The most immediate change brought by short hair was the emptiness and coolness at the back of her neck and head. The biting early-spring wind blew in without obstruction, making Mu Yao instinctively hunch her shoulders. But soon, she came to understand what Gu Jingci meant by “neat and efficient.” While working, her hair no longer got in the way; she didn’t have to constantly sweep aside stray strands. Cleaning the shed was easier without long hair getting tangled with hay or manure, and even sleeping felt slightly more comfortable—though in a quiet corner of her heart, the loss of her long hair still ached.
An even more noticeable change was the way others looked at her. In the first few days, whether it was a comrade passing by the livestock shed or a fellow youth worker she met after work, everyone regarded her new hairstyle with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, perhaps with a faint hint of regret hidden beneath. Since the day Liu Caixia had been sharply reprimanded by Gu Jingci, she avoided Mu Yao from afar, her gaze full of resentment but unwilling to approach. Yet beneath that resentment, when she saw Mu Yao’s tidy short hair, there seemed to be a trace of something else—almost satisfaction: “See? No matter how proud you are, you still had to cut your hair, bowing to reality.”
Mu Yao paid no mind to anyone’s eyes. She poured all her energy into the demanding work of spring plowing, as if only extreme exhaustion could numb the dull, cutting pain and humiliation in her heart. She mowed the grass with greater force, cleaned more thoroughly, tended the livestock more carefully, and moved silently like a shadow, yet managed the shed’s chores meticulously. Even the ever-critical Old Xu couldn’t help but whisper to Gu Jingci when inspecting the plowing preparations: “This girl really works with some fierce determination—it doesn’t match her background.”
Gu Jingci only responded with a faint “Hm,” his gaze sweeping over Mu Yao as she carefully brushed a cow. She bent slightly at the waist, short hair swaying with the motion, revealing a pale yet sun-kissed nape. She was fully absorbed in her work, as if isolated from the outside world.
The scissors… he never asked, and she never mentioned them. It was as if that silent moment of letting go in the old warehouse corner had never happened.
Yet, when Gu Jingci came to the livestock shed, he lingered a little longer than before. He no longer just checked and left; sometimes he leaned on the doorframe, watching Mu Yao work; sometimes he carried a heavy bucket of water for her. More often, he brought “extra” things: a small bag of brown sugar, supposedly for the animals’ feed but also for her to make ginger water; a few pieces of clean old cloth, meant for cleaning tools but obviously soft enough for undergarments; once, even a small box of precious clam oil, quietly placed on the worn table with a note in his scrawled handwriting: “For your hands.”
His care remained silent and awkward, but increasingly meticulous. Mu Yao quietly accepted it all—she carefully stashed the brown sugar and occasionally brewed a little, the sweetness warming her heart; she turned the old cloth into a close-fitting vest, rough but comforting; the clam oil she reserved for the worst times of chapped hands, and its greasy aroma always reminded her of the fleeting brush of his fingers when he handed it over.
Between them flowed a quiet, weighty understanding, deeper than ever. No words were needed; a glance, a subtle motion, could convey meaning. The livestock shed became a peculiar, secluded realm, filtering out the wind, rain, and gossip of the outside world.
But outside this realm, peace did not exist. Spring plowing had reached its most critical phase, and the workload pressed heavily on everyone. At one point, the youth workers began complaining due to the intense labor and poor food. The conflict finally erupted over task assignments. A particularly hard slope needed to be cultivated for sweet potatoes—a grueling job requiring strong labor. Originally, a few male youth workers were to be assigned, but Liu Caixia somehow rallied a few female youth workers, complaining to the deputy leader that the division of labor was unfair—why could someone (implying Mu Yao) always get “lighter” work, while they had to tackle the hard labor? Though not stated outright, the blame pointed at Mu Yao, and by extension, at Gu Jingci’s assignment of tasks.
The deputy leader, troubled and unwilling to act alone, reported it to Gu Jingci.
That night, Gu Jingci did not go home as usual. He first handled the matter at the brigade office, firmly rejecting Liu Caixia and the others’ unreasonable demands, reaffirming the work assignments, and warning Liu Caixia that if she caused trouble again and affected spring plowing, she would face serious disciplinary action. By the time he left the office, darkness had fully settled, stars sparsely dotting the sky, and the spring night’s chill had seeped into his bones.
He should have gone straight home, but his feet carried him toward the edge of the village.
Mu Yao’s firewood shed window still emitted a faint, stubbornly warm glow—like a lone beacon on a vast dark sea.
Gu Jingci stood outside the gate for a moment, hearing the muffled, intermittent coughs from inside. Frowning, he knocked.
The knock startled her; the coughing stopped. After a brief pause, Mu Yao’s voice, tinged with nasal caution, called out: “Who is it?”
“Me,” Gu Jingci replied.
The door soon opened. Mu Yao stood in the doorway, wrapped in an oversized old cotton jacket, short hair slightly messy, her face unusually flushed in the dim light, eyes unnaturally bright. She froze for a moment, then stepped aside: “Captain Gu? So late…”
Gu Jingci said nothing and entered. The shed was colder and more worn than during the day, though relatively tidy. The military blanket was neatly folded at the head of the bed, her old account books and pencil lay open on the broken table, the kerosene lamp flickered. A faint bitter herbal scent lingered—the ginger water she had made with the slices he gave her earlier.
His gaze fell on her flushed face: “Sick?”
Mu Yao instinctively touched her forehead—it was burning. She lowered her head, her voice weak: “No… just a bit of a chill. Ginger water will fix it.”
Seeing her stubbornly trying to endure, irritation surged in Gu Jingci. He went to the bed, reached not for her forehead but for the folded military blanket, shaking it open.
“Lie down,” he ordered.
Mu Yao froze, looking at him, not moving.
Impatient, he stepped forward, draped the blanket over her, almost wrapping her in it, then firmly pressed her shoulders to guide her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I said lie down!” His tone brooked no argument.
Mu Yao, stunned by his sudden, almost rough action, felt light-headed and allowed herself to be guided down. The thick cotton blanket, carrying the scents of sun and soapnuts, wrapped her, blocking some of the cold.
Gu Jingci went to the broken table, poured out the half-cold ginger water, retrieved the bamboo thermos from the corner—water he had brought earlier—poured half a cup of hot water, and took out a small paper packet with a few white tablets inside.
“Fever reducer,” he said, handing the tablets and water to Mu Yao. “Take it.”
She sat up slightly, looking at the small, rare-for-this-era tablets, then at his taut, expressionless face. Her throat felt choked. She did not ask where the medicine came from, nor did she refuse; she took it obediently, swallowing it with the warm water soothing her dry throat and the bitter taste dissolving on her tongue.
Watching her finish, he took back the empty bowl and placed it on the table. Then he did something that made Mu Yao almost forget to breathe.
He sat on the edge of the bed, back to her. He did not look at her, only slightly turned his head; his voice sounded unusually clear and… stiff in the quiet shed.
“Liu Caixia and the others caused trouble at the brigade today,” he began bluntly, no preamble, “complaining that you’ve been doing ‘lighter’ work and demanding reassignment.”
Mu Yao’s heart sank; the warmth from the medicine and water seemed to drain away. Of course… it still involved him. She tried to speak but no sound came out.
“I rejected it,” Gu Jingci continued, voice steady, emotionless. “The assignments are mine to decide. Your work isn’t light, and you do it well. No need to change it.”
His words were firm and resolute, without hesitation. Lying under the blanket, Mu Yao looked at his broad, silent back—a mountain in the dim light. Her nose tingled, tears threatening to spill. She buried her face in the blanket, fighting them back.
“But,” he shifted tone, still calm, “your background is a fact. Some will use it to make trouble—now, and in the future.”
Mu Yao’s heart tensed again.
He paused, choosing his words carefully. In the shed, only the faint crackle of the kerosene lamp and his low, steady voice filled the air.
“You can’t avoid it,” he said slowly. “All you can do is do your work as best as possible—so well that no one can find fault. Feed the animals so they’re fat and healthy, better than anyone else; study diligently, faster and more thoroughly than others.”
He turned to look at her. Mu Yao’s wet eyes stared unblinkingly from under the blanket.
“Gossip is like the wind through this broken window,” he said, glancing at the drafty pane. “The more you hide, the deeper it digs into your bones. Stand tall, do your work, and it blows past. It has no meaning and will naturally disperse.”
His words were unadorned, even rough, yet each struck Mu Yao like a hammer. Not comfort, not sympathy, but the simplest, harshest truth: in this world, especially in her situation, only by excelling completely could she hope to gain a foothold, and a chance… to be recognized.
“I understand,” Mu Yao said from under the blanket, muffled but clear and firm. “Captain Gu, I will.”
Gu Jingci watched her for a few seconds, then nodded. “Good. Take your medicine and get a good sleep. If you still have a fever tomorrow, don’t go to work.”
“I can go,” she immediately said, struggling to sit up.
“Lie down!” Gu Jingci furrowed his brow, stern again. “This is an order. The shed won’t collapse if you skip a day.”
She dared not move, lying obediently.
He went to the table and blew out the lamp. Darkness fell, only scattered starlight slipping through the broken window.
“I’ll close the door for you; no need to get up,” his voice came from the darkness, footsteps moving toward the door.
“Captain Gu,” Mu Yao suddenly whispered.
The footsteps stopped.
“…Thank you,” she said softly, but with the weight of a thousand burdens.
A brief silence followed.
“Mm.” A nearly inaudible reply. Then the soft sound of the door closing, footsteps fading, eventually swallowed by the spring night breeze.
Mu Yao lay in the warm blanket, eyes open in complete darkness. The fever medicine was taking effect, her body lightly sweating, yet her mind was unusually clear. Gu Jingci’s words echoed in her ears.
“Do your work as best as possible.”
“Stand tall, do your work.”
Yes—crying, hiding, self-pity were useless. Hair could grow back. But if her spirit collapsed, she would truly have nothing left.
She curled up deeper into the blanket carrying his scent. In her palm, she could almost feel the cold of the scissors, yet her heart had gained a solid, weighty strength from tonight’s abrupt, direct visit.
The wind still blew outside. But inside the shed, the thick military blanket and the few words left by the man formed a brief, yet real, haven.
Mu Yao closed her eyes and, under the medicine’s influence, fell into a deep sleep. In her dreams, there was no shadow of her past life, no fear of the present—only a vast land requiring diligent care, and a tall, silent figure always standing just ahead of her.