The autumn wind, carrying a frosty chill, swirled along the dirt road of the Red Flag Production Brigade, whipping up withered yellow leaves that slammed against the Shen family's weathered wooden door. Dawn was just breaking, and a thin layer of frost still clung to the window frames, like someone had sprinkled a handful of salt. Inside, on the earthen bed, Shen Nian'an was already awake, her small body curled up in a thin blanket, her large, dark eyes wide open, staring at the roof beams covered with old newspapers. Her ears, however, were quietly perked up, listening intently to the sounds from the outer room.

He hadn't been fully asleep last night because of his parents' voices. His mother's voice was choked with sobs, like a reed snapped in the wind; his father's voice was deep and heavy, like a stone pressing down on it; even the crisp sound of a silver thimble falling to the ground was like small pebbles hitting his heart. He didn't know what his parents had been arguing about, only that when he woke up this morning, the bed beside him was empty—usually at this time, his father would get up early to help his mother tend the fire in the kitchen, and sometimes he would secretly slip her a fragrant roasted sweet potato.

Nian'an quietly lifted the corner of the quilt, and his little feet shivered as soon as they touched the kang mat—the kang was already cold. He remembered that the new cotton-padded jacket his mother had sewn yesterday was draped over the chair by the kang, so he quickly crawled over and struggled to put it on. The jacket was made of blue cotton cloth dyed by his mother, with soft new cotton stuffing inside; it was the warmest garment he had ever worn. He pulled the sleeves up long to cover his little hands, which were red from the cold, and then, remembering his mother's tears last night, his little brows furrowed involuntarily.

"Mother is still angry," Nian'an muttered softly, tiptoeing to the door and peering out through the doorframe. The main room was empty; the kerosene lamp on the table was out, leaving only a blackened wick. There was no sound from the kitchen; only the wind seeped in through the crack in the door, causing the "Glorious Family" certificate on the wall to sway gently.

He remembered that yesterday afternoon, his father had played with him in the yard, using pebbles to shoot at sparrows in the trees. His father had big hands, and he held his little hands, teaching him to aim, and said with a smile, "Nian'an is really good. Maybe he can become a soldier in the People's Liberation Army someday." At that time, his father's eyes were bright, like the stars in the sky, but last night, his father's eyes seemed to be covered with a layer of mist, and even the smile was gone.

Nian'an's nose tingled with emotion as he suddenly remembered playing with Little Stone next door a few days ago. Little Stone had said, "If my dad and mom argue, I'll bring them some sugar water. My mom won't be angry anymore after drinking the sugar water." He touched his pocket, which was empty—he had secretly eaten the two fruit candies his mother had given him yesterday.

"Why don't we go find Dad?" Nian'an had a thought, and his eyes lit up. He remembered that his father had gone to the west room last night, where the family usually stored firewood, a place rarely visited. He quietly slipped out of the inner room, his bare feet stepping carefully on the cold blue brick floor, afraid of disturbing his mother.

The door to the main room wasn't closed tightly, leaving a crack. Nian'an peeked out through the crack and saw his mother sitting on a small stool in the kitchen, her back to him, holding a piece of firewood but not putting it in the stove. Morning light shone in through the small kitchen window, falling on his mother's hair. He suddenly noticed that there seemed to be a few white hairs in his mother's hair, like snowflakes in winter, hidden among her black hair, particularly conspicuous.

“Mom must not have slept well.” Nian’an felt even more upset. He remembered that his mother would cook corn porridge for him every morning and secretly add a spoonful of white sugar to it—it was something his mother brought from her “maternal home.” When his father asked about it, his mother always said, “Grandma gave it to me.” But this morning, the pot in the kitchen wasn’t even hot. His mother must still be angry with his father.

Not daring to disturb his mother, he quickly shrank back and walked along the wall towards the west room. The door to the west room was ajar, and there was a slight noise coming from inside, like someone sighing. Nian'an gently pushed the door open, and the smell of firewood wafted out, mixed with a faint tobacco scent—that was his father's smell.

The west room was small, half of which was filled with firewood, and there was an old wooden bed covered with straw and an old quilt with several patches. Shen Tingzhou sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the door, with an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his fingertips white, his shoulders slightly slumped, looking particularly tired.

Nian'an paused, something seemed to be stuck in his throat. He wanted to say "Dad," but dared not utter a sound. He remembered his mother calling out last night, "Do you know how hard it was for me when Nian'an had a high fever?" Although he was delirious with fever at that time, he remembered his mother carrying him and running in the snow. His face was pressed against his mother's neck, covered in sweat, and his mother's tears dripped onto his face, cool and refreshing.

"Did Dad really do something wrong?" Nian'an wondered, his little hands tightly gripping the hem of his cotton-padded coat. Although he was only four years old, he was more sensible than other children. He knew that his mother had had a hard time all these years, that before his father "came back," he had to drink corn porridge so thin that you could see your reflection in it every day, and that in winter, his mother would tuck his feet into her bosom to keep them warm, while her own feet would be frozen red.

Shen Tingzhou seemed to sense something and turned around abruptly. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes when he saw Nian'an at the door, quickly replaced by guilt. He hurriedly stuffed the cigarette back into his pocket, stood up, and said softly, "Nian'an, why are you awake? Why aren't you wearing shoes?"

When Nian'an saw that his father's eyes were red, as if he hadn't slept well, his little nose tingled and tears almost fell. He shook his head and whispered, "Dad, I'm not cold." As he spoke, he tiptoed in, his little feet stepping on the soft, cool straw.

Shen Tingzhou quickly went over, squatted down, and picked up Nian'an. The child was very light and thinner than other children her age; holding her felt like holding a kitten. He remembered what Lin Wanqiu had said last night, and the scene of the child running in the snow when she had a high fever; his heart ached as if it were being cut by a knife.

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