Chapter 306 Clumsy

The children arrived one after another. Some rubbed their eyes and clung to their mothers, some ate fried dough sticks as they walked, and some burst into tears as soon as they entered.

She knelt down, gently patted their backs, and whispered soothingly, "Don't cry, don't cry, your teacher is here."

When feeding the children spoonful by spoonful, some children would always spit rice everywhere; during nap time, she had to tuck them in one by one, pat their backs gently, and only after all the children were asleep could she lean back in her chair and take a nap herself.

These things may seem insignificant, but as they accumulate day by day, they weave a fine net that firmly supports her life.

Occasionally, I help the mutual aid center deal with a few difficult parents, which is a small favor.

That day, a mother grabbed the childcare worker by the collar and yelled at her, saying that her child had been scratched on the face and that it must have been caused by the teacher's negligence.

Qiao Wanyin stepped forward to mediate, patiently explaining for a long time and then showing the surveillance footage, before the argument finally subsided.

Afterwards, the center director held her hand and thanked her profusely: "If you hadn't kept things under control, this matter would have escalated to the regimental level."

She just smiled, waved her hand, and turned back to the kindergarten.

I help with these things not for any reward, but because I feel that as long as I can do something useful, my heart won't feel empty.

That night, Fu Lian returned from the regimental headquarters with a face as somber as the sky before a rainstorm.

It was already dark, and outside in the courtyard, the wind whipped up sand and gravel that lashed against the walls, making a rustling sound.

He pushed open the door, his military uniform clinging to his body in the wind, his face so gloomy it looked like it could be wrung out of water.

He didn't speak, but walked straight to the table and sat down, his fingers unconsciously tapping the surface with a dull and oppressive rhythm.

The kerosene lamp in the room flickered slightly, casting his shadow long on the wall, like a taut string.

"We've found out."

As soon as he entered, he lowered his voice to a whisper, "The arsonist has been found."

The sound seemed to be squeezed out from deep in the throat, with a rough, gritty quality.

He looked up at Qiao Wanyin, his gaze heavy as iron, as if carrying some unspeakable secret.

Under the light, his brow was furrowed in a deep furrow, and there were still beads of sweat on his forehead.

Qiao Wanyin's heart tightened: "Who?"

Her hand, which was clearing the dishes, paused, her knuckles turning slightly white.

She looked up and stared into Fu Lian'an's eyes, as if trying to read the answer from them.

The room suddenly became eerily quiet, and even the wind outside the window seemed to have stopped for a moment.

"Wang Youcai".

He pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase. "He felt you were blocking his path to promotion, so he disguised himself as a woman and set fire to the kindergarten."

The stack of papers landed on the table with a dull thud.

Fu Li'an spoke calmly, yet every word was like a knife, dissecting a truth hidden in the darkness.

He spoke succinctly, yet every word carried immense weight—Wang Youcai, the logistics officer who usually bowed and scraped and smiled at everyone, was actually the instigator of this fire.

Qiao Wanyin opened the documents; photos, transcripts, and a list of evidence were all there.

With trembling hands, she turned the pages one by one, her fingertips touching the cold paper, yet a fire seemed to ignite in her heart.

In the photograph, the burning window frame was emitting black smoke, and the door panel was charred and twisted; in the written record, the eyewitness described a woman wearing a blue cloth shirt and a wig, sneaking over the back wall; the list of evidence included a piece of cloth found in the ashes, which perfectly matched an old shirt found in Wang Youcai's house.

There is a photo of Wang Youcai—wearing a blue cloth shirt and a wig, with his hair covering half of his face, exactly as the eyewitness described.

That was a still frame in the interrogation room; he had his head down, his wig askew, revealing a tattoo behind one ear.

The blue cloth shirt was wrinkled and wrapped around his body, making him look completely different from his usual well-dressed appearance.

But Qiao Wanyin recognized his eyes and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—it was him, the man who had once flattered and fawned over her.

"It really is him!"

Her fingers trembled. "Because of this trivial matter, a whole room of children almost burned to death!"

Her voice suddenly rose, and her eyes instantly became bloodshot.

She stood up abruptly, her chest heaving violently, as if a breath was stuck in her throat, unable to be swallowed or exhaled.

She remembered the piercing cries that night, the children struggling and crawling in the thick smoke, and those little faces blackened by smoke...

Those images were like knives tearing at her heart.

Fu Lian reached out and grasped her hand, his palm warm: "Don't hate him anymore. He'll never get a promotion in his life. The military court is waiting for him, and there will be plenty of food in prison."

His palm was broad and strong, firmly enveloping her cold fingers.

His tone was gentle yet authoritative, as if he were taking on her anger and resentment for her.

He knew she hated him, but he also knew that hatred would only make people suffer more.

He looked at her and said, word by word, "He's finished. He'll spend the next thirty years behind bars."

She took a deep breath, and the tightness in her chest slowly dissipated: "At least, the children didn't suffer in vain."

She slowly sat back down on the stool, looking down at her hands, where Fu Lian had held them, and the warmth still lingered.

She closed her eyes, and the image of the children returning to kindergarten after their recovery floated into her mind—they ran into the classroom laughing, grabbed her and called out "Teacher Qiao," their eyes sparkling like stars.

Yes, they survived, they were able to go to school, and they were able to grow up...

This price was ultimately not paid in vain.

But then she suddenly remembered that she had once suspected her second sister-in-law.

That thought was like a fine needle; it pricked my heart with a slight pain.

She remembered that in the days following the fire, she watched her second sister-in-law's movements, trying to guess her expression, and even secretly looked through her clothes to see if there were any burn marks.

At that time, her mind was filled with "motives," "opportunities," and "hatred"—she thought that only the closest people would be so ruthless.

A pang of sadness welled up inside me.

My second sister-in-law is selfish and mean, but no matter how bad she is, she didn't gamble with the child's life.

She remembered her second sister-in-law carrying her feverish niece and running three miles to the hospital in the cold night; she remembered her saving half a bag of flour just to nourish her eldest brother; she remembered that although she was harsh in her scolding, she would always bring a bowl of hot ginger soup to Qiao Wanyin's bedside whenever she was sick.

Even if someone dislikes her, they wouldn't lay a hand on a child.

Yet, he had doubted her so much—this guilt weighed heavily on his heart like a stone.

Two weeks later, just as dawn broke, Qiao Wanyin received a letter from her hometown.

As dawn broke and the roosters in the yard crowed for the first time, the postman rode his bicycle in from the alley entrance and handed her a brown paper envelope stamped with a red postmark.

She thanked him, stood in the courtyard with the letter in her hand, and her heart suddenly started beating faster for some reason.

She grabbed the letter and sat down on the stone bench in the courtyard to open it.

The stone bench was cold, and moisture seeped up her trousers, but she was completely unaware.

The moment the letter was unfolded, familiar handwriting came into view—it was my elder brother's handwriting, neat yet with a touch of clumsiness.

The letter said that Miao Miao had entered the best primary school in town, carrying a new schoolbag and smiling like a little sun.

The letter paper had a drawing of a little girl with a crooked haircut, her braids sticking up, and her mouth wide open. Next to it was written, "Miaomiao is going to school."