Being seconded to the accounting office was, for Mu Yao, like stepping from a desert to the edge of an oasis. Though this “oasis” was still humble—a mud-brick room little bigger than a woodshed, two worn tables pushed together as a workbench, a creaky filing cabinet, and air perpetually steeped in the acrid scent of cheap ink, dust, and old ledgers—it offered relief. There was no endless physical exhaustion, no biting outdoor wind and sand, and most importantly, there was an abacus, there were ledgers, there were occasional words of guidance from Accountant Zhao, and there was a weapon she could hold in her hands called “knowledge.”
Her main task was assisting with the year-end inventory: accompanying Accountant Zhao and Xiao Liu to warehouses, cellars, and tool rooms to count items and record the data; returning to the office to transcribe the raw records onto formal inventory sheets; cross-checking previous years’ accounts to spot discrepancies; and organizing the mountain of old vouchers by date and category. The work remained tedious and painstaking, requiring immense patience and care, but Mu Yao savored it.
She threw herself into her work. When her fingers cracked from the cold, she wrapped them in cloth and continued writing; when her eyes burned from exhaustion, she lingered in the window light a little longer; when she encountered unfamiliar terms or complicated reconciliations, she quietly took notes, waiting until Zhao’s mood improved or no one else was around to ask carefully. Most of the time, Zhao offered only brief explanations, sometimes even waving her off impatiently to “figure it out herself,” yet Mu Yao always caught the faintest, almost imperceptible glimmer of approval in his fleeting gaze.
The crisp clatter of the abacus once again became the rhythm of her life. But this time, the beads were moved not only by her hands but also by Xiao Liu’s and occasionally by Zhao himself as he personally verified key figures. The clicks and clacks echoed through the quiet office, interweaving with the rustle of flipping papers and the scratch of pens on ledger sheets, strangely forming a symphony of order amid the desolation. Mu Yao quickly realized Zhao’s abacus technique was impeccable—fluid, precise, with an astonishing mental calculation ability. Xiao Liu was a bit clumsy and prone to mistakes. As for herself, after enlightenment from Old Xu of the Xiangyang Brigade and self-study of Introduction to Bookkeeping, her technique was rough, but her diligence made her error rate the lowest.
“Here, the number of sacks left over from last year doesn’t match the sum of this year’s issuance and current stock.” Mu Yao slid an inventory sheet toward Zhao, pointing at a section circled in red, her voice soft but clear.
Zhao lifted his eyes over his magnifying glasses, glanced at the marked spot, then picked up an old ledger and a stub from a requisition slip, quickly cross-referencing. After a moment, he set them down and said calmly, “Ah, a batch was washed away by the autumn flood last year. Only the loss was reported at the time; the accounts weren’t updated. Make a loss form, include an explanation, and balance the books.”
“Yes,” Mu Yao replied, a slight stir in her chest. Losses swept away by a flood… instantly, her mind traveled back to the Xiangyang Brigade, to that torrential, roaring night, to Gu Jingci disappearing in the flood, and to the jagged scar on his back that followed. Her chest tightened sharply.
She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate, and began filling out the loss form. The scratch of her pen linked the heart-stopping memory to the monotonous numbers, quietly burying it in her heart.
Besides inventory, Mu Yao also took on recording minor daily expenses: travel allowances for staff going to the county, purchases of small office supplies, meager subsidies for hosting visiting officials… each entry tiny but needing clear documentation. She meticulously pasted vouchers, wrote concise abstracts, and double-checked amounts. She even began applying the principles of double-entry bookkeeping in her mind to organize these scattered expenses into simple account frameworks, though Zhao never required it.
Her diligence and growing competence earned Xiao Liu’s respect (or at least freed him from some tedious tasks) and did not escape Zhao’s notice. Occasionally, Zhao would hand her slightly more complex vouchers involving transfers between warehouses for preliminary review, or casually point out “local practices” and potential pitfalls from that era when she was sorting old vouchers.
Days passed quietly to the rhythm of abacus clicks and the scent of ink and paper. Winter in the northwest was long and harsh; snow-blocked roads were common. Though her meals did not improve significantly after moving to the accounting office—still simple rations—she was spared the harsh physical labor in the icy outdoors, and her body’s deterioration slowed. Her frostbitten fingers gradually healed, aided by a small jar of cream Zhao had somehow acquired. Cuts on her cheeks, cracked by wind and sand, slowly closed, leaving faint marks.
Yet at night, lying on the makeshift wooden bed in the office (special permission from Zhao for inventory and overtime convenience), listening to the wind howl outside like ghosts and wolves, she still felt a bone-deep loneliness and chill. Then she would take out the letter she had touched countless times, the ink nearly worn away, and, reflecting the snowlight outside, read the familiar handwriting over and over: Gu Jingci. These three characters were like the North Star in the dark night, giving her direction while stirring a long, delicate ache of longing.
Would he think of her? Amid the busy harvest and winter storage, in fleeting moments of leisure? The Xiangyang Brigade must be freezing now. Was he… alright?
No answers came—only the northwest wind, year after year, sweeping away faint sounds and distant concerns.
The year-end inventory neared its end. That day, the office received a package from out of town, addressed to Accountant Zhao. The package was small but heavy. After signing for it, Zhao placed it casually in a corner of the accounting office.
Mu Yao didn’t pay much attention at first. In the afternoon, when Zhao asked her to fetch some old documents from the warehouse, she passed the package and happened to glimpse part of the delivery slip. In the sender’s address field, two blurred but heart-stopping characters flashed past—“…Yang Brigade”?
Her steps froze. Blood seemed to rush to her head. She held her breath, bent to tie her shoelaces, pretending nothing had happened, yet her eyes stayed fixed on the slip. Though wrinkled and messy, the characters “Qingshan Commune Xiangyang Brigade” were pieced together, unmistakably.
It came from the Xiangyang Brigade! For Zhao!
Could it be… him?
Her heart raced, almost breaking through her chest. She forced herself to look away, straightened up, and hurried toward the warehouse. Her mind was elsewhere, occupied entirely by the package and the slip.
Returning to the accounting office, Zhao sat at his desk with the opened package before him. Inside were several tightly wrapped bundles in oiled paper, appearing to be dried goods; two glass bottles with white labels, the text illegible, possibly medicinal wine or condiments; and a letter, the envelope made of common kraft paper, sealed.
Zhao was reading the letter, frowning slightly, expression neutral. Hearing Mu Yao’s steps, he glanced at her, his gaze lingering on her pale face for a moment, then casually refolded the letter, placed it with the items, wrapped them back in the package cloth, and returned it to the corner.
Not a word was spoken.
Mu Yao felt her heart fry in an oil pan. She was almost certain the letter was from Gu Jingci! And the items could be from him too! Was he maintaining contact through Zhao, or… did some of it include her?
The thought made her body burn and chill at once. She dared not ask, not even glance again at the package, afraid it would betray the storm of emotions inside. She quietly returned to her desk, picked up her pen, pretending to continue checking figures, though her hand shook violently, leaving crooked, uneven writing.
The next half-day felt like hell. The abacus clicks were piercing, numbers dancing blurred before her eyes. She forced herself to focus but kept sneaking glances at the corner. Zhao, meanwhile, acted as if nothing had happened, calmly working, occasionally coughing or pouring a cup of hot water.
Finally, after work, when everyone else had left, only Mu Yao and Zhao remained. Night had fallen, and the wind and snow rose again.
Mu Yao slowly packed up, heart drumming like a war drum. She knew she should perhaps leave, pretending nothing had happened. Yet the package felt like a magnet, anchoring her steps and her entire focus.
At last, Zhao closed the final file, locked the drawer, walked to the stove, poked at the fading coals, added fresh coal. The firelight flickered across his sharp, wrinkled face.
He didn’t look at Mu Yao, staring at the flames, then spoke, his voice echoing in the silent room:
“It’s from Jingci.”
Mu Yao shivered. Her pencil clattered onto the desk. She looked up sharply at Zhao.
He slowly turned, calm eyes meeting hers, as if he had long read all the turmoil in her heart. “Some mountain produce, mushrooms and wood ear dried at home. Two bottles of medicinal wine, said to be brewed by his mother for cold and leg pain.” He paused, retrieving the already opened letter, but didn’t hand it to her, holding it in his hand instead. “He asked about my well-being… and about… you.”
Mu Yao’s breath caught; she stared unblinkingly at the letter in Zhao’s hands.
Zhao noted the tension and the mix of longing and fear in her eyes, and almost imperceptibly sighed. He returned to his desk, retrieved a small package, and placed it with the letter at the desk corner, sliding them toward her.
“This is for you alone,” Zhao said softly, a gentle, complex warmth in his tone. “The letter, and a little… food. He instructed specifically—don’t let anyone see.”
Mu Yao looked at the small bundle carefully wrapped in old newspaper and the unfolded letter without envelope. Her mind went blank. After a few seconds, she seemed to react, stepping forward, trembling hands cupping both items.
The letter was light but felt weighty. The newspaper-wrapped bundle was hard, small.
“Take it back and read it,” Zhao said, already donned in heavy coat and hat. “Remember, no one can see it.” He left, opening the creaking wooden door into the howling snow.
The office was left with Mu Yao alone, and the crackling fire.
She hugged the letter and small package tightly, sliding down the cold wall to sit on the floor. Her heart raced violently, blood rushing to her head.
She opened the newspaper bundle. Inside were several dark, oil-paper-wrapped pieces, emitting a faint sweet and nutty aroma—sesame candy! And a small red-paper-wrapped bag with distinct granules—peanuts? In this era, on the northwest plains, these were luxuries of the highest order!
Tears blurred her vision. She imagined Gu Jingci, far away in the Xiangyang Brigade, carefully gathering or exchanging these little treats, packing them with care, entrusting Zhao to deliver them safely to her across thousands of miles.
She pressed the candy and peanuts to her chest, as if feeling the faint warmth traveling through mountains and rivers.
Then, she unfolded the letter.
No heading, no signature. Only his strong, flowing, forceful handwriting:
“Seeing this is like meeting. The northwest is bitter and cold—take care. Never neglect study; the mountain of books has a path. Uncle Zhao is trustworthy; consult him if needed. The road ahead is long—train yourself well. Mountains endure, waters flow long. Do not worry.”
Just a few lines, more restrained and concise than the one to Zhao. No mention of personal feelings, no comfort, only the simplest advice and the most subtle concern.
“Never neglect study; the mountain of books has a path.” — urging her to keep learning.
“Uncle Zhao is trustworthy; consult him if needed.” — affirming Zhao’s reliability.
“The road ahead is long—train yourself well.” — acknowledging hardship but encouraging self-discipline.
“Mountains endure, waters flow long. Do not worry.” — the subtlest promise and gentle caution.
Every word was like him: silent, firm, yet filled with profound care and strength.
Mu Yao pressed the letter to her chest. The hard candy and peanuts, the soft paper, and her wildly beating heart intertwined. She curled up on the cold floor, burying her face in her knees, finally letting out a low, broken sob.
This time, the tears burned with a mix of emotions: longing across mountains and seas, gratitude for survival, the tremor of deep concern, fear of an uncertain future, and a fierce desire to live sparked by this letter and tiny treats.
He had not forgotten her. Silently, resolutely, he was watching, supporting her.
Thousands of miles away, blocked by mountains and winds, yet the thread he extended never broke. From the Xiangyang Brigade’s woodshed to the northwest farm accounting office, from “stay alive” to a small bundle of candy and peanuts, to this letter heavy with weighty words.
A fragile thread, yet unbreakably strong.
Mu Yao cried long, until the fire dimmed and the wind and snow outside seemed to soften. She dried her tears, carefully folded the letter, and wrapped it with the candy and peanuts in old newspaper, hiding it in her inner pocket, close to her skin, close to her racing heart.
Then she stood, dusted herself off, and went to the window, gazing at the endless snowlit plains.
The wind still blew, snow still fell.
But Mu Yao felt the almost-extinguished light in her heart reignited by this faint spark from afar—brighter and firmer than ever.
She turned to the ledgers on the desk, unfinished, and the old abacus that had kept her company through countless nights.
Her gaze was clear and sharp.
She would survive.
And she would live better.
To honor this silent concern from thousands of miles away, and so that one day, she could stand tall by those green mountains and flowing waters.
The crisp click of the abacus seemed to sound again in the quiet air—this time, steadier, stronger.