The two characters “Qingshan” on the board were like a stone dropped into the lake of her heart—ripples stirred, then the stone sank into the silt of time, leaving no trace. Mu Yao watched for a long while. Everything in the office seemed normal. Accountant Zhao was still quiet and focused on the books; the other colleagues and staff showed no signs of anything unusual. Those characters seemed truly like the idle doodle of a bored person or child, erased completely by a gust of wind and sand, leaving no trace behind.
Mu Yao dared not take it lightly but had no way to investigate. She could only bury her doubts deep in her heart and turn them into a rule for being even more careful. She focused even harder on her work, moving the abacus swiftly, keeping the accounts meticulous, and limiting her interactions with Accountant Zhao strictly to necessary business inquiries, never saying more than needed.
Yet her body sounded its alarm unintentionally. Perhaps it was the continuous fatigue after early spring, perhaps the ever-tight tension in her mind, or perhaps the unpredictable weather in the northwest—Mu Yao fell ill. At first, it was just a dry, sore throat; she thought it was ordinary spring dryness and paid it little attention. Soon came a persistent low fever, joint aches, and weakness. She forced herself to the accounting room, but sitting there, her vision blurred in waves of black, her hand shook uncontrollably while holding the pen, and the characters she wrote came out crooked.
Accountant Zhao quickly noticed her condition. Once, when she handed him a report, her fingers accidentally brushed his sleeve, and the burning touch made him frown.
“Fever?” he asked, his tone calm and even.
“…A little,” Mu Yao replied, lowering her head, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe… I caught a chill last night.”
Zhao said nothing. He simply stood up, walked to the old metal cabinet in the corner, opened it, and took out an aluminum lunchbox with a red cross printed on it. He also grabbed the bamboo-cased thermos, pouring most of its hot water into the lunchbox. Then, he took a small paper packet from his drawer, opened it, and sprinkled some dark brown, leaf-like substances into the hot water.
A faintly bitter herbal aroma filled the air.
“Drink this.” He pushed the lunchbox toward her. “Honeysuckle—clears heat and detoxifies. After drinking, go lie down in the back room for a while. There’s nothing urgent today.”
Mu Yao watched the rising steam, her nose prickling, and whispered, “Thank you, Accountant Zhao,” before taking the lunchbox and sipping carefully. The hot water burned her sore throat; the bitter herbs hit her mind sharply, yet strangely brought a sense of clarity.
She didn’t go to the back room, cluttered with old accounts and miscellaneous items, and instead rested her head on the desk. Zhao left her alone, returning to his work. The office quieted down again, with only the sounds of abacus beads and paper, and Mu Yao’s suppressed, soft coughs.
By the afternoon, the fever worsened, and her head grew heavy. Mu Yao could barely hold on. She requested leave from Zhao and staggered back to the barracks. Most of the women in her room had gone to work, leaving only two on sick leave. They glanced at her but said nothing.
Mu Yao climbed onto her bunk, wrapped herself tightly in the military quilt and cotton liner, and still shivered. Her body felt disassembled and painfully reassembled; every part ached. Her throat felt stuffed with sand, dry and painful, making even swallowing difficult.
In her haze, she seemed to return to the firewood room of the Xiangyang Brigade, Gu Jingci carrying the steaming pot of sauerkraut and pork… then the night before departure, the heavy package he gave her and his hoarse “Survive…” And then the text message: “Qingshan does not change, green waters flow long…”
“Gu Jingci…” she murmured unconsciously, her voice hoarse and weak.
Some time later, someone gently nudged her. Mu Yao struggled to open her heavy eyelids—Accountant Zhao was there, holding an enamel bowl steaming hot.
“Get up and take the medicine.” Zhao’s voice was strikingly clear in the dim light.
Mu Yao struggled to sit up. Zhao handed her the bowl, filled with dark, pungent medicine stronger than the honeysuckle earlier. Beside it were two white pills.
“For fever and inflammation,” Zhao said briefly. “Take them and sweat it out. If you’re still sick tomorrow, you’ll have to get an injection at the clinic.”
Mu Yao lacked the energy to ask more. She took the pills and water, swallowing them with the warm medicine. The medicine was bitter, causing her to cough, even bringing tears.
Seeing her struggle, Zhao let out a barely audible sigh and took another small paper packet from his coat, placing it by her pillow. “Rock sugar. Suck one to soothe your throat.” He then turned to leave.
“Accountant Zhao…” Mu Yao croaked, tears blurring her vision as she watched his hunched back. “…Thank you.”
Zhao paused, didn’t turn back, only waved, then lifted the heavy door curtain and left.
Mu Yao lay back, sucking on the sugar. The sweetness slowly eased the bitterness in her mouth, gently soothing her sore, burning throat. The medicine began to take effect; she felt as if immersed in warm water, drifting into a hazy sleep.
That night, she slept restlessly, plagued by nightmares, shivering one moment, burning the next, sweat soaking her underclothes. But whenever she moaned in discomfort, she felt a slightly cool, dry hand gently touch her forehead or adjust her blanket. The touch was light, calloused—like… she didn’t dare think deeply, dismissing it as a dream.
The next day, her fever had slightly subsided. Still weak, with a headache and sore throat, she could at least manage to get up. Her roommates had gone to work. She tidied herself up and headed to the accounting room. At the door, she saw Zhao standing not far away, hands behind his back, as if waiting.
“Can you walk?” Zhao asked.
“Yes,” Mu Yao nodded, her voice still hoarse.
“Then come with me to the office.” Zhao turned and started walking.
Mu Yao followed, puzzled. Zhao didn’t go to the accounting room, but led her straight to Director Yang’s office. Yang was speaking to several people and nodded at them upon arrival.
“Old Zhao, Comrade Mu, glad you’re here,” he said, pointing to some documents. “These just came in—notifications about carrying out literacy and cultural lessons at the farms. Our office must organize as well, especially mobilizing young staff and those with some education. Old Zhao, you have the education—lead this project. Comrade Mu,” he looked at her, “I hear you can read and write decently. Assist Zhao here in organizing, teaching a bit—what do you say?”
Mu Yao froze. Organize literacy? Teach?
Zhao showed no surprise, merely adjusting his glasses. “Since the office decided, we do our best. But venues, materials, and scheduling are issues. Mu is still recovering. Let her help plan the specifics first.”
“All right, handle it as you see fit,” Yang waved. “Report if support is needed.”
Leaving the office, Mu Yao felt dazed. Participating in literacy and cultural lessons? Previously unthinkable. This wasn’t just lighter work—it was recognition, or rather, a safe and useful foothold Zhao had carved out for her.
“Accountant Zhao, this…” she hesitated.
He interrupted: “Go back and draft a simple plan. Use the empty warehouse at night for the venue, old literacy books and newspapers for materials. Tentatively, classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays for 90 minutes each. Think about organization, difficulties, and who to involve. Show it to me when done.” He paused, adding, “It’s both a task and an opportunity. Do it well.”
The last three words, light but weighty.
Mu Yao understood. It was a task, yes, but also Zhao laying the next move—a platform for her literacy skills, connecting with office staff, even potentially earning goodwill.
“Yes, Accountant Zhao. I’ll do my best,” she said resolutely.
Back in the accounting room, still weak, Mu Yao’s heart sparked with a new flame. She began planning the “evening cultural classes.” Staff literacy varied—some illiterate, some knew a few characters but couldn’t write, and some like Xiao Liu could write and count but not systematically. She needed levels, content, “teachers” (herself and Zhao), scheduling, and ways to motivate participants.
She wrote, sketched outlines, and considered potential issues. The haze from her illness seemed to dissipate in this new energy.
A few days later, she had mostly recovered. She handed Zhao a detailed preliminary plan for the evening cultural classes, including class divisions (literacy, advanced), content, schedules, required materials (chalk, paper, old books), and a simple motivation and engagement system.
Zhao studied it carefully, occasionally marking with a pencil or adding a few words. Finally, he nodded. “Good. Let’s try it this way. I’ll get the materials and arrange the venue. You handle organization and teaching the literacy class.”
“Teaching?” Mu Yao hesitated. “I’m afraid I won’t do well.”
“Teach as much as you know. Start with ‘person, mouth, hand.’ You can’t go wrong. Patience is key. Night classes—stay safe.”
And so it was settled. Word spread about the night school, eliciting mixed reactions. Some were curious and wanted to learn; others scoffed, too exhausted from work; some waited to see.
The first class was on a windy evening. A brighter-than-usual lamp hung in the warehouse, with a few rows of worn desks and benches. Only a dozen or so attended, mostly older children and young staff, looking around curiously.
Mu Yao stood before a makeshift blackboard, palms slightly sweaty, wearing her cleanest old coat, hair neat. Looking at the curious or confused faces below, she took a deep breath, picked up the chalk, and wrote the first character:
“人” (Person).
Her writing was clear and elegant on the board.
“This character is ‘person.’” Her voice, hoarse from illness and nervousness, tried to stay steady. “We are all ‘people.’”
She explained the structure, strokes, and meaning. The attendees read along unevenly. Some whispered, some yawned, but others gradually focused.
By the end of the class, Mu Yao’s mouth was dry and back sweat-soaked. Results were modest, but the start was made. Zhao sat quietly in the back corner, observing.
After class, the crowd dispersed. Mu Yao tidied the board and furniture. Zhao approached with a military water bottle. “Warm water with a little salt and sugar. Replenish your strength.”
Mu Yao accepted it warmly. “Thank you, Accountant Zhao.”
“Not bad,” Zhao rarely gave feedback, only four words: “Keep it up.”
“Yes!” Mu Yao nodded vigorously.
Night school continued, bumpy but steady. She worked days in accounting, evenings preparing and teaching. Though tiring, she felt fulfilled. Watching those who once couldn’t write their names slowly form “person,” “mouth,” “hand,” and even simple numbers and phrases, she felt an indescribable satisfaction. It wasn’t just completing a task—it was carefully sowing tiny seeds in a cultural desert.
Her relations with some office staff subtly shifted. Once, she was “the politically unreliable female worker in accounting.” Now, she was “Teacher Mu who teaches us to read.” Respect wasn’t full, but blatant rejection and indifference lessened.
Meanwhile, Zhao received another package from the Xiangyang Brigade. Mu Yao didn’t see the list, but Zhao handed her a small packet of sesame candy, peanuts, and perhaps a few red dates, along with a folded letter without an envelope, just as before.
The handwriting was still Gu Jingci’s, still brief:
“Hearing of your recent situation, I feel slightly relieved. The night school is good. Teaching improves oneself and provides safety. Northwest winds are harsh; dress warmly. Spring plowing is busy; do not worry. The seed issue mentioned in my previous letter is resolved.”
No fancy words, no emotional flow—just plain advice and brief updates. Yet Mu Yao read between the lines: he had been following her progress (even knew about the night school), felt slightly relieved at her small progress, was busy on his end (spring plowing), and quietly helped resolve some practical issues (the seed shortage mentioned before—did he help address the potato seed shortage Zhao mentioned?).
This letter gave her more assurance and strength than any comfort.
She carefully kept the letter and snacks. While preparing lessons at night, looking at the spring wind outside, she suddenly felt an urge to write. Not a reply to Gu Jingci (she didn’t dare, nor knew where to send it), but a record, a vent, or a response to these difficult days and her distant attachment.
She found a clean sheet of paper, took up her pen, and after long thought, wrote neatly in regular script, without a heading or signature:
“Though the spring wind is fierce, there is warmth. Amid abacus beads, I gradually know the world. On the blackboard, I begin with the character ‘person.’ Though night school lights are tiny as beans, they illuminate the mind. Knowing Qingshan is busy, I only wish for health. The road ahead is long—take care of yourselves.”
She folded it carefully, placing it in the front of her Intro to Simple Bookkeeping with Gu Jingci’s letter.
It was a reply that would never be sent. Written for him, and also for herself.
Outside, the spring wind still carried sand, beating against the window.
But Mu Yao sat under the lamp, listening to the fading clamor of departing night school students, looking at her words, and felt peace.
On this desolate land, she was no longer just a passive survivor, struggling to live.
She had found her place, her value, and… a faint glimmer.
And that glimmer, like the distant lamp under Qingshan, though far away, seemed to resonate silently and tenaciously in the quiet spring wind.
Survive.
And live with a little more brightness.