Spring plowing swept through the Xiangyang Brigade like a whirlwind. The fields were crowded with people, their shouts, the crack of whips, and the fresh scent of turned earth blending with the lingering chill of early spring. The livestock pens were no longer quiet islands; oxen and packhorses were being pulled out in large numbers, and Mu Yao’s workload surged. Beyond the usual cutting of grass, mixing feed, and cleaning, she had to constantly check on the animals’ condition, tend to minor injuries, and prepare extra feed for the night. She often rose before dawn and didn’t return until late at night.
Gu Jingci was equally busy, coordinating labor and animals, and dealing with unexpected issues. His visits to the pens became noticeably fewer and more irregular—sometimes arriving late at night to check on the oxen’s rest, other times appearing before dawn to assign the day’s priorities. Their encounters were usually brief, just a few words exchanged before he hurried off again. Yet every time he came, the pen would somehow gain something: sometimes a bundle of higher-quality hay, sometimes medicinal powder left by a vet for a particular cow, and often small parcels of food silently placed on the old wooden table— a boiled egg, a few roasted potatoes, or a handful of fragrant roasted sunflower seeds.
Mu Yao always accepted these quietly, using them carefully. She no longer said “thank you,” knowing he disliked hearing it. Instead, she kept the pens meticulously tidy, cared for the animals with extra attention, and executed every task he assigned to the best of her ability. That was the only way she could repay him.
After spring plowing began, literacy class naturally paused. Old Xu had gone to the fields himself. Mu Yao felt a twinge of regret but understood. She carefully stored the old account book filled with characters and the half-used pencil under the blanket. Occasionally, late at night when the house was quiet and her body aching, she would take them out, reviewing the characters she had learned or copying the sentences she still remembered by the dim light of a small lamp. This was the only quiet comfort she allowed herself in her exhausting life.
That afternoon, Gu Jingci came to the pens, unusually in the late afternoon sun. His face showed obvious fatigue, red veins in his eyes, and mud splattered up his pant legs.
“The brigade came to check on spring plowing progress. Just left,” he explained briefly, his voice hoarse. He walked to the water trough, scooped half a ladle of cool water, and gulped it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Mu Yao was treating a cow that seemed strained from plowing earlier. Hesitating for a moment, she put her work aside and went to the stove—a small, battered clay stove Gu Jingci had somehow gotten her, allowing her to occasionally heat water. The rusty iron kettle on it was warming water. She poured a bowl and handed it to him.
“Captain Gu, have some hot water.”
Gu Jingci put down the ladle, looked at the bowl steaming in her hands, then at her. The girl’s face showed fatigue from work, but her eyes were bright, filled with careful concern. He said nothing and took the bowl. The water was just the right temperature—not hot, not cold. He drank more than half in one go, and the warmth seemed to relax not only his parched throat but also the tension in his nerves.
“Literacy class,” he suddenly said, the bowl still at his lips, eyes fixed on the distance outside the pen. “In a couple of days, the brigade requires it to resume. They said, ‘Work in the fields is no excuse to neglect learning.’”
Mu Yao’s eyes brightened slightly. It could really resume?
Gu Jingci set the bowl down, his voice regaining its usual steady tone. “It’s been rescheduled to noon, the hour of the midday break. The location is still the old warehouse. Old Xu will continue teaching.” He paused, glancing at Mu Yao. “If you want to go, go. But manage your work yourself; don’t let it interfere with important tasks.”
“I can manage it!” Mu Yao immediately nodded, a subtle joy hidden in her tone. One hour at noon, though brief, was better than nothing.
Gu Jingci responded with a simple “Mm,” said no more, and turned to check the fodder. But as he turned, the corner of his lips moved ever so slightly—so quickly it might have seemed like a trick of the eye.
Two days later, literacy class resumed. Time was short, and fewer came—only seven or eight including Mu Yao, mostly the same slightly older kids from last time, dozing in corners. Old Xu looked tired too, yawning continuously as he taught the characters for “work, peasant, soldier.”
Mu Yao sat in her usual spot, listening intently, remembering carefully. The hour passed quickly, and Old Xu dismissed the class. Everyone scattered. Mu Yao packed her paper and pencil, ready to return to the pens; the afternoon still held a mountain of work.
As she stepped out of the worn doorway of the old warehouse, someone blocked her path.
It was Liu Caixia. She clearly hadn’t come to class, crossing her arms and leaning against the outer wall of the warehouse, her face a mix of mockery and scheming, eyes scanning Mu Yao from head to toe.
“Comrade Mu Yao, very eager to learn, huh?” Liu Caixia drawled. “I hear your family used to run a printing press? Literacy must be easy for you, right? Why bother pretending with us rough folks?”
Mu Yao’s heart sank. How could Liu Caixia know her family had run a printing press? It wasn’t exactly a secret, but not many in the countryside should know. Had someone told her intentionally? Or did she dig it out somehow?
“Responding to calls and improving oneself is what every member should do,” Mu Yao replied, trying to sidestep her.
Liu Caixia stepped closer, blocking her again, lowering her voice but smiling maliciously. “Improving yourself? Mu Yao, you’re not still dreaming that ‘knowledge changes fate,’ are you? Let me tell you, don’t waste your time. Do you even know what you are? No matter how many characters you learn, you’re still a capitalist’s daughter! Never hope to turn your life around!”
Her words struck like poisoned needles into Mu Yao’s most sensitive spots. Her face went pale, fingers clutching the old handkerchief wrapping her paper and pencil.
Seeing Mu Yao’s reaction, Liu Caixia’s satisfaction grew. She leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper: “If I were you, I’d keep my distance from Captain Gu. Otherwise, next time it won’t just be about you seducing a cadre. Your little ‘dirt’—it won’t be hard for others to find out.”
A naked threat.
Mu Yao’s whole body went cold, as if her blood froze. She looked at Liu Caixia’s face full of jealousy and malice, and fragments of dark memories from her past life flashed through her mind—denunciations, endless humiliation and torment. She had thought a second life would let her avoid it, but malice had never truly left.
Fear washed over her like icy tides, leaving her speechless and trembling.
At that moment, a cold, hard voice sliced through like an ice-edged blade:
“Liu Caixia, what are you doing here?”
Both girls were startled and turned.
Gu Jingci was standing a few steps away. He had arrived hurriedly, sweat on his temples, a terrifyingly serious expression on his face. His thick eyebrows knitted tightly, eyes sharp as an eagle, fixed on Liu Caixia. His tall frame cast a wall-like shadow, oppressive under the sun.
Liu Caixia’s smug, vicious expression froze, replaced by panic and guilt. “C-Captain Gu? I…I didn’t do anything, just…just chatting with Comrade Mu Yao…”
“Chatting about what?” Gu Jingci stepped forward, voice low but chilling. “Chatting about defaming educated youth? Chatting about threatening a comrade? Or chatting about ‘harming others and yourself’?”
He emphasized the last four words, clearly having heard her earlier remark.
Liu Caixia turned pale and stumbled backward, babbling, “No! Captain Gu, you misunderstood! I was…just joking! Right, Mu Yao?” She looked at Mu Yao pleadingly.
Mu Yao lowered her head, biting her lip, face pale, still trembling. The fear hadn’t dissipated, and Gu Jingci’s sudden appearance made her heart even more chaotic.
He didn’t look at Liu Caixia, his eyes on Mu Yao, noting her pale face and trembling shoulders. His gaze darkened, brimming with near-violent anger. He turned back to Liu Caixia, voice as cold as midwinter ice:
“Liu Caixia, you are an educated youth in the countryside, not here to spread rumors and act up! I will report your behavior truthfully to the youth office and brigade committee. Now, immediately, go write a self-criticism! Hand it to my office first thing tomorrow! Understand?!”
“Captain Gu, I…” Liu Caixia tried to argue.
“Do you understand?!” Gu Jingci’s sudden raise of voice made her shiver all over.
“I…understand…” she stammered, completely panicked, saying no more, fleeing like a frightened rabbit, her retreat clumsy and humiliating.
Outside the warehouse, only Gu Jingci and Mu Yao remained. The afternoon sun was harsh, yet the air seemed frozen.
Gu Jingci approached Mu Yao and looked down at her. She felt his burning gaze on her. She dared not lift her head, fingers almost crushing the old handkerchief.
“Look up.” His voice, though no longer icy, was still low and tense.
Mu Yao slowly, painfully lifted her head. Her eyes were red, brimming with unshed tears. Her face was pale, lips colorless from biting. The fragile yet stubborn expression struck Gu Jingci deeply.
He wanted to speak—scold her for being foolish, or comfort her—but no words came. He had never faced such a scene: a girl so seemingly breakable, eyes full of fear and grievance.
Finally, he took a deep breath, suppressing the anger and unfamiliar tenderness, and took something from his pocket, placing it in front of her.
It wasn’t food or a tool.
It was a pair of scissors. Ordinary black household scissors, a little worn, but the blades sharp, glinting coldly in the sun.
Mu Yao froze, staring blankly at the scissors, then at Gu Jingci.
He nudged them forward again, voice hoarse but clear: “Take it.”
“This…” Mu Yao was confused.
“Cut.” His gaze landed on her long braid, thick and hanging over her chest. Her hair was black and glossy, even in this rough environment, highlighting the slender whiteness of her neck. “Cut it short.”
Mu Yao’s pupils shrank, and she instinctively raised her hand to protect her braid. Cut her hair? Why? Because of Liu Caixia’s words? Or…
“Long hair makes work inconvenient, and draws attention.” Gu Jingci looked toward the distant fields, voice returning to its usual cold hardness. “Cut it to ear length. Neat.”
She understood. In his way, he was keeping her “unnoticeable” and “safe.” In this era, long hair—especially for someone of her status—could draw scrutiny, even suspicion. Short hair would help her blend in.
But… this was the only remnant from her mother, the last piece of the old “Mu Yao” she had. She had guarded it carefully, combing it daily even in the hardest times.
Tears finally spilled uncontrollably, hitting the dust. She didn’t cry out, only wept silently, staring at the cold scissors in Gu Jingci’s hands.
Seeing her tears, Gu Jingci’s grip tightened on the scissors, knuckles whitening. A wave of agitation—and an unfamiliar panic—stirred within him. He thrust the scissors into her hand, voice sharper: “What are you crying for? It’s just hair! It won’t take any flesh!” Then, as if he couldn’t stay any longer, he turned abruptly and strode away, back stiff.
Mu Yao stood there, holding the heavy, cold scissors, tears blurring her vision. The decaying warehouse and distant sounds of labor became a muted backdrop.
She slowly lowered her head, staring at the gleaming blades. After a long moment, she lifted her other hand, gently touching her black braid, feeling the familiar smooth texture.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and reopened them—her tears gone, replaced with icy resolve.
She moved into the shadow by the warehouse wall, back to the light, undoing her braid. Her black hair cascaded like a waterfall, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
She took the scissors, cold against her warm neck.
“Snip.”
The first strand fell silently to the ground, dust clinging to it.
“Snip, snip…”
The monotonous, resolute sound echoed in the silent corner. Strand by strand, her hair fell, forming a lifeless black carpet at her feet.
Tears still flowed, mingling with the scissor’s rhythm, silently venting unwillingness, humiliation, and the pain of a desperate resolve.
With the final cut, her waist-length hair was gone, replaced by uneven, barely ear-length short hair. Stray strands clung to her wet cheeks and neck, itching.
She brushed them haphazardly to make it look less odd, then squatted to gather the long hair from the ground, strand by strand, wrapping it tightly in the old handkerchief and holding it close to her chest.
Here once beat the heart of the delicate Mu Yao. Now it still beat, but wrapped in a thick cocoon, weathered by hardship.
She stood, dusting off herself, wiped her tears fiercely with her sleeve. When she raised her head, there were no more tears—only a near-indifferent calm. Yet her eyes were darker, deeper than ever, like two bottomless icy pools.
She carefully stored the scissors, still warm from her hair, then straightened her back and walked toward the pens, step by step.
Her steps were a little unsteady, yet resolute.
Sunlight gleamed off her newly cut short hair—black, sleek, neat, with none of its past softness left.
In the shadow of the warehouse corner, only a small patch of black hair dust remained, silently telling of the quiet yet harsh “ritual” that had just taken place.