That old, decades-old ledger became the first lifeline Mu Yao grasped in this land of wind and sand.
By day, she was still the quiet, diligent worker of the Third Team’s logistics squad—hauling coal, washing and scrubbing clothes, turning herself into an unwearied machine against the biting cold wind and swirling dust. Only at night, when the snoring in the dormitory grew loud, would she dare, by the dim light of a small lamp (its oil strictly rationed by the logistics squad and extremely precious), carefully open that heavy ledger.
The accounts were a chaotic mess—numbers blurry and sloppy, years mixed up, many records listing only item names and quantities with units unclear. Clearly, this remote branch was managed in a rough, careless manner, or perhaps survival pressures left them no time for detail. Mu Yao did not despair; she took out her worn-down pencil and scraps of blank paper torn from the old ledger and began to sort things painstakingly, bit by bit.
She first roughly separated the pages by year, though many had no year marked at all. Then she identified the items: grains (mainly corn, sorghum, a little wheat), supplementary foods (salt, sugar, limited oil), tools and consumables (hoes, picks, burlap sacks), coal… She then extracted data for each category, arranged it chronologically, and tried to calculate annual consumption totals and rough per-person amounts.
It was an extremely tedious and mentally exhausting process. The dim light quickly made her eyes sore and tearful; her fingers froze stiff, making it hard to hold the pencil; some handwriting was so illegible she had to infer based on context and surrounding data; other data were clearly contradictory or missing, and she noted these doubts in tiny writing alongside.
She worked slowly but meticulously, as if engaging in a silent conversation with the past. Through these cold, chaotic numbers, she seemed to feel the pulse of the branch’s difficult existence: food was always scarce, supplementary items were luxury, tools wore out fast, coal was the lifeline for winter… Every entry could affect the sustenance and survival of dozens, even hundreds, of people.
Accountant Zhao no longer sought her out, as if the task he had given her was truly just a trivial “organizing” job. Only once, when she returned cleaned tools to the office, did she happen upon Zhao coming out. He adjusted his reading glasses, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment, as if wanting to say something—but in the end, he only nodded slightly and passed by.
Yet Mu Yao could feel that someone’s eyes were quietly observing her—not in surveillance, but in scrutiny, with a hint of hidden expectation. It made her even more cautious and diligent. She was not merely organizing accounts; through it, she was demonstrating her capability, patience, and her value of being seen.
Half a month later, Mu Yao compiled her first summary—a preliminary categorization and analysis of the past three years’ grain losses, noting several obvious discrepancies. In neat handwriting, she transcribed it on the back of a fairly intact old newspaper and entrusted it to young accountant Xiao Liu, whom she had once helped, to deliver to Zhao.
She held little hope. This was just a “trial” result, perhaps of little importance in Zhao’s eyes.
Yet two days later, Xiao Liu quietly approached her, handing her a small cloth pouch, whispering, “This is from Accountant Zhao.”
Her heart raced. She waited until she returned to the corner of the dorm to open it. Inside were not money or food, but several half-used pencils, a half-used eraser, a small stack of neatly trimmed blank accounting sheets, and a thin, slightly yellowed but clearly written Introduction to Basic Bookkeeping. On the title page, a tiny, almost invisible “Zhao” was penned in ink.
No words.
Yet Mu Yao instantly understood the meaning. Recognition. Encouragement. And… guidance. The pencils and paper were tools; the bookkeeping guide was a path. Zhao, in an extremely subtle way, had opened another door for her—a door leading to a more professional, and possibly safer, realm.
Tears blurred her vision—not from grievance, but from the warmth and excitement of being “seen” and guided. In this harsh, survival-first land, such quiet kindness from an almost stranger weighed heavily.
She carefully stored the items in the deepest part of her cloth bag. That night, by the weak lamp light, she eagerly opened the bookkeeping guide. Its content was more systematic and foundational than the Practical Rural Accounting Manual she had been self-studying, filling gaps in her knowledge. Double-entry bookkeeping, account categorization, voucher preparation—these new concepts shone like a light, illuminating a clearer path through the ledger world.
Life remained harsh, the wind and sand relentless, and logistics work grueling. But Mu Yao’s heart found a subtle brightness in the nightly study and the anticipation it brought. Like a desert plant seeking water, she quietly extended her roots into the soil of knowledge, and into the faint nourishment brought by Zhao’s silent gaze.
Her body, however, was paying a real price. Long-term malnutrition, overwork, and harsh conditions weakened her already frail body. She began running a low-grade fever, coughing, sweating at night, and seeing black spots while working. Frostbite on her hands worsened, sometimes making it hard to even hold a pencil. Yet she gritted her teeth, refusing to show weakness or collapse. Here, collapsing could mean marginalization—or worse.
That afternoon, the logistics squad was sent to clean an abandoned warehouse to store a new batch of labor-protection supplies. The warehouse was filled with thick dust and debris. Mu Yao was tasked with cleaning a corner piled with old burlap sacks and rotten wood. She bent over, sweeping with a broken broom, dust rising, triggering violent coughing fits, stars flashing before her eyes, almost toppling over.
“Hey! Are you okay?” A middle-aged woman working nearby glanced at her—not unfriendly, but not warm either. “Your face is pale as a ghost. Want to go to the clinic?”
Mu Yao waved weakly, her voice hoarse: “I’m… fine… just choked.”
The woman snorted and continued working.
Mu Yao leaned against the cold mud wall, gasping until she recovered. Her forehead was covered in sweat, her back soaked. She knew her body was near its limit. But what choice did she have? The clinic had scarce medicine and limited care; going could be pointless, even bringing accusations of “delicacy” or “pretending illness.”
She inhaled the dusty air, picking up the broom again. Survive. I must survive. For the unfinished bookkeeping guide, for Zhao’s silent gaze, and for… the distant person who had told her to “keep living.”
That night, she developed a high fever—body burning, head splitting, consciousness hazy. She curled up on the cold kang, wrapped in a military quilt and cotton lining, teeth chattering. Everyone else in the dorm slept, snoring thunderously, unaware of her condition.
In a half-dream, she seemed back in the Xiangyang Brigade’s woodshed, hearing Gu Jingci’s steady footsteps outside, seeing him push the door open and hand her a bowl of hot ginger soup… Then a mountain torrent, him disappearing in the muddy flood… Then the touch of his fingers brushing her eye, and his hoarse, “Stay alive…”
“Gu Jingci…” she murmured in the fevered dream, voice barely audible.
At that moment, she felt a gentle touch on her forehead—dry, slightly cool, with a thin callus.
She snapped open her eyes. In the darkness, a hunched, blurred figure stood by the kang, placing a bowl beside her pillow.
Accountant Zhao?!
She nearly sat up but was gently pressed down by a bony yet strong hand.
“Don’t move,” Zhao’s low voice was nearly lost in the snoring. “Take the medicine.”
Medicine? Through the weak snowlight outside, she saw a coarse ceramic bowl filled with dark medicinal soup, giving off a strong, bitter herbal scent.
“Accountant Zhao, I…” Her throat was raw and dry.
“Say nothing,” Zhao interrupted, firm. “Drink it, cover yourself. If you still have a fever tomorrow, go to the clinic—tell them I sent you.” He pressed a small paper packet into her hand. “Inside are fever-reducing tablets for tomorrow morning.”
Without another word, he silently withdrew, the hunched figure vanishing into the snowy night.
Mu Yao lay on the kang, clutching the tiny packet, the still-warm soup by her pillow. Tears streamed down, mixing with the sweat on her forehead, burning as they slid to her temples.
He came. He knew. He brought medicine.
On this cold, hopeless night, in this desolate land where she had no relatives, this silent, seemingly cold Accountant Zhao had given her the most tangible lifeline—bitter soup and a few tablets.
She didn’t hesitate. Struggling upright, she lifted the bowl, drinking the bitter soup spoonful by spoonful. Bitter, hot, but swallowing it seemed to drive away some of the cold and pain in her body.
She lay back down, pressing the packet to her chest, wrapping herself tightly in the quilt. The medicine took effect quickly, and she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next day, the fever had subsided somewhat. Still weak, she forced herself to get up, taking a tablet as instructed, then struggled to work. Zhao’s instructions seemed to have effect; no one criticized her condition, and even the middle-aged woman from yesterday quietly slipped her half a cold cornbread.
After a few days, her body gradually recovered. Mu Yao cherished this rare opportunity even more. She worked diligently by day, studied the bookkeeping guide at night, and sped up the progress of organizing the old ledger. She began experimenting with the principles of double-entry bookkeeping she had learned, reorganizing the chaotic data. Though difficult, it brought her joy.
She still didn’t approach Zhao actively. But occasionally in the office, she would lower her head slightly, and Zhao would barely perceptibly nod. A silent understanding quietly formed between them.
One day, Mu Yao finally completed the preliminary organization of the thick old ledger, with a detailed classification summary and notes on problems. She wrapped the materials in old newspaper and sent them via Xiao Liu.
This time, Zhao responded promptly. Xiao Liu informed her to visit the accounting office after dinner.
Her heart leapt. She tidied herself as best she could, washing face and hands, combing her hair, wearing her slightly dirty but neat coat.
The office was small, with only a worn desk and a few filing cabinets. Zhao sat at the desk, examining her organized materials by the dim desk lamp. Hearing her knock, he looked up, gesturing to a chair opposite him: “Sit.”
She obeyed, hands on her knees, nervous.
Zhao put down the papers, removed his glasses, rubbed his brow, and looked at her. His gaze was still calm and scrutinizing, but less distant and more… probing.
“Good work,” he said, voice steady. “Clear organization, marked doubts clearly. Especially the latter part where you tried reorganizing using the double-entry principle… Though still a bit rough, the approach is correct.”
Receiving praise, Mu Yao relaxed slightly, whispering, “It was the book you gave me… it helped a lot.”
Zhao didn’t comment, put his glasses back on, took a kraft paper envelope from the drawer, and pushed it toward her.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
Mu Yao curiously picked up the envelope. Thin, seemingly containing only a single sheet. She drew it out and unfolded it.
At first glance, her breath caught, her heart gripped as if by an invisible hand.
The handwriting—so familiar! Bold, vigorous, with a characteristic sloppy elegance—it was Gu Jingci’s!
The letter was short, no header, no signature, just a few lines:
“To Zhao Shujun: Long time no see, I miss you. There is now a descendant of an old acquaintance, named Yao, traveling alone to the Northwest, residing in a respected place. She lost her father young, drifting through life, but is simple-hearted, diligent, and eager to learn. I am far away, unable to intervene; I earnestly request you, uncle, in consideration of old ties, to give her some care as you can. No words can repay your kindness, I shall do so in time. Respectfully, Jingci. [Date]”
Mu Yao’s hands trembled uncontrollably, tears blurring her vision. She stared at the familiar script, each character scorching her heart.
Gu Jingci… he wrote to Zhao! He called Zhao “uncle,” called himself “nephew”! He referred to her as “descendant of an old acquaintance”! He asked Zhao to “look after her a little”!
So that’s it! Zhao knew who she was from the start! Those seemingly coincidental opportunities, the bookkeeping guide, the late-night medicinal soup—they weren’t accidental! It was Gu Jingci! From afar, with this restrained letter, he laid out a faint but real path for her survival!
Tears soaked the letter, smudging the ink. She hurriedly tried to wipe it, only making it blurrier.
Zhao quietly watched, neither stopping nor consoling her. When her emotions settled slightly, he spoke slowly, voice carrying the experience and calm understanding of life:
“Jingci has always been loyal and steadfast since childhood. His letter is subtle, but I can see—you are no ordinary ‘descendant of an old acquaintance.’ It’s not easy for him to write this for you.”
Mu Yao looked up, tearful, choking: “Accountant Zhao… I… I don’t know what to say… thank you… and thank… thank Captain Gu…”
“No need to thank me,” Zhao waved. “Jingci’s father once helped me. Seeing this letter, I naturally take it to heart. But,” his tone sharpened, “you know this place. My ability is limited. I can give you opportunities, teach you, pull you up when necessary—both out of respect for Jingci and for your own performance. But whether you seize it, stand firm, or live better… depends on you.”
He gestured at the materials on the desk: “You did well. It shows you are willing to learn and have some cleverness. We’re about to start the year-end inventory, short on hands. I spoke to Director Yang, arranging for you to temporarily assist in the accounting office—help with copying vouchers, organizing reports. It won’t be easy, but better than logistics, and you’ll learn real skills. Are you willing?”
Transferred to the accounting office?! Mu Yao could hardly believe her ears! This meant leaving endless manual labor, escaping the harsh environment, handling core accounting work, and having more time to study and improve!
Overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, she nodded vigorously, voice trembling: “I’m willing! Accountant Zhao, I will work hard! Never betray your trust!”
Zhao nodded, expression unchanged. “Come tomorrow. Remember: speak less, do more. Don’t ask what you shouldn’t, don’t look where you shouldn’t. Also,” he gave her a meaningful look, “this letter from Jingci—only you and I know. Understand?”
“I understand!” Mu Yao nodded firmly, carefully folding the damp letter, intending to return it to him.
Zhao shook his head. “Keep it. He wrote it for you—it’s yours.”
Mu Yao paused, then clutched the letter to her chest. That thin sheet felt like a warm ember, pressing against her long-frozen heart.
Stepping out, the snow had stopped, the night sky clear, stars like scattered diamonds, dazzling. The cold wind still bit, but Mu Yao felt strength coursing through her.
She lifted her head, gazing southeast—toward the Xiangyang Brigade, where Gu Jingci was.
A thousand miles away, mountains and rivers in between.
But he hadn’t forgotten her. Silently, firmly, he lit her path.
Tears blurred her vision again, but this time, hot, filled with hope and strength.
Gu Jingci.
She repeated the name in her heart, burying the letter, the cotton lining he sent, the rations, the brown sugar, and his words “keep living” deep within the softest, strongest part of her soul.
The northwest wind and snow still raged, the road ahead remained long.
But Mu Yao knew that from this night, she was no longer a drifting, solitary leaf.
Her roots had finally touched the soil. Beneath it, a silent, resilient root from afar connected to hers, granting her the deepest strength to endure desolation and grow upward.
Survive.
And thrive.