Spring in the northwest was like a shy young girl, always hesitant, coming and going. After several gusts of wind carrying grains of sand, the temperature finally rose slightly. The surface of the frozen ground began to soften, and on the sunny slopes, tiny, unnamed wild grasses sprouted at a startling speed, sprinkling fragile specks of green across the gray-yellow earth.
The atmosphere at the farm headquarters became livelier as the weather warmed. “The whole year’s plan starts in spring,” as the saying went, and various production plans were being laid out in quick succession. Accountant Zhao became even busier, attending production coordination meetings in addition to his daily bookkeeping, reviewing each team’s material requirements. Mu Yao’s workload increased accordingly. Besides cash accounts and voucher organization, Zhao began letting her try drafting some simple statistical reports—such as summaries of seeds and fertilizers distributed at the beginning of the month for each production team, or monthly consumption statistics for minor materials at the headquarters. These reports had fixed formats and drew data from her daily records, but the process itself gave her a more holistic understanding of the material flows within the farm.
That day, the farm held a spring plowing mobilization meeting. Team leaders and key members from each production team gathered in the largest warehouse-cum-meeting room. The air was thick with the mingled scent of tobacco, sweat, and earth. Director Yang stood at the front, shouting hoarsely in heavily accented Mandarin, emphasizing the importance of spring plowing, task targets, and discipline.
Mu Yao, as a member of the accounting office, was required to attend as well, taking note of material allocation data that might need verification. She sat inconspicuously in a corner, notebook in hand, listening attentively, habitually keeping her presence low in such gatherings.
“…Especially the seeds! This year, high-quality seeds allocated from above are limited. Each team must collect according to plan, counting carefully—every single seed must be used!” Director Yang waved his arms. “Anyone who falsifies reports, overclaims, or mismanages resulting in losses—I will deduct the team’s work points!”
The team leaders nodded, frowned, or whispered among themselves.
“…Team Three!” Director Yang suddenly called out. “Your team has a large vegetable field. The higher-ups require expanded potato planting this year, and your seed shortage is the greatest. Old Ma, have you double-checked the numbers you reported? Don’t run out halfway through planting!”
The named Team Three leader, Old Ma—the hunched man who had first brought Mu Yao to the logistics team—stood, rubbing his hands, his dark red face showing his dilemma. “Director Yang, I’ve checked, but… last winter a batch of seeds in the vegetable cellar froze and was ruined. The germination rate will be poor… the shortage… it’s really hard to make up.”
“You have to make up for it!” Director Yang snapped impatiently. “Figure it out! Trade with other teams, or get some from nearby villagers! The task must be completed!”
Old Ma sat down, grimacing, drawing sympathetic looks from some and secret relief from others.
Mu Yao’s pen paused in her hand. Team Three’s potato seed shortage… She recalled seeing a rough record of each team’s potato seed reserves from previous years when organizing old accounts. Since it wasn’t an official ledger, just a memo jotted down by Zhao, she hadn’t paid much attention. Now, it might be useful as a reference.
As she was thinking this, the meeting moved on to the next topic. Suddenly, a young team leader in the front row turned his head, scanning the crowd, and finally fixed his gaze on Mu Yao. He called out loudly, “Director Yang, speaking of statistics and data, didn’t the accounting office just get a new female comrade who’s good at bookkeeping? I heard her accounts are very clear. Couldn’t she help with verifying production plan data and task breakdowns? Better than us rough guys guessing!”
The warehouse fell silent. All eyes turned toward Mu Yao.
Caught off guard, her face flushed, fingers clutching her notebook tightening. She recognized the young team leader as Sun from Team Five, usually loud and attention-seeking. Though his words sounded like praise, they pushed her into the spotlight. As a seconded female youth with a complicated background, what right did she have to “advise” on production plans?
Director Yang was momentarily taken aback, glancing at Mu Yao, then at Zhao. Zhao sat in the front row, expressionless, merely adjusting his glasses.
“Team Leader Sun’s suggestion…” Director Yang hesitated, weighing it.
“Director Yang, isn’t this inappropriate?” another older team leader spoke up—Old Ma from Team Three, his tone sharp. “Production planning is for those in the fields. She sits in the office—what does she know about crops? Don’t give orders blindly!”
“Exactly. Clear accounts are fine, but planting is another matter!” others chimed in.
The warehouse buzzed with murmurs, eyes scrutinizing Mu Yao with subtle disapproval.
She lowered her head, cheeks burning, feeling like sitting on pins and needles. She realized she had become the focus, the outlet for others’ dissatisfaction. Whether Sun meant it or not, she was in an awkward and even risky position.
Then Zhao stood slowly. He didn’t look at Mu Yao or the murmuring leaders, speaking in his usual calm tone to Director Yang:
“Director Yang, compiling statistics and verifying plans is indeed a function where the accounting office assists production management. Comrade Mu Yao is familiar with the farm’s baseline data. If teams need, she can provide reference data from past years or help consolidate reported plan figures to assist leadership in overall planning. As for the specifics of planting—how much, where—that naturally falls to the team leaders and skilled workers. Clear division of labor, each responsible for their part.”
His words, steady and deliberate, affirmed the accounting office (including Mu Yao) while clearly defining boundaries, pulling her back from the “advisor” role to merely providing data support, and also giving Director Yang a face-saving way to respond.
Director Yang nodded immediately. “Old Zhao is right! That’s it! Provide data support, don’t interfere with production! Each team is still responsible for its own field! Comrade Mu Yao, after the meeting, coordinate with Zhao to compile a summary table of each team’s reported plan data for me. Dismissed!”
A minor commotion was deftly resolved by Zhao. People gradually left, glances at Mu Yao still curious, but no longer sharp.
Mu Yao exhaled in relief, her gratitude toward Zhao deepening. She gathered her things to leave, noticing Old Ma lingering, hesitating beside Zhao, rubbing his hands.
“…Zhao,” Old Ma said quietly, “…I wasn’t targeting Comrade Mu Yao just now. I was worried… about the seed situation…”
Zhao glanced at him, said nothing, pulled a small notebook from his chest, flipped through it, tore off a sheet, quickly wrote a few lines, and handed it to Old Ma:
“These are approximate figures of potato seeds retained by Teams Four and Six last year. They plan to adjust planting this year, so there may be surplus. Ask them yourself, don’t mention me. Also, don’t throw all the seeds ruined last winter—sort through them. If necessary, coordinate with the logistics team to see if some can offset feed or other uses.”
Old Ma took the paper like a treasure, repeatedly thanking Zhao: “Thank you, Zhao! You’ve helped tremendously!” Then hurried off.
Mu Yao watched quietly, realizing: Zhao wasn’t just a bookkeeper. He had a clear grasp of each team’s assets, relationships, and even the hidden flow of resources. At the meeting, he had shielded her; now, he was discreetly guiding Old Ma. In his own way, he maintained a delicate balance and, indirectly, looked out for her as the “offspring of an old acquaintance.”
She followed Zhao back to the accounting office in silence.
In the following days, Mu Yao grew even more cautious, immersing herself in data and reports. She carefully compiled the spring plowing plan data submitted by each team, checking for obvious contradictions or omissions, and included approximate ranges of material consumption for major crops based on historical data. She worked meticulously, but when presenting it to Director Yang, she merely called it “a summary of compiled data for leadership reference,” avoiding any “suggestions” or “opinions.”
Director Yang was pleased with the clear, concise summary and praised the accounting office’s detailed work. Mu Yao’s name wasn’t mentioned, but she knew she had safely navigated this unexpected “appearance.”
As the days warmed, the wind still carried sand, but now smelled of thawing soil. The abandoned blackboard outside the farm office, once used for notices, was repurposed to post production progress, good deeds, or temporary announcements.
That noon, Mu Yao, carrying her lunch from the canteen, glanced at the blackboard casually. She noticed some simple reports on each team’s spring plowing progress, handwriting uneven. Her eyes swept over the board, ready to move on—but something in the lower right corner, near the wall, caught her attention.
There, in faint, nearly invisible chalk, were a few tiny words, like unconscious doodles, or notes jotted casually:
“Abacus, Ledger, Qingshan.”
The handwriting was ordinary, almost childish, but together, the words struck Mu Yao like a silent thunderclap.
Abacus! Ledger! Qingshan!
Individually, the words were unremarkable, but here, together, they carried a shocking significance.
Abacus — the tool she relied on to survive and learn.
Ledger — the world she faced daily.
Qingshan — the “Qingshan” from Gu Jingci’s letter: “The green hills remain…”! Also, his commune, the “Qingshan Commune”!
Who wrote this?! Was it a coincidence, or… deliberate? Zhao? Impossible—he wouldn’t do it this way. Someone else at the farm? Who knew her connection to Qingshan? Could it be… Gu Jingci’s side sending a message? Or… a covert test?
A wave of chills shot from her feet to her head, her lunch tray almost dropped. She forced herself to stay calm, casually glancing at the rest of the board, then using peripheral vision to observe her surroundings quickly and carefully.
In the empty afternoon space, only a few people moved about, paying no attention to the blackboard. The words were low and off to the side, nearly invisible unless looked for.
Taking a deep breath, she forced her pounding heart down and hurried back to the accounting office. Closing the door, leaning against the cold wood, her legs finally felt weak.
Who? Who was it?
For the next half day, Mu Yao was uneasy. She focused on work, yet her eyes kept glancing toward the blackboard. The three words burned in her mind like a branding iron.
That afternoon, a sudden sandstorm swept across the farm, turning the sky yellow. When the wind and sand finally subsided, the lower right corner of the blackboard was buried under blown-in sand, and the words disappeared, as if they had never been there.
Was it the wind that buried them? Or… did the writer erase them?
Mu Yao had no way of knowing. But the incident, like a tiny thorn, had pierced her newly stabilized life.
That night, lying on her wooden bed, listening to the howling wind outside, Mu Yao couldn’t sleep. She recalled the words, the childish handwriting. It wasn’t Zhao’s—his was more practiced. Nor did it match anyone who usually wrote notices at the farm. Could it be an illiterate person copying something? Or… some secret signal for her?
She thought of Gu Jingci, thought of Zhao, and of her own complicated origins and still sensitive status. Here, any unusual sign could hide unknown risks.
She took out Gu Jingci’s letter, kept close to her chest: “The green hills remain, the waters flow long.” A promise, a hope.
And now, “Qingshan” appeared before her in this strange way, amid the wind and sand.
A reminder? A warning? Or… something else?
Mu Yao pressed the letter to her chest and closed her eyes.
Whatever it was, she had to be even more careful. As Zhao had taught her, to survive on this land, one must not only know how to account but also read the winds and stay true to oneself.
The abacus must click sharply, the ledger must be precise.
But her thoughts and caution regarding “Qingshan” must remain guarded, never revealed.
The spring breeze still carried sand, rattling the farm’s simple doors and windows.
In the darkness, Mu Yao clenched her fists.
The path ahead was unknown, the wind and sand blinding.
But she knew she had to be like the resilient wild grasses of the Gobi—grasp every inch of soil, every drop of water, grow silently and tenaciously toward the light.
And the mysterious words “Qingshan” on the blackboard hung over her like an unsolved riddle, reminding her that beneath this seemingly calm wasteland, hidden currents might still flow.