Just as dawn was beginning to break, the shrill blast of a whistle cut through the silence of Xiangyang Brigade’s early morning like a rasping blade.
Mu Yao almost opened her eyes the instant the sound rang out. The biological clock forged during her previous life—reformed, driven, never allowed rest—seemed to have been etched back into her bones along with her rebirth. There was no right to sleep in, and no luxury of lingering in bed.
Beneath her was the hard earthen kang; wrapped around her, however, was a soft, thick cotton quilt. The clean scent belonging to another person had settled into her breathing after a whole night, imprinting itself even more deeply. She sat up. She had slept in her clothes, the coarse fabric wrinkled and clinging to her body. The woodshed was dim, with only a few cold strands of morning light filtering through the broken window, illuminating fine dust motes drifting in the air.
Cold.
Even wrapped in the quilt, the chill seeped in from all directions, burrowing straight into her bones. She rubbed her numb hands and feet, then quickly got up and carefully folded Gu Jingci’s quilt—into a neat, regulation tofu block. It was one of the few “useful” skills she had learned later in her previous life, honed in harsh environments. The quilt was thick and fluffy, carrying lingering warmth and the scent of soapberry. It clashed starkly with the dilapidated, frigid surroundings, yet at this moment, it was her only support and comfort.
There was no mirror. She could only use the small amount of murky water left in the cracked jar, dampen a handkerchief, and roughly wipe her face. The cold water tightened her skin and cleared her head completely. She smoothed her slightly wavy long hair as best she could, braiding it into a thick plait down her back. Then she checked her wrist—the red marks had faded somewhat, but they were still clearly visible. She tugged her sleeve down to cover them completely.
She pushed open the creaking door. The biting air of a late-autumn morning rushed toward her, carrying the scent of soil and frost. The village had not fully awakened yet, but thin plumes of cooking smoke were already rising from the low rooftops. A few commune members, bundled in bulky cotton jackets, necks tucked in, trudged sleepily toward the threshing ground with hoes and shovels on their shoulders.
Mu Yao took a deep breath, locked the door—though the broken lock was little more than a formality—and, with a near-heroic sense of resolve, merged into the flow of people. She didn’t know exactly where she was supposed to go, so she could only follow the others.
A crowd had already gathered at the threshing ground, a dense mass of people. Most of the men squatted along the walls smoking, while the women clustered in small groups, hands tucked into sleeves, talking in low voices. Their gazes flicked from time to time toward the educated youths arriving one after another, filled with undisguised curiosity and scrutiny. Those looks were like searchlights—especially when they landed on Mu Yao, lingering noticeably longer, accompanied by whispers.
“So that’s her… the capitalist’s daughter?”
“She’s awfully fair-skinned. Doesn’t look like she can work.”
“I heard Captain Gu personally arranged her lodging yesterday? Even carried a quilt over?”
“Shh… keep it down…”
Mu Yao lowered her eyes, trying to minimize her presence, and stood in the corner where the educated youths had gathered. She spotted Liu Caixia, the girl with the black braids from yesterday. Today, Liu Caixia wore a half-new floral blouse, her braids slick and shiny. She was chatting with a round-faced girl beside her, her gaze flicking briefly toward Mu Yao before turning away, her lips curling faintly.
The deputy team leader, a dark, wiry middle-aged man, picked up a battered tin loudspeaker and began assigning tasks. Most of the male educated youths were sent to dig irrigation channels on the north slope—heavy labor. The female educated youths were assigned to pick soybean stalks in West Gully or turn and dry corn at the yard.
“Mu Yao,” the deputy leader read her name, paused, and looked up at her. “You’ll go with the women’s team leader to the old riverbank on the east side of the village—haul aquatic weeds to make compost.”
Hauling aquatic weeds?
Mu Yao’s heart sank. In her memory, this wasn’t the heaviest job, but it was brutally exhausting. In late autumn, the water was bone-chilling. You had to wade barefoot into mud up to your calves, use a bamboo rake to drag up slippery, tangled weeds, then pile them on the bank to rot. Cold. Filthy. And there were leeches, snakes, and insects. This task was usually given to those least favored—or those deemed in need of “extra reform.”
The surrounding gazes focused on her again—some gloating, some sympathetic, some indifferent.
The faint smile at the corner of Liu Caixia’s mouth deepened.
“All clear? Dismissed!” the deputy leader waved his hand.
The crowd buzzed into motion. Mu Yao quietly stepped out of line, looking for the women’s team leader. Before she could find her, a tall figure blocked her path.
Gu Jingci had come over at some point. Today he wore an even older jacket, washed to a pale white, sleeves still rolled up to reveal sturdy forearms. His face was expressionless, brows habitually knit, the morning light casting a cold edge over his sharp features.
“You—come with me,” he said to Mu Yao, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Mu Yao froze, lifting her head to look at him.
Gu Jingci had already turned and started walking in another direction. After a couple of steps, he realized she hadn’t moved. He turned back, frowning harder. “What are you standing there for? Hurry up.”
Without time to think, Mu Yao followed. She could feel countless eyes tracking them from behind, the whispers growing louder.
Gu Jingci’s legs were long, his stride wide. Mu Yao had to almost jog to keep up. He led her past the threshing ground and straight toward the livestock sheds behind the brigade office. The further they went, the more pungent the air became with the mixed smell of animal waste and dry hay.
“Captain Gu… where are we going?” Mu Yao couldn’t help asking softly. Could it be that because of her background, she wasn’t even “qualified” to haul weeds and was being sent somewhere worse?
Gu Jingci didn’t turn around. His voice drifted back on the wind, hard and flat. “Feeding the livestock. Chopping fodder, mixing feed, cleaning the pens.”
Mu Yao stopped short. Feeding livestock?
In the village, this was usually considered one of the lighter jobs. It was dirty and smelly, but you didn’t have to soak in icy water all day, and you were less exposed to wind and sun. The livestock shed was also relatively isolated, with fewer people around…
Was he… looking out for her?
The thought made her heart tremble, a complicated warmth surging up—quickly drowned by unease. Such blatant “special treatment,” especially in the eyes of people already sensitive to her background, would only invite more gossip. Would it affect him?
“Captain Gu,” she hurried a few steps to try to walk alongside him, her voice anxious. “I—I can go haul weeds. I can do it.”
Gu Jingci finally stopped and turned to look down at her. His gaze was heavy, appraising, with a trace of irritation. “You can do it?” He scoffed, eyes sweeping over her thin arms and pale, almost translucent hands. “With that build, going into cold water? Half a day and you’ll be cramped up, then someone will have to fish you out. Don’t cause trouble.”
His words were blunt, even cutting. Yet from them, Mu Yao caught another meaning—he had considered that assignment and rejected it, because he didn’t want “trouble.”
“But—” she started.
“No buts.” Gu Jingci cut her off, his tone returning to its usual cold firmness. “Do what you’re told. Can you use a fodder chopper?”
Mu Yao shook her head. She had only ever seen that massive blade in pictures.
“Learn,” Gu Jingci said succinctly, leading her into a spacious but dim shed. Several yellow oxen and donkeys were tied inside, the air thick. Bundles of dried stalks were piled in a corner, and beside them stood a heavy chaff cutter, its blade gleaming coldly.
He walked over to it and gestured for her to come closer. He grabbed a bundle of stalks, stuffed them beneath the blade, planted one foot on the lever, gripped the handle with both hands, and drove it down with his waist and back.
“Crack!”
The stalks were cleanly severed.
“Did you see clearly?” he asked. “Feet steady, hands firm. Use your waist, not brute force with your arms.” He demonstrated again, his movements smooth and powerful, carrying a raw, physical strength. In the dim light, the lines of tension in his arms and back were sharply defined.
Mu Yao watched, momentarily transfixed. Only when he released the handle and looked at her did she hurriedly nod. “I—I saw.”
“Try.” He stepped aside, a hint of appraisal in his eyes.
Mu Yao went over. The wooden handle was thick and icy; she could barely grip it with both hands. She mimicked his movements, fed in a small handful of stalks, stepped on the lever, took a deep breath, and pressed down with all her strength.
The blade cut in halfway, then jammed. The fibers were tough; her strength was insufficient, her posture wrong.
Her face flushed red. She gritted her teeth and tried again—still no good. Her arms began to tremble with strain.
A large hand reached in from the side, covering hers on the handle. Dry, warm, with rough calluses. The heat startled her; her hand trembled, almost loosening.
“Your posture’s wrong.” Gu Jingci’s voice sounded right behind her, very close, his breath almost brushing her ear. He didn’t fully grasp her hand, only steadied it, adjusting her fingers and the angle of force. “Move your foot forward a bit. Plant it. Straighten your waist—use your core, not just your arms. Right… like that. Now press.”
Guided by his low, clipped instructions, Mu Yao felt a steady, powerful force transmit through his hand, leading the handle down.
Crack!
This time, the stalks cut cleanly.
He released her hand immediately and stepped back. “Practice on your own. Start with small amounts. Put the chopped fodder in that basket, mix it with soybean meal and bran in proportion, add water, and stir.” He pointed to several sacks and a large vat at the other end. “I’ll handle cleaning the manure and bedding this afternoon. Someone will bring lunch.”
“Captain Gu…” Mu Yao looked at him, the unease in her heart replaced by warmth and gratitude, tinged with a faint ache. “Thank you.”
He seemed unaccustomed to such thanks. Turning his face away toward the light outside, he left her with only a hard-lined profile. “Save it. Do the job well and don’t mess up—that’s thanks enough.” With that, he strode out without looking back, disappearing quickly into the brightness beyond the shed.
Mu Yao stood there, feeling as though the warmth of his palm still lingered on her hand. The shed fell quiet, broken only by the occasional snort and chewing of the animals. The smell was still unpleasant, yet her heart felt strangely settled.
She turned back to the heavy chopper, bit her lip, rolled up her sleeves, revealing her slender, pale wrist—the faint red marks still visible in the dim light—and gripped the handle again.
One chop. Two. Three…
At first, she was clumsy and slow. The stalks came out uneven. Her arms ached until she could barely lift them; her waist stiffened. Sweat quickly soaked her underclothes, beading at her temples. Rough chaff clung to her hands, face, and neck, prickling uncomfortably.
But she didn’t stop. She replayed Gu Jingci’s movements in her mind, adjusting her strength and angle. Gradually, she found a rhythm. Still slow and awkward, but no longer stuck.
A small pile of chopped fodder formed. She wiped her sweat with her sleeve and went to the mixing vat. The soybean meal and bran were coarse and abrasive, turning sticky and heavy once water was added. She stirred laboriously with a thick wooden stick until it was evenly mixed.
Then she picked up an old bamboo broom and began cleaning manure and scattered bedding from the pens. This was even filthier, the smell stronger. Fighting back nausea, she swept again and again, piling the waste into a manure basket in the corner.
Time crawled by amid the monotonous labor. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the roof, forming shifting columns of light that illuminated swirling dust and chaff.
Near noon, a woman with a headscarf arrived with a basket, left behind two coarse black buns and a bowl of oil-less vegetable soup. She glanced curiously at Mu Yao but said nothing before leaving.
The buns were hard and rough; the soup bland. Mu Yao ate slowly but steadily, washing the food down with soup. The physical exertion demanded fuel. With something in her stomach, the chill and fatigue eased a little.
In the afternoon, she continued the same work. Gu Jingci didn’t return until the sun was slanting west and the end-of-work whistle sounded faintly in the distance.
The shed had been roughly cleaned. The chopped fodder was piled to one side; the mixed feed was ready. The work wasn’t beautiful or efficient, but it was clear she had put in effort.
Mu Yao was doing the final sweep, her face, hands, and clothes smeared with dust and chaff. Her braid had loosened, stray strands sticking to her damp cheeks and neck. The setting sun slanted in through the doorway, outlining her in a soft golden glow. She didn’t look especially miserable—if anything, she seemed focused and calm.
Gu Jingci stood at the entrance, not entering right away. He watched her maneuver the broom nearly as tall as she was. When she sensed someone and looked up, a flicker of surprise crossed her face. Her eyes—dusty yet still clear—met his in the backlight, like a startled deer, tinged with the hope of having completed a task.
He walked in silently, checked the fodder and feed, and glanced at the cleaned floor.
“That’ll do,” he said flatly. “That’s it for today. Come early tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Mu Yao replied softly, setting the broom down and brushing off chaff.
They walked out of the shed one after the other. The evening wind carried a chill. Blowing over her sweat-damp clothes, it made her shiver.
Gu Jingci paused briefly. Without turning back, his voice drifted to her on the wind. “Remember to use the quilt tonight. Cover up well.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest. She murmured a soft “Mm.”
On the way back, they passed commune members returning from work. Seeing Mu Yao coming from the livestock shed—and alongside Gu Jingci—the scrutiny and gossip in their gazes grew even more blatant.
“So she really went to feed livestock…”
“Captain Gu sure is attentive to her.”
“That capitalist miss is too delicate—can’t even haul weeds…”
Liu Caixia and several female educated youths happened to be coming back along another path. Seeing them, Liu Caixia’s eyes flicked between Mu Yao’s dust-streaked clothes and Gu Jingci’s back, her lips curling into an inscrutable smile.
Mu Yao lowered her head and quickened her pace, eager to return to the small woodshed that, though broken, was temporarily hers. She wasn’t afraid of hardship or gossip. What troubled her was this “special treatment”—a double-edged sword that gave her breathing room while also pushing her into the spotlight.
Gu Jingci parted ways with her near the village tail, turning down another path. He didn’t say another word.
Mu Yao returned alone to the small courtyard, unlocked it, and pushed open the broken door. The woodshed was still cold and shabby, but the neatly folded army-green quilt lay quietly at the center of the kang, like a small, warm fortress.
She bolted the door and walked to the kang, gently brushing her hand over the quilt. Then she went to the cracked jar and, using the last bit of daylight, looked at her blurred reflection in the water.
A face smeared with dust and chaff—tired, yet strangely calm.
She scooped up some cold water and slowly washed the grime away. The water was icy, but it sharpened her clarity.
The first day was over. She had endured it—because of that quilt, and because of that seemingly cold, unyielding man who had quietly offered her a sliver of shelter.
She knew this was only the beginning. A longer road and harder trials lay ahead. Liu Caixia’s gaze, the villagers’ gossip, the shackles of her background, the tide of the times—none of it would be absent.
But at least tonight, she had a quilt to ward off the cold, and a little something that might be called… hope.
She climbed onto the kang and wrapped herself in the warmth scented faintly with soapberry. Outside, the wind rose, but inside the woodshed, the small circle of warmth formed by the military quilt stubbornly resisted the deep autumn chill.
Far away, at the Gu household—
Gu’s mother set the dinner on the table and glanced at her son, who was eating with his head down. Casually, she asked, “I heard you assigned that new female educated youth to feed the livestock today?”
Gu Jingci’s chopsticks paused. He didn’t look up. “Mm. She can’t handle heavy labor.”
“Oh…” Gu’s mother drew out the sound and placed a piece of pickled vegetable into his bowl. “That girl’s quite pretty, but she looks too frail. Surname Mu, right? Her family… background isn’t very good?”
Gu Jingci stopped eating and looked up at his mother. Under the lamplight, his eyes were deep, carrying a trace of guardedness. “Mom, I know what I’m doing with team matters. Whatever her background, she’s an educated youth of Xiangyang Brigade now, under my charge.”
Gu’s mother studied her son’s serious face, sighed inwardly, but smiled on the surface. “Alright. As long as you have a sense of measure. I was just asking. Eat.”
Gu Jingci lowered his head and ate quickly, yet images flickered through his mind—the dusty but startlingly bright eyes in the livestock shed, her clenched jaw as she chopped fodder, and her slender figure trembling slightly in the oversized coarse clothes at dusk.
Irritated, he finished his last bite and set the bowl down. “I’m going out for a bit.”
“So late?”
“Night patrol.” He grabbed the jacket draped over the chair and left without looking back.
Night deepened; the village grew quiet. Gu Jingci’s tall figure walked along the dirt road, his steps unconsciously carrying him toward the foot of the mountain at the village tail—until he spotted the dilapidated courtyard, where a faint, stubborn yellow glow leaked from the broken window of the woodshed. She had probably lit the nearly oil-less kerosene lamp he’d left behind yesterday.
He stopped beneath an old locust tree not far away, leaned against the trunk, pulled out his tobacco pouch, lit it, and took a deep drag. The harsh smoke filled his lungs but couldn’t suppress the restless stir in his chest.
That tiny light flickered weakly in the darkness, yet it was impossible to ignore.
He watched for a long time. Only when the light went out, fully swallowed by the night, did he stub out the tobacco and turn back, walking slowly under the cold moonlight.
Inside the woodshed, Mu Yao blew out the lamp and curled up in the warmth of the quilt.
Gu Jingci.
She silently repeated his name in her heart.
This time, no matter what, I will hold on to this faint glimmer of light in the darkness.