newborn

As the train pulled away from the platform, Yunheng opened the curtains a crack. The scenery outside the window gradually blurred, and the familiar outline of the city was left behind, like a nightmare that had finally cleared up.

Grandma dozed against his shoulder, her breathing steady. The hem of her blue shirt was stained with dirt from the wheat fields—she had insisted on bringing it with her, saying, "Carrying the soil of home with you, you feel at ease wherever you go." Yunheng gently pulled the blanket towards Grandma, his fingertips touching the age spots on the back of her hand, and a sudden sense of peace and warmth welled up in his heart.

They didn't go anywhere where they knew anyone.

On the train, Yunheng bought a national map and, eyes closed, pointed to a small town in the south. It was near a river, with a humid climate. The map said "rich in citrus," which sounded like sunshine. He used his remaining savings to rent an old house with a courtyard. It had white walls and black tiles. In the corner stood a crooked orange tree, its branches still clung to a few unpicked, green tangerines.

"This place is great, down-to-earth." Grandma walked around the yard with her cane, her wrinkles gleaming with a smile. "It's much brighter and more spacious than the hospital."

Yunheng hummed a sigh of relief and lowered his head to erect a bamboo trellis in the open space in the yard. He planned to plant some loofahs and lentils, just like his grandmother did back home, letting the vines climb along the trellis and all over the courtyard wall, so that they could enjoy the coolness underneath in the summer.

While packing up the house, he pulled out a metal box from the bottom of his suitcase. Inside was a collection of odds and ends: instructions for his grandmother's blood pressure medication, a few photos of the wheat fields in his hometown, and a polished pen. There was no trace of the entertainment industry; even his phone number had been changed, with only the numbers of his community doctor and landlord saved.

Yunheng suffered from insomnia on the first night she moved in.

Outside the window, the river lapped against the embankment, making a rhythmic sound. It wasn't as rough as the ocean, but more like a lullaby sung by his grandmother. He walked into the yard in the dark, sat on a stone bench under the orange tree, and looked up at the moon—it was lower here than in the city, but also brighter. Its clear light cast on the ground, allowing him to clearly see the veins on the orange tree leaves.

He thought of Yu Xiao.

It wasn't the look of him screaming at the beach, nor the red eyes outside the ICU, but the first time he came to see him in the practice room a long, long time ago. At that time, Yu Xiao was wearing a black windbreaker, standing in the backlight at the door, asking him "Do you want to be famous?", with the usual confidence in his eyes that only capital can bring.

How did I answer at that time?

It was as if he was clutching his guitar strap and whispering, "I want more people to hear the songs I wrote."

How ridiculous.

Yun Heng smiled, his head lowered, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the stone table, drawing a small wheat field. He'd never dreamed of fame; he simply wanted to earn enough money through singing to take his grandmother out of the small hospital in his hometown and find a better climate for her retirement. But as he walked, he was swept off course by the tide of capital, nearly losing himself.

"Aheng? Why aren't you sleeping?" Grandma's voice came from the house, hoarse from just waking up.

"I'm coming." Yun Heng responded, stood up and patted the dust off his pants.

Some things need to be moved on.

The days pass by like the orange tree in the corner of the yard, quiet but growing quietly.

Yunheng found a job at a nearby market, helping a stall owner sort vegetables. She'd go in at four in the morning and return at noon. The work wasn't strenuous, allowing her to focus on the family. Every day, her grandmother would sit in the yard, picking vegetables, or she'd take a small stool to the alley entrance and chat with the elderly neighbors. Within a few days, she'd figured out which grandson had married and which had the sweetest oranges.

One day, Yunheng returned from work and saw her grandmother learning how to sew shoe soles from Aunt Zhang next door. She wore a silver hairpin pinned to her blue cotton shirt—a gift from Aunt Zhang, who said, "It looks so pretty on your old lady." Sunlight fell on the two elderly women's white hair, casting a soft silver glow. Cicadas chirped outside the courtyard wall, echoing like a lively song.

"You're back?" Grandma looked up and smiled at him. "Aunt Zhang said you're a sincere child. You helped her move rice twice, so she insisted on making you a pair of cloth shoes."

Yunheng scratched his head, took the herbal tea handed to him by Aunt Zhang, took a sip, and the sweetness slid down his throat with a hint of herbal fragrance.

"Xiao Heng looks steady," Aunt Zhang said, sizing him up with a smile. "Your grandmother said you were a singer in the past?"

Yunheng paused for a moment, and before she could reply, her grandmother took over the conversation: "Singing for fun is not a way to make a living. It's better now to live a down-to-earth life. It's better than anything else."

Aunt Zhang nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

Yunheng watched his grandmother, her head bent over as she sewed shoe soles. Her stitches were crooked, yet she worked with such care. He suddenly realized that his grandmother had long known what he had been through, but had never spoken. The wisdom of the elderly was always simple: what was past was past, and living well was more important than anything else.

In autumn, the loofah vine on the courtyard wall produced its first melon.

They picked and fried the tangerines, and Grandma beamed with joy as she ate them, saying, "They're better than the ones you buy in the city." After dinner, he sat under the orange tree and played his unplugged guitar, gently plucking the strings and singing the nursery rhymes Grandma had taught him, about the wind in the wheat fields and the sound of the river flowing by.

The guitar was the one that Yu Xiao had dropped, and there was a crack on the body. He asked a guitar repairman to glue it back together, but the tone was darker than before, as if it was hiding a story.

One day, midway through the song, children from the alleyway were drawn in and peeked in through the courtyard gate, their eyes sparkling. Yunheng smiled at them, beckoned them in, and taught them to sing "The Oranges Are Red." The chirping of the children, like sparrows perched on a branch, shattered the stillness of the courtyard.

"Xiao Heng has such a great voice, it's a shame if she doesn't sing." The landlord passed by, stood at the door and listened for a while, smacking his lips and said, "There's a small teahouse by the river, and the owner said he wants to find a pianist. Do you want to give it a try?"

Yunheng hesitated for a moment.

Grandma pushed his arm and said, "Go ahead, sing your own song. What are you afraid of?"

The teahouse was small, facing the river, its wooden tables polished to a shine. Yunheng sat on a small stand in the corner, guitar in hand. No spotlight, no announcements, just quiet singing. She sang her own song, "Under the Orange Tree," her adaptation of "Riverside Ballad," and other songs untouched by capitalism, songs that carried the flavor of earth and river water.

There weren't many listeners, mostly elderly people enjoying tea. Occasionally, a few young people would raise their phones, and Yunheng didn't stop them. He was no longer the "Yunheng" who lived in the spotlight and trending on social media, but just an ordinary person singing by the river, his voice reflecting his new life.

When the first snow of winter fell, Yunheng received an anonymous package.

Inside was a bag of freshly ground wheat seeds and a note with unfamiliar handwriting that simply said, "Wheat from my hometown, can be planted." He held the bag of wheat seeds and suddenly remembered what the nurse had said: Yu Xiao had the wheat fields transferred to farmers in the neighboring village.

It turned out that he came after all.

Yunheng poured the wheat seeds into the vegetable patch in the yard and buried them with the freshly turned soil. Grandma squatted nearby, watching, and suddenly said, "Heng, life is like planting wheat. It has to weather the storms before it takes root. Don't dwell on the past."

Yunheng hummed, his throat a little tight.

He knew Yu Xiao was looking for him.

Occasionally, he would see a familiar figure in the corner of the teahouse, but he would just stand far away, not approaching or talking. Once, it was raining heavily and he was late finishing work. He found an umbrella at the door. It was not his, and there was a small "Y" engraved on the handle of the umbrella.

He didn't return it, nor did he use it again. It just leaned against the door like a forgotten symbol.

In spring, green sprouts emerged from the wheat in the vegetable fields.

Yunheng squatted on the edge of the field, watching the tender sprouts swaying in the wind, and suddenly remembered what her grandmother said a long time ago: "Wheat is the most solid. If you sow the seeds and water it enough, you will definitely have a harvest."

He didn't understand then, but he does now.

The so-called rebirth does not mean forgetting the past, but being able to take root and grow towards the sun even with scars.

He got up and went back to the house, picked up his guitar, sat under the orange tree, and softly sang a new song. The song drifted away on the river breeze, through the alleys with white walls and black tiles, through the green wheat fields, and through the wrinkles that time had slowly smoothed out.

On the river in the distance, a fishing boat was slowly passing by, and the red flag on the bow fluttered in the wind, as if raising a new sail for the young man who finally found himself.

The umbrella at the entrance of the alley had disappeared at some point.