Days rolled on, measured by the rhythmic chopping of the sickle, the sticky feel of mixed fodder, and the distinctive smell of the livestock barn.
Mu Yao gradually adapted to the pace of the barn. She rose before dawn, arriving before the whistle blew, then chopped grass, mixed feed, and cleaned the stalls—day after day, the same routine. The work was still grueling, dirty, and exhausting; her arms ached constantly, her fingertips had worn thin calluses, and she always carried traces of straw and a faint livestock smell. Yet she no longer fumbled as she had at first. Her grass-chopping became more efficient, and cleaning the stalls gained a methodical rhythm. At least, she no longer let a single animal go hungry, and she no longer needed Gu Jingci’s “helping hand.”
Gu Jingci came every day, though at unpredictable times. Sometimes it was after distributing tasks in the morning, sometimes after midday, more often just before evening. He spoke little, quietly inspecting the quality of the fodder, the feed ratios, and the cleanliness of the stalls, occasionally adjusting the mix or demonstrating a more efficient way to chop grass. His guidance was concise, sometimes blunt, but Mu Yao always caught subtle signs of approval in his gestures and eyes—perhaps merely because she didn’t slack off or make mistakes.
Between them, there was a peculiar kind of understanding. He asked little; she spoke little. The barn was often filled only with the sound of the sickle, the animals’ movements, and a near-stagnant silence between them. Yet Mu Yao didn’t feel oppressed; instead, she found a strange sense of security in that quiet. Here, at least, she was “useful,” earning her own space to breathe through labor, not just the “capitalist daughter” to be watched and corrected.
But the barn was not an isolated island. Outside winds always found their way in.
That morning, Mu Yao was struggling to drag a basket of chopped fodder to the mixing trough when shadows blocked the light at the barn entrance.
“Well, if it isn’t Comrade Mu Yao! Truly, ‘revolutionary work knows no status.’ You even feed the animals with such zeal.” A female voice laced with obvious sarcasm rang out.
Mu Yao looked up. It was Liu Caixia, flanked by two female educated youth who usually followed her closely. The three had obviously just finished their tasks, with Liu holding a small shovel and muddy trouser cuffs. A smile adorned her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which swept over Mu Yao’s dust- and straw-covered clothes and reddened hands with condescending scrutiny.
Mu Yao straightened, dusted off her hands, and calmly said, “Comrade Liu, do you need something?”
“Can’t I just come see?” Liu Caixia stepped forward two paces, peered into the barn, and exaggeratedly wrinkled her nose. “This smell… pungent, indeed. Comrade Mu Yao, you seem to get used to it quickly. But then again, I hear capitalists once exploited the laboring people. Now, experiencing the hardships of laboring life firsthand is only fitting.”
The two women beside her chuckled in agreement, their eyes full of disdain.
Mu Yao felt a prick in her chest, but her face remained expressionless. She had heard these words too many times in her past life and had long since grown numb. Living again, she understood that verbal disputes were meaningless and only gave others grounds to criticize.
“My tasks are assigned by Captain Gu,” she said evenly, betraying no emotion. “If Comrade Liu has concerns about task assignments, you may raise them with Captain Gu or the deputy.”
Mentioning Gu Jingci, Liu Caixia’s smile faded slightly, a flash of frustration and hesitation in her eyes. Of course, she dared not approach Gu Jingci. Everyone knew the captain was strict and impartial, and he hated gossipmongers or slacking workers.
“Hmph, of course, we have no objections.” Liu Caixia smirked, scanning Mu Yao’s face before lowering her voice with feigned secrecy. “But Mu Yao, a word of advice: Captain Gu is good, and taking care of the educated youth is his duty. Still, you’d better know your place and not harbor any thoughts that aren’t yours to have. All the comrades at our youth point are watching.”
Thoughts she shouldn’t have? Mu Yao almost smiled. Right now, she just wanted to survive, safely and with dignity. As for Gu Jingci… he was a light she couldn’t dare to hope for, yet couldn’t ignore. But she would never tell Liu Caixia that.
“Thank you for the reminder, Comrade Liu.” Mu Yao lowered her gaze and returned to stirring the feed. “I need to work—the captain’s orders cannot be delayed.”
Seeing her unmoved, Liu Caixia felt like punching cotton, frustrated. She snorted, glanced at Mu Yao again, dropped a “mind yourself” and, with her two followers, left sulkily.
Quiet returned to the barn, broken only by the dull sound of Mu Yao stirring feed. She stirred vigorously, as if trying to dissolve the unpleasantness just experienced. Liu Caixia’s words buzzed like flies in her ears, but she forced herself not to dwell on them. Overthinking only made one weak.
By evening, Gu Jingci arrived as usual. He seemed particularly quiet today. After inspecting the fodder, he glanced at the manure piled in the corner for transport, frowning slightly.
Mu Yao was sweeping the last bit of floor, noticing his gaze and pausing her motion.
“Someone… come by today?” Gu Jingci asked softly, voice unreadable.
Mu Yao’s heart skipped. Did he know? Had he heard something or noticed her unease?
“Yes,” she said, intending neither to hide nor to lie, “Comrade Liu Caixia and two other female educated youth passed by and looked around.”
Gu Jingci responded with a quiet “hm,” asking no further questions. He went to the sickle, felt the blade, then looked at Mu Yao’s hands. Though still fair, the knuckles were reddened, with small cracks near the base.
“Apply some medicine to your hands,” he said, tossing the words before producing a small, flat tin from his pocket, placing it on the battered wooden table. The tin bore a faint red cross—an ordinary, cheap frostbite ointment. “Issued by the team.”
Without lingering, he turned and left.
Mu Yao stared at the small tin, then at her reddened, cracked hands. The gloom caused by Liu Caixia instantly lifted. He didn’t ask what had been said, nor offer comforting words—he simply saw her injury and provided the medicine. Direct, clumsy, yet genuine.
She picked up the tin, still carrying a trace of his body warmth. Carefully opening it, she saw the white ointment, smelling faintly of mint and herbs. Using her fingertip, she dabbed a little onto the cracks. The coolness penetrated her skin, mildly stinging, yet strangely soothing the burning pain.
Days continued to flow. Autumn deepened, frost heavy in the mornings and evenings. The military blanket in Mu Yao’s wood shed became her main defense against the cold. She still went to the barn, still worked silently, and used nearly half the ointment, gradually healing the cracks with dark scabs forming. Between her and Gu Jingci, words remained few, but a subtle connection—built on shared labor and quiet care—seemed to grow slowly yet steadily.
That afternoon, old Xu, the record keeper, shuffled into the barn with a worn canvas bag, smoking a pipe. He was the team’s senior accountant: small, thin, but with keen eyes.
“Little Mu, is the educated youth here?” he squinted, inspecting the reasonably tidy barn.
“Accountant Xu,” Mu Yao set down her work politely.
“Mm.” Old Xu pulled a thick, worn notebook from his bag, along with a stubby pencil, licking the tip. “From the 17th to today, counting fully, you worked fourteen days. Feeding animals, per rules, earns six workpoints per day for female labor. But…” He dragged out the word, flipping through the notebook, “Captain Gu specifically instructed: since you handle this barn alone, work done meticulously without errors, and livestock in good condition, you may be credited seven workpoints per day.”
Seven workpoints? Mu Yao blinked. This was nearly the high end for adult female labor. Feeding livestock wasn’t the lightest task, but it wasn’t extreme either. Gu Jingci…
“What? Too few?” Old Xu raised an eyebrow at her.
“No, not at all.” Mu Yao shook her head quickly, emotions mixed, “Thank you, Accountant Xu. Thank you… team.”
“Then thank Captain Gu,” Old Xu wrote quickly in the notebook, tore off a small slip with red lettering, and handed it to Mu Yao. “Here, keep it safe. At month-end, use it to claim rations and oil. Don’t lose it—no replacement.”
Mu Yao took the thin but weighty slip of paper with both hands. Her name, “Mu Yao,” was written in blue ink, followed by the workpoints, “98 points,” stamped with the blurred red seal of the Xiangyang Brigade. For the first time, her name and workpoints were officially and concretely linked.
This wasn’t charity—it was fourteen days of sweat, callused hands, and genuine labor. Even if Captain Gu’s “special instruction” helped, the premise was that she truly did her work well.
“I’ll keep it safe,” she said softly, carefully folding the slip into her inner pocket, pressed against her heart.
Old Xu closed his notebook, gave her a look, smacked his lips, and said, “Girl, keep working hard. Captain Gu… isn’t easy.” Without another word, he shuffled off, pipe in mouth, hands behind his back.
Mu Yao stayed still, pressing the slip against her chest through her clothes. The thin paper seemed to emit a faint warmth. She looked outside; the sky darkened, clouds thickening, signaling the drop in temperature.
Gu Jingci arrived slightly later than usual. He entered carrying the chill from outside, his expression more severe than usual.
Mu Yao was giving the last cow water. Hesitating for a moment, she spoke first: “Captain Gu, Accountant Xu came this afternoon.”
“Mm.” Gu Jingci went to inspect the feed trough. “Workpoints recorded?”
“Yes.” Mu Yao paused, voice softening, “…thank you, Captain.”
Gu Jingci glanced at her. In the dim light, her face looked slimmer, eyes brighter than when she first arrived—less panic, more calm. She looked at him with sincere gratitude, and a trace of guilt, as if she felt she had caused him trouble.
Something unspoken stirred within him. He turned his face away, voice firm: “What are you thanking me for? You earned it.” He paused, adding, “If you didn’t do well, don’t expect extra points.”
Mu Yao softly acknowledged with an “hm,” saying nothing more, but the corners of her lips lifted imperceptibly. She knew he was affirming her and protecting her fragile pride in his own way.
Gu Jingci inspected as usual, preparing to leave. At the door, he paused, didn’t turn back, and his voice, mingling with the dusk, carried over: “It’ll get colder in a couple of days, possibly sleet. Firewood’s short—collect some dry branches at the foot of the back hill. Don’t go too deep.” Then he vanished into the heavy evening haze.
Mu Yao watched him disappear, unmoving. The touch of the workpoint slip lingered in her hands, his final casual warning echoing in her ears.
Back hill, dry branches, don’t go too deep.
Even this, he had thought of for her.
The cold wind blew in, damp and biting. Mu Yao hugged her arms, returning to the barn to continue unfinished tasks. Yet inside, she felt a small warmth. That slip of paper, “Mu Yao, 98 points,” was the best kind of fuel.
That night, the wood shed felt colder. Wind seeped through every crack, whistling eerily. Mu Yao wrapped herself tighter in the military blanket, by the dim kerosene lamp, and took out the slip again, studying it carefully.
Her name, neatly written. The points may be small, seemingly insignificant to many, but for her, it marked the first tangible footprint on the path of her new life.
Amid the sound of wind outside, she thought she heard heavy, rhythmic footsteps, circling nearby, then fading away. Patrolling militia? Or…
Mu Yao blew out the lamp, eyes wide in the dark. Beyond the broken window lay endless cold and darkness. Yet her palm, pressed to her chest, felt warm and steady.
Gu Jingci.
She whispered his name in her heart.
The path ahead is hard, but because of you, it no longer feels so impossible.