A winter snow had thoroughly sealed the land, and the Xiangyang Brigade had entered the off-season. But it was only the land that was idle; people were busier than ever—repairing irrigation systems, reinforcing field ridges, digging ditches, preparing for spring plowing. Most of the male laborers had been dispatched to distant work sites, while the women busied themselves mending shoes, patching clothes, preparing firewood for winter, and pickling vegetables.
The chores in the livestock shed continued as usual. Mu Yao went to work on time every day, regardless of wind or snow. The silent understanding between her and Gu Jingci grew even more natural with day-after-day labor. He still came irregularly, inspecting, occasionally giving guidance, leaving behind small but useful things: a hard grain cake wrapped in oiled paper, tough on the teeth but filling; a pair of worn gloves, frayed at the fingertips but still usable; once, even a small bundle of pungent ginger slices carefully wrapped in old newspaper.
“Soak it in water and drink it,” he said, tossing out the words before turning away, as if staying even a second longer would burn him.
Mu Yao always accepted these gifts silently, using them carefully or treasuring them. They were worthless, even shabby, but in a winter when supplies were scarce and human warmth even scarcer, each item felt like a weighty treasure. They silently told her that someone noticed her hard work and cared about her well-being.
The rumors didn’t vanish entirely due to Gu Jingci’s indifference and Mu Yao’s silence; they simply shifted from overt provocation to whispered comments and meaningful glances. Occasionally, Liu Caixia would throw a cold, jealous glance when pounding noodles, but she no longer dared to approach and provoke. Mu Yao learned to ignore it, pouring all her energy into labor and… learning.
Her chance to learn came from a notice posted by the brigade headquarters. In response to higher authorities’ call to “eliminate illiteracy” and to enrich the winter cultural life of the members, the brigade decided to hold a winter literacy class. Classes would be held every evening in the old warehouse next to the threshing ground, taught by the village’s only elementary-educated accountant, Old Xu, who also encouraged all illiterate members—especially young people and women—to attend.
Though the notice drew a crowd, few actually signed up. After a full day’s work, who wanted to sit on a warm kang at night? Besides, what good was learning to read? Could it fill your stomach or earn work points?
Mu Yao stood at the edge of the crowd, staring at the red-papered, black-lettered notice, her heart pounding. Literacy! Knowledge! It was a desire long deprived of, nearly forgotten. Her past life had taught her how terrifying ignorance and blind obedience could be. Even a basic literacy skill could be a faint glimmer of light breaking through the chains of fate.
She hardly hesitated. That afternoon, after finishing work, she mustered her courage and went to the brigade headquarters, finding Old Xu busy with his abacus.
“Accountant Xu… I… I want to sign up for the literacy class,” she said softly but clearly.
Old Xu lifted his eyes over his old spectacles and studied her. The heiress wanted to learn to read? He clicked his tongue. “Little Mu, this literacy class is mainly for illiterate members. You…” He remembered that these city youth sent down were at least junior high school graduates, weren’t they?
“I want to start from the beginning, to reinforce my skills,” Mu Yao had already thought of what to say, speaking sincerely. “Learning more characters, understanding policies—it’s all good. Besides… there’s nothing else to do at night.”
Old Xu thought for a moment. The authorities had indeed asked for maximum mobilization, especially encouraging youth participation. Mu Yao’s background wasn’t good, but her learning attitude was serious—a decent example. He nodded, writing her name in his book. “Alright. Every evening at seven, old warehouse. Bring your own small stool and kerosene lamp. The brigade will provide paper and pens as much as possible; if it’s not enough, manage on your own.”
“Thank you, Accountant Xu!” Mu Yao said sincerely, a weight lifting from her heart.
On her first night at the literacy class, Mu Yao prepared herself mentally for a long time. She wore the plainest, least-patched cotton jacket, combed her hair neatly, wrapped a half-pencil and a small old notebook salvaged from some discarded papers in an old handkerchief, and brought along the nearly empty kerosene lamp.
The old warehouse was empty, drafty, hardly better than her wood shed. A dim gas lamp hung in the center, flickering. Fewer than twenty members had come, mostly children and a few young wives, sitting sparsely on small stools or bricks they’d brought, shivering and peeking around curiously.
Mu Yao found a corner by the wall, trying to remain inconspicuous. Old Xu tapped his pipe and began teaching. He started with the simplest characters: “person, mouth, hand” and the numbers “one, two, three.” He pronounced them once, the students repeated in uneven voices, thick with rural accents.
It was far too easy for Mu Yao. Holding her pencil, she wrote carefully on the blank pages of her notebook, stroke by stroke. Not to memorize the shapes, but to reacquaint herself with the long-lost sensation of writing by hand. Her fingers stiffened from the cold, her letters crooked, but she wrote with deep focus, as if performing a solemn ritual.
Unbeknownst to her, outside the warehouse through the broken window, a tall figure had quietly stood watching for some time. Gu Jingci, after finishing his patrol, had instinctively circled to the back of the warehouse. Through the torn window paper, he immediately saw the thin figure in the corner.
She sat straight, head slightly bowed, the dim kerosene light casting a soft outline of her profile and slender neck. Her hands, red from the cold, held the pencil steadily, her focus unwavering. Occasionally she frowned slightly at a mistake or stiff finger, then relaxed and continued writing. Surrounded by noisy recitations and whispers, she seemed immersed in her own world, oddly out of place yet strangely harmonious.
Leaning against the cold earth wall, Gu Jingci pulled out his pipe but didn’t light it. He just watched silently, observing her finish a line of characters, exhaling softly, warming her cold hands by her mouth before resuming.
A corner of his heart felt tickled as if by a feather—tingling, awkward, yet… proud? The feeling was strange and sudden. He recalled her determined face while chopping grass, her composed eyes facing the rumors, and now, seeing her in the broken warehouse, focused so earnestly on the simplest characters.
This heiress was different from what he had imagined or what others said.
She was like a grass seed tossed into a rocky crevice—adverse conditions, wind and rain beating her down—but she struggled, using her small strength, inching toward the light.
The first night of literacy class ended amidst shivers and yawns. Mu Yao packed up and followed the flow of people out of the warehouse. Outside, the moon was bright, stars sparse, snow still on the ground, reflecting the cold light. The chill hit her, and she wrapped her cotton jacket tighter, hurrying toward the edge of the village.
Not far out, she heard steady footsteps behind her. Her heart skipped; she instinctively looked back.
Gu Jingci emerged from the shadows, his tall frame almost blocking the moonlight. His face was expressionless, but he seemed to hold something in his hand.
“Captain Gu?” Mu Yao stopped, surprised. What was he doing here?
Gu Jingci said nothing, only handed over the items—two dark, hard, frozen pears, roughly wrapped in old newspaper.
“Take them,” he said in a stiff tone, like giving an order. “Frozen pears. Let them thaw before eating—they’re good for your lungs.”
Mu Yao froze, staring at the plain, even slightly ugly, frozen pears. They weren’t rare in the Northeast winter, but to her, they were a luxury she couldn’t have imagined. He… brought them especially for her? Because he saw her go to literacy class? Or…
Before she could figure it out, Gu Jingci had already placed the pears in her arms, their chill pressing through her jacket. He withdrew his hand, slid it into his pocket, turned slightly, and looked elsewhere, voice low in the cold air: “The roads are dark at night; watch your step.”
Then, without waiting for her response, he strode away into another alley, disappearing as if his appearance had been a mirage.
Mu Yao stood holding the two icy pears, looking at the empty alley. The cold seeped through her jacket, yet her heart burned hot. That warmth carried disbelief, gratitude, and a faint, unfamiliar sweetness.
She slowly returned to the wood shed, closed the door, and carefully placed the pears on the old table. Under the dim kerosene lamp, she gently touched the black, small fruits—cold, hard.
She recalled the brief warmth and roughness of his fingers when handing them over, the tension along his jaw when he looked away, and his final, stiff instruction.
He hadn’t asked anything, said nothing—he only noticed her studying and then brought her frozen pears.
She pressed one to her cheek. The cold made her shiver, yet her lips curved uncontrollably upward.
That night, the wood shed remained cold, but the old table held two frozen pears, and her heart felt full, no longer hollow and wind-swept.
She left the pears to freeze in a broken basket by the windowsill, deciding to save them until the New Year—if she could make it that long.
The literacy class became Mu Yao’s other fixed winter destination besides the livestock shed. She learned quickly; Old Xu’s characters stuck after a single round, and her homework was the neatest. At first surprised, Old Xu later, seeing her clear gaze and diligent learning, gradually offered more sincere guidance, sometimes giving her two older but complete sheets of paper.
Mu Yao treasured them. She not only practiced the assigned characters but secretly wrote down remembered poems, math formulas, even some English words on scrap paper—a secret link to her past self, keeping a tiny spark alive.
Gu Jingci seemed to always “coincidentally” pass by on her way to class. Sometimes he slipped her roasted soybeans, sometimes a few charred sweet potato pieces, most often frozen pears. He never explained; she never asked. In the cold moonlight, they completed these brief, silent exchanges before parting.
Rumors occasionally reached her ears, suggesting Captain Gu “especially cared” for the heiress—perhaps with ulterior motives. Mu Yao’s heart tightened, but mostly she remained calm. The pure remain pure; the impure remain impure. She treasured this hard-earned goodwill, never letting rumors taint it.
On the twenty-third of the twelfth lunar month, Little New Year, the brigade slaughtered the year pig, distributing meat and bones to each household. The educated youth received some as well, preparing a lively communal meal. Mu Yao didn’t go. She knew her position was awkward; attending would only bring discomfort. She returned early to the wood shed, making a simple broth with a small bone and a few dried vegetables, eating it with a hard bun—her Little New Year.
Night fell, and sparse firecrackers sounded outside. The wood shed felt even emptier. Mu Yao wrapped in blankets, using the oil lamp, copied Li Shangyin’s poem Night Rain Sent North onto scrap paper. When she reached the last line, “When shall we trim the west window’s candle together, recalling the rainy night in Bashan?” her pen paused, ink blotting on the page.
Trimming the west window candle… such warmth and peace felt like another world, unattainable to her.
At that moment, the courtyard gate was lightly knocked. The sound was soft but sharp in the silent night.
Mu Yao’s heart leapt. She put down her pen, walked to the door, and whispered, “Who’s there?”
“…Me.” Gu Jingci’s low voice came from outside, somewhat muffled.
She hurriedly unlatched the door. Gu Jingci stood there, dusted with a thin layer of snow, holding a coarse porcelain bowl covered with another bowl, steam curling from it. A rich aroma of meat and the characteristic tang of pickled cabbage immediately filled the shed, dispelling its chill.
“Here.” He held the bowl toward her, eyes briefly scanning the paper, pen, and dim lamp on her table before moving away. “There was extra at the brigade meal. Sauerkraut and pork stew—eat it hot.”
Mu Yao stared at the steaming bowl. Her throat tightened. Sauerkraut and pork—the heartiest, warmest dish in a Northeast winter. The bowl was full: tender and fatty pork, finely chopped cabbage, oil droplets and a few scallions on the broth. This was far more than “a little extra.”
“Captain Gu…” Her voice caught, “this is too…”
“Stop talking,” he interrupted, tone firm and unyielding. “Eat quickly. Leave the bowl at the door when done; I’ll collect it tomorrow.” He placed the bowl in her hands, its warmth transferring through the coarse porcelain. “Sleep early.” His last glance lingered for a moment, softened slightly in the dim light and falling snow—so brief it was almost unnoticeable.
Then he turned, striding into the snowy night, his tall figure soon swallowed by darkness.
Mu Yao held the heavy, steaming bowl, standing at the door until snowflakes fell on the rim, melting into tiny droplets. Only then did she step back, close the door, and carefully set the bowl on the old table.
Lifting the inverted top bowl, the aroma intensified. She picked up a thin slice of trembling pork, eating it slowly. Fat but not greasy, melting in her mouth, perfectly balanced with the sourness of the cabbage. The hot broth slid down her throat, warming every limb.
Tears fell unexpectedly into the bowl—not crying, but a surge of sudden, heartfelt kindness that cracked her long-hardened defenses.
On this cold, lonely Little New Year’s Eve, in this broken, drafty wood shed, a bowl of sauerkraut and pork from that silent, stern man surpassed any delicacy in the world.
She ate slowly, savoring every bite. By the time the last drop of broth was gone, her body was warm, and her heart full.
She washed the bowl carefully and placed it by the door, returning to her kang, wrapping herself tightly. Snow fell heavier outside, cascading on rooftops and ground.
Mu Yao closed her eyes, a faint smile lingering on her lips, drifting into a deep sleep.
This winter… didn’t seem so unbearable anymore.