On New Year’s Eve, Mu Yao spent the night alone in the quiet of the wood storage, accompanied only by the distant, faint clamor from the sent-down youth camp. She neither had the right nor the mood to stay up for the New Year. She climbed onto the kang early, wrapped herself tightly in the military quilt that still carried the scent of soapberries but had grown familiar with her own scent, and in the darkness listened to the occasional crack of firecrackers, silently counting the days in her mind.
The turn of the year was harsh, truly so for her. The rations had long run out, and only thanks to the occasional “aid” from Gu Jingci—some coarse grain cakes and that small bowl of sauerkraut and pork soup on New Year’s Eve—did she barely make it to the night. Work points would only be converted into food after the spring settlement, so for now, she was truly in a state of scarcity.
On the morning of New Year’s Day, the snow had stopped, and sunlight shone unusually brightly. Mu Yao used the last bit of cornmeal mixed with some dried wild greens she had picked to cook a small pot of porridge—this was both her New Year’s Eve meal and the first meal of the new year. After eating, she planned, as usual, to go to the livestock shed—after all, even animals needed care during the New Year.
Just as she locked the door and turned around, she saw Gu Jingci walking along the village path, his steps crunching in the snow. Today he wore a semi-new blue cotton-padded jacket and pants, faded from washing but clean and tidy, making him look even taller and more upright. His face held no New Year cheer, the same cold, stern expression as always, only a small cloth bag in his hand.
“Captain Gu, Happy New Year,” Mu Yao greeted first, her voice calm.
Gu Jingci approached, glanced at her, and his gaze lingered briefly on her noticeably thinner face before moving away. “Hmm.” He handed over the cloth bag. “Steamed bean buns from home. There were extras.”
Mu Yao stared at the bulging bag, not taking it immediately. Bean buns? White flour mixed with cornmeal, filled with sweet bean paste—these were a real treat in these times. Extras at home? Although the Gu family was relatively well-off, white flour was precious—how could they casually have an extra bag?
“Captain Gu, this is too valuable. I can’t accept it,” she shook her head firmly. Year-end aid was one thing, but this was an obvious gift, and she couldn’t take it lightly. She didn’t want to owe a favor she couldn’t repay, nor complicate the rare, simple relationship they shared.
Gu Jingci frowned, seemingly not expecting her refusal. “If I give it to you, you take it,” he said, his tone deep and commanding. “You’re as thin as a stick of firewood—how can you work?” He moved the bag closer, almost pressing it into her arms.
Mu Yao stepped back half a step, still refusing. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. In those almond-shaped eyes, usually downcast or avoiding gaze, now shone a clear resolve: “Captain Gu, thank you for your kindness. But I have work points. I can exchange them for food after spring. I can’t take your things for free.”
Gu Jingci was stunned. He looked at her pale face and the unusually bright eyes, devoid of pretension or coyness—only a stubborn insistence on preserving her dignity. This was completely different from the “hardship households” he remembered, who always tried to get small favors or timidly accepted charity.
The impatience rising in him at being refused strangely dissipated, replaced by a more complex feeling. Some irritation, at her lack of gratitude; yet also… admiration? Admiration for the toughness beneath her frail frame.
The two of them stood facing each other in the cold morning light, their breath mingling in the air.
After a long moment, Gu Jingci withdrew his hand and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small notebook and a pencil. He quickly wrote a few lines, tore off the page, and handed it back to Mu Yao along with the bag.
“It’s not for free,” he said, still firm but with a new implication. “It’s borrowed. At market value, the bean buns can be converted to money, or after spring, you return me the equivalent weight in cornmeal. Sign this IOU.”
Mu Yao froze, looking down at the paper. In slightly rough but forceful handwriting it read: “Borrowed today from Gu Jingci: ten bean buns, valued at X jiao X fen, or to be returned after spring as X jin of cornmeal. Borrower: ______”
He had even left space for her signature and the date.
This was not charity—it was a loan. He gave her what she needed most while preserving her dignity.
A rush of warmth surged to her eyes, stronger than that small bowl of sauerkraut and pork soup on New Year’s Eve. She quickly lowered her head, blinking hard to hold back tears. When she looked up, her eyes were slightly red, but a faint, relieved smile had formed.
“Alright.” She took the paper, pencil, and bag, her fingers trembling slightly. She carefully wrote her name in the blank space: Mu Yao, in neat, delicate handwriting, a stark contrast to Gu Jingci’s rough script. She added the date: February 9, 1967.
Afterward, she handed the paper and pencil back.
Gu Jingci took them, glanced at her signature, lingered a moment on the delicate writing, then carefully folded the IOU and returned it to his inner pocket. Neither spoke again.
“I’ll go to the shed,” Mu Yao said softly, hugging the heavy, warm bag of bean buns.
“Hmm,” Gu Jingci replied, watching her turn toward the livestock shed, her thin but upright figure gradually fading into the snowy light. He stood in place, hands in his pockets, feeling the IOU in his inner pocket; his fingertips seemed to still hold the faint cool touch from hers.
For some reason, he felt this New Year might not be so dull after all.
With those ten bean buns, Mu Yao finally had a tangible taste of the New Year. She ate one per meal, slowly, with hot water. The sweet, glutinous bean paste and the aroma of white flour melted in her mouth—a long-missed taste of “good days.” The food not only filled her stomach but gave her a strange sense of stability—she survived by “borrowing,” not “begging.”
Spring approached day by day, amid anticipation and labor. The ice and snow began to melt, the soil grew muddy, and the air was thick with the damp scent of rebirth. The Xiangyang Brigade busied itself preparing for spring plowing. Tasks in the livestock shed increased to ensure the oxen and packhorses had enough strength.
That afternoon, Mu Yao was cleaning the cow pen, removing the hard, frozen manure accumulated over winter. The work was dirty and exhausting—she had to loosen the frozen blocks with a hoe before shoveling them out. Sweat dripped down her face, smudging it black and yellow.
Gu Jingci arrived, standing at the doorway, watching her struggle with the hoe. After a long while, he stepped inside and took the hoe from her hands.
“Step aside,” he said, his tone flat.
Mu Yao froze, stepping back. Gu Jingci rolled up his sleeves, swung the hoe decisively, and expertly broke the frozen manure. He said nothing, silently doing the hard work that belonged to her. Sweat soaked through his back, outlining the firm, flowing lines of his muscles.
Mu Yao stood by, watching his broad back and powerful arms, emotions swirling—gratitude, guilt, and a faint, inexplicable flutter. She picked up a shovel and followed him, scooping out the loosened manure.
One hoe, one shovel—they worked in surprisingly seamless coordination. The shed echoed only with the dull thud of the hoe and the scrape of the shovel.
After most of the work, Gu Jingci paused, leaning on the hoe to catch his breath. Mu Yao hesitated, then handed him the old towel hanging on a broken jar’s rim. “Captain Gu, wipe your sweat.”
He looked at her and took the towel. It was old, faded, but clean, with a faint soapberry scent—the same as his quilt. He wiped his face, mixing sweat and dirt.
“Spring is here,” he said suddenly, slightly panting from labor. “The brigade will reassign tasks.”
Mu Yao’s heart tightened. Did this mean she was being moved? Because spring plowing started, feeding animals was no longer the “light” work? Or… was it something else? Rumors? She bit her lip, waiting for him to continue.
Gu Jingci draped the towel back on the jar, his gaze on her anxious face, then said, “The livestock shed has heavy tasks during spring plowing and needs fixed personnel. You… have done well. Are you willing to stay?”
Mu Yao’s head shot up, hardly believing him. Stay… stay? Not be moved?
Gu Jingci, feeling her gaze, a little uncomfortable, looked away and added, “Of course, your work points will be recalculated based on actual workload. It may… be busier than now.”
“I’ll stay!” Mu Yao blurted without hesitation, her voice rising slightly in urgency, echoing clearly in the empty shed. Realizing her outburst, she flushed but firmly repeated, “Captain Gu, I want to stay. I’m not afraid of being busy.”
As long as she could stay here, where he occasionally appeared, silently protected her, and gave clumsy care, she didn’t mind the work or exhaustion.
Gu Jingci turned back, looking at her flushed cheeks and those strikingly bright eyes. In those eyes was no fear of hard work—only earnest dedication and… reliance? The realization sent a subtle jolt through him.
He nodded, expressionless as always. “Alright. Starting tomorrow, the amount of grass to cut will double, and the feed mix adjusted. I’ll give you the new recipe.”
“Okay.” Mu Yao nodded firmly, feeling the weight in her chest finally lift, replaced by a quiet joy.
Gu Jingci picked up the hoe to continue. At that moment, the shed doorway darkened— the deputy team leader walked in, holding a folder.
“Jingci, just in time,” the deputy said, glancing at the dust- and sweat-covered pair. His eyes lingered on Mu Yao, then he said nothing, addressing Gu Jingci, “A notice just came from the commune about the spring ox census and vaccination. Team leaders must verify the data themselves and report it tomorrow morning. Some data require on-site checks in the sheds.”
Gu Jingci set down the hoe, brushing off the dirt. “Check now?”
“Yes, hurry,” the deputy nodded.
Turning to Mu Yao, Gu Jingci said, “You keep shoveling, pile it outside the manure heap. Don’t mix it.” Then he walked with the deputy to another row of pens, checking oxen numbers, age, and condition, while the deputy recorded.
Mu Yao continued shoveling. She wasn’t far and could faintly hear their conversation.
“…This ‘Big Black Ox’ has hoof issues, the vet needs to check before plowing…”
“…Feed reserves are fine, but not much soybean meal left…”
Halfway through, the deputy lowered his voice, thinking no one could hear. “Jingci, this sent-down youth… you’re planning to keep her in the livestock shed long-term?”
Mu Yao instinctively lightened her shoveling.
Gu Jingci’s voice remained steady: “Yes. She does well.”
“She does well,” the deputy hesitated, “but… her background is… leaving her here alone could attract gossip. And spring’s busy, the youth camp also reports it—she can’t always take the easy work…”
“Easy?” Gu Jingci interrupted, coldly. “Uncle Wang, let her try this work now?” He gestured to Mu Yao and the hard frozen manure on the ground. “Which women in the team would willingly do this, let alone efficiently?”
The deputy was stumped. “Well… she seems delicate but works hard. Still… background’s a problem. I’m just looking out for her.”
“I have no problem with that,” Gu Jingci said decisively. “Task assignments are based on whether the work is done well, not one’s background. She can care for the livestock without affecting spring plowing—that’s her contribution. As for gossip,” he paused, voice deeper, “anyone with complaints, let them come to me. Or have them do this work.”
The deputy fell silent, sighing, continuing to record data.
Mu Yao faced away, the shovel feeling like a thousand pounds in her hands. She lowered her head, eyes burning—not from grievance, but because of Gu Jingci’s words. So direct, so firm, placing all her effort and dedication as “contribution,” shielding her from gossip.
She blinked back tears and shoveled with even more effort. Every scoop was a silent vow and gratitude.
Once the data was checked, the deputy left first. Gu Jingci returned just as Mu Yao finished the last of the manure. The shed smelled of dust and fresh manure.
Mu Yao put down the shovel, wiping sweat from her forehead, her face streaked black and yellow, looking a bit disheveled. She looked at Gu Jingci, lips moving as if to speak, but no words—thanks or otherwise—seemed adequate.
Gu Jingci also looked at her. Her face was smudged, sweat dampened strands of hair against her forehead, but her eyes were clear, full of complex emotions, staring straight at him.
The shed was silent, save for the occasional snort of the livestock.
Suddenly, Gu Jingci extended his hand toward her—not to give something, but palm up, open before her. His hand was large, knuckled, calloused, with small scars and traces of dirt from work.
Mu Yao froze, confused, looking at his hand, then his face.
Gu Jingci’s expression was unchanged, his voice steady: “Manure’s cleared. Today’s work.”
Her heart skipped. She slowly extended her own dust- and dirt-stained hand, now roughened, hesitantly placing it in his palm.
His hand was warm, dry, and strong, fully enclosing her cold, slender hand. The calluses rubbed against hers, creating a strange, real sensation. He didn’t grip tightly, but it was steady—a brief pause, not a handshake, but a kind of confirmation, an exchange.
Then he released, as if the touch had been an illusion.
“Clean up and clock out,” he said, returning to normal tone, turning to get his jacket.
Mu Yao stood frozen, hand still slightly raised, feeling the lingering warmth and rough texture. The heat spread from her palm to her heart, and her cheeks burned uncontrollably.
“Mm,” she murmured, hastily retrieving her things, not daring to look at him again.
They walked out of the livestock shed, one after the other. The setting sun stretched their shadows long, overlapping briefly in the muddy snow before separating.
Mu Yao carried the remaining bean buns, stepping carefully on melting and refrozen ice, one step after another. The palm that had been touched still tingled faintly.
The spring snow was melting, the earthy scent growing stronger. The harsh winter seemed truly coming to an end.
And some things, like the warmth in a palm or the seeds sprouting beneath the soil, were quietly beginning to change in this season of thaw.