After a spring rain, the land of the Xiangyang brigade fully awakened, with greenery spreading at a speed visible to the naked eye. The most intense phase of spring plowing had passed, and the rhythm in the fields eased a little; people’s faces showed traces of relief. Work in the livestock shed also entered a relatively steady stage—plowing oxen and pack horses took turns resting, and the burden on Mu Yao’s shoulders lightened slightly. Yet she dared not slacken, still arriving early each day and tending to everything meticulously.
The literacy class resumed its evening sessions. Though the number of students remained small, Mu Yao never missed a session, rain or shine. She not only learned the characters Old Xu taught but often stayed afterward to help him organize the warehouse or ask about more complex words and basic arithmetic. At first, Old Xu was indifferent, but seeing her earnest gaze, diligence, and well-thought-out questions, he gradually grew more patient. Sometimes he even brought out a worn, treasured abacus from his collection, showing her how to practice it.
“This girl, she’s sharp,” Old Xu murmured privately to his wife, who kept the accounts. “Such a pity…”
What a pity? He didn’t finish the thought, only shaking his head with a sigh.
Mu Yao had no idea. She absorbed knowledge greedily, like a long-dried sponge soaking up water. Her fingers were clumsy with the abacus at first, often flicking the wrong beads, producing sharp clicking sounds. She practiced over and over, never stopping even when her fingertips turned red. The crisp, rhythmic clatter of the abacus beads echoed in the quiet old warehouse, becoming the sweetest music of her nights.
Sometimes, Gu Jingci would “happen” to patrol past the old warehouse after her class. He wouldn’t go inside, just stand under the dark eaves outside, listening to the persistently determined, if still unskilled, sound of beads, occasionally punctuated by Old Xu’s muddled explanations and her soft responses. He would stand quietly for a while before turning and leaving, his footsteps swallowed by the night, unnoticed by anyone.
That evening, Mu Yao left the literacy class, clutching her old account book and the abacus Old Xu had exceptionally allowed her to take home for practice. The abacus was somewhat heavy, and she carried it carefully, as if it were a rare treasure.
At the village fork, she saw Gu Jingci approaching from the direction of the brigade office, holding a folder, brows slightly furrowed, seemingly lost in thought.
“Captain Gu,” Mu Yao called softly, pausing.
Gu Jingci lifted his head, his gaze falling on her face, then the abacus she held. His brows relaxed almost imperceptibly. “Hmm,” he responded, walking closer. “Back to learning again?”
“Yes. Accountant Xu taught me some abacus skills,” Mu Yao nodded, fingers unconsciously brushing along the smooth frame.
Gu Jingci’s eyes softened at the faint sparkle in hers brought by learning. He remembered seeing cadre members at the commune office skillfully flicking abacus beads—something he did not master but recognized as useful.
“Study well,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, he added, “In a few days, the commune will require each team to report spring plowing material losses and preliminary yield estimates. The accounts are complicated; Old Xu might not handle it all alone.” His gaze lingered meaningfully on the abacus she held. “If you can help… it would be good.”
Mu Yao’s heart leapt. Helping with brigade accounts? This was… an unimaginable opportunity! Not only would she gain practical accounting experience, but it was also… a sign of trust and recognition.
“I… I can try!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling slightly with excitement. “I’ll study hard and help Accountant Xu well!”
Gu Jingci nodded, saying no more, only giving a slight nod before walking past her. After a few steps, he paused and glanced back once. In the dusk, the girl holding the abacus stood still, looking in the direction he had gone, her eyes bright and shining—the spark of hope ignited by learning now flaring even brighter.
He turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving almost imperceptibly before flattening again, and strode into the deepening night.
Clutching this unexpected piece of good news, Mu Yao practically floated back to the shed. She carefully placed the abacus, and even the previously unpalatable dinner seemed to taste a little better. That night, she lit the kerosene lamp and practiced the division mnemonics Old Xu had taught her, fingers gliding over the cold beads, producing crisp, rhythmic sounds until her eyelids could no longer stay open.
Yet, the tender shoots of hope always seemed most vulnerable to frost.
Two days later, in the morning, Mu Yao was chopping grass in the livestock shed when the deputy team leader entered, face dark, holding a letter.
“Mu Yao, come here,” he said sternly.
Mu Yao’s heart skipped. She set down the knife, wiped her hands, and walked over. “Deputy Team Leader Wang, what’s the matter?”
He handed her the letter. It was an ordinary kraft-paper envelope, unstamped, addressed simply to “The Party Branch of Xiangyang Brigade.” The handwriting was crooked, as if written with the left hand or deliberately disguised.
“Take a look at this,” the deputy said gravely.
Mu Yao opened it with puzzled hands. Inside was a single page, similarly crooked, whose content made her feel as though she had plunged into an icy pit.
The letter, written in the tone of a “revolutionary masses,” “exposed” Mu Yao, the capitalist’s daughter, claiming she used her work in the livestock shed to maintain an improper relationship with Production Team Leader Gu Jingci. It accused her of impropriety, further alleging that she secretly studied “bourgeois revisionist” knowledge at night (literacy class and abacus) and kept “forbidden items” (her old books and notes), attempting to “restore bourgeois ideas”—a “time bomb” hidden among the poor and lower-middle peasants. The letter demanded the Party branch take strict action against Mu Yao and investigate whether Gu Jingci had been “corrupted” by her.
Each word struck her like a red-hot iron. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, the paper crackling. Her face turned pale, lips devoid of color.
An anonymous letter! The same vicious tactic as before! In her previous life, she had suffered from this, and now, just as hope began to bloom, it appeared again! This time, it wasn’t just her—it implicated Gu Jingci too!
“This… this is slander!” Mu Yao raised her head, voice sharp with anger and fear. “I didn’t! Captain Gu… he was only assigning normal work! Those books… I was only learning to read, answering the call! I didn’t…”
“Don’t get agitated,” the deputy said, brow furrowed, tone softer but still serious. “This letter appeared at the brigade office this morning. Several branch committee members have seen it. The situation… is a bit complicated.”
He sighed. “Your background is sensitive. Now someone wrote this—true or false—the impact is bad, especially since it involves Captain Gu…” He paused, lowering his voice. “Gu Jingci is young and promising, a key person for the organization. He cannot have any stain. The branch decided, to avoid suspicion and… contain influence, you temporarily cannot go to the livestock shed. The literacy class is also paused.”
Cannot go to the livestock shed? Stop the literacy class?
These two decisions struck Mu Yao like two heavy hammers. The livestock shed was her foundation, a relatively calm refuge won for her by Gu Jingci, and a place where she proved her worth. The literacy class was her only light in the darkness, the faint possibility of a future preserved for herself.
Now, both were being taken away—because of a malicious anonymous letter?
“Then… where should I go?” Mu Yao’s voice was dry and hoarse, tinged with despair.
The deputy thought a moment. “Go to the courtyard. Join the women’s team to dry grain and select seeds. There are many people there; the work is… visible.” He emphasized “visible,” meaning under everyone’s watch, so no one could gossip.
The courtyard… it was the noisiest, most scrutinized part of the brigade. She would be exposed again to everyone’s judgment, doing the most menial, easily criticized work.
Mu Yao’s vision blurred; she nearly lost her balance. She steadied herself on the chopping knife rack, feeling the cool metal against her palm.
“And Captain Gu…” she asked with difficulty.
“The branch will talk to him,” the deputy replied sternly. “Remember, no matter who asks, don’t say more about your relationship with Gu Jingci or your studies. Don’t admit anything from the letter! Stick to the story: someone is slandering you; it’s normal learning and work. Understand?”
Mu Yao nodded blankly. She knew the deputy meant protection and the bigger picture. But such protection came at the cost of her foothold and the faint hope she had nurtured.
“Go back, tidy up, and report to the courtyard this afternoon,” the deputy finally said, taking the letter and leaving.
Mu Yao stood alone in the spacious livestock shed. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the roof, illuminating the drifting dust and her pale, distracted face. The chopping knife sat nearby, the grass neatly stacked, and the animals chewed quietly. She knew every corner, having poured sweat and effort here, almost treating it as half a home.
Now, she was being driven out like a criminal.
Tears fell silently—not of grievance, but of deep, icy fury and helplessness. She felt as if she had been pushed toward an abyss by invisible forces, powerless to resist.
No. A faint but sharp voice inside screamed:
She could not give in. If she retreated now, giving up, what was the point of living this second life? Only to experience despair again?
She wiped her tears, straightening her slightly stooped back from the blow. Her gaze fell on the corner where Gu Jingci’s old gloves, the scissors, the clam oil tin… and the bed she relied on each night for warmth lay.
Gu Jingci.
At the thought of his name, a complex mix of worry, guilt, and unwillingness surged. He was implicated. How would the branch talk to him? What impact would it have?
And that letter… who wrote it? Liu Caixia? Or someone else jealous of her and Gu Jingci? The crooked handwriting was clearly deliberately disguised.
She could not sit idle.
Mu Yao took a deep breath and slowly began carefully packing her things from the livestock shed. The old gloves, scissors, clam oil, the abacus and account book lent by Old Xu—each item packed. Finally, her eyes rested on the neatly folded military blanket.
She went over, ran her hand gently over the faded olive-green fabric, then unfolded it and refolded it into a smaller, square, easy-to-carry package along the original creases.
She would not leave the blanket behind. It was lent by Gu Jingci; she would take it. Even if the courtyard awaited, even if the work was harder, with this blanket, it was as if… his warmth and protection remained.
Holding her small bundle and the little cloth bag of belongings, Mu Yao glanced once at the livestock shed where she had worked, sweated, and once found brief peace, then stepped out without looking back.
The sunlight was sharp. She squinted at the dusty road leading to the courtyard.
The road was long, and the winds rising again. But this time, she carried the blanket he gave her, his heavy words from last night in her heart, and… a spark of anger that refused to die.
She would see how far this anonymous, cold arrow could push her. And that person, who had given her a faint light in the dark—how could she avoid letting him be tainted because of her?
The crisp sound of abacus beads still seemed to ring in her ears. And that anonymous, malicious letter hung like a dark cloud over the sliver of light she had just glimpsed.
The battle, perhaps, had only just begun.