through the dust and growing distance, unmoving until it disappeared around the village road bend.
Tears blurred Mu Yao’s vision again. She lowered her head, burying her face in the inner jacket that still carried his scent.
Inside her cloth bag, within the pages of her old ledger, lay a letter she had written the night before but lacked the courage to deliver. It was short, only a few words, with no heading or signature:
“You are like the green mountain; I am the pine seedling. Today we part on distant paths—take care of yourselves. If fate allows, the green mountain and I shall meet again.”
One corner of the paper bore wrinkles from tears, wet and dried.
The truck jolted along the unknown, wind-swept northwest, carrying away the final story of Mu Yao, the capitalist’s daughter, from Xiangyang Brigade. It also carried a silent affection, never begun yet already buried in time and earth.
The green mountain remained.
The pine seedling had gone on its journey.
The road ahead was long, the sand blinding. Yet the three words “survive” and the fleeting warmth of his fingertip would become, like the inner jacket and the heavy provisions in her arms, the only sparks and armor she could rely on to endure the desolate path and defy fate.
Goodbye, Gu Jingci.