Chapter 81
The old-fashioned living room clock chimed three times, its brass pendulum swirling dizzily. Wang Xuemei pressed a roasted sweet potato into Huang Cancan's hand, the heat seeping through her coarse gloves and warming their fingertips. Frost flakes formed on the windowpane, but they couldn't block out the laughter and chatter of three young people in the courtyard—Xiao Nuo was tiptoeing to grab the military badge from Dong Wenbo's hand, while Xiao Yuji leaned against the pomegranate tree, spinning a frozen hawthorn in her hand, her eyes darting to Xiao Nuo's red hairband.
"Time flies so fast. They have grown up in the blink of an eye." Wang Xuemei stared out the window in a daze. The sweet fragrance of sweet potatoes filled her nose. She seemed to see three little kids surrounding Dong Shiyi's military boots more than ten years ago, trying to grab the red star embedded on the cap badge.
Huang Cancan wiped the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, a few water stains on her new Dacron overalls. "Yeah, we're getting old too." She nodded towards the courtyard. Dong Wenbo was carrying Xiaonuo on his shoulders, his army green cotton jacket rubbing against Xiaonuo's blue cotton pants, just like Dong Shiyi used to carry her around the compound. "Look at how silly Wenbo is, he looks just like his dad." It's a shame he doesn't look like he's coming to his senses.
Three young people huddled under a pomegranate tree, whispering to each other, occasionally bursting into laughter. Xiaonuo waved his acceptance letter from the Foreign Languages University, its red background and gold lettering gleaming brightly in the snow. Dong Wenbo's military academy letter was folded into a small square and pinned to his overcoat pocket, revealing the words "Chinese People's Liberation Army." Xiao Yuji's Capital University letter was carefully tucked inside his copy of Capital, only occasionally catching a glimpse of the words "Economics Department" when he turned the page. Wang Xuemei struggled to understand the new terms they were using—"market economy," "diplomatic etiquette," "strategic deployment"—but seeing the light in the children's eyes, she suddenly remembered how she'd jumped three times in the snow, clutching her letter on the day she was admitted.
Over there, Xiao Li was pouring tea for Dong Shiyi. The jasmine tea simmered in the enamel pot, its fragrance mingling with the scent of tobacco. "It's wonderful! Back then, we were just like them, full of life. Now we're old."
Dong Shiyi added a lump of coal to the stove, and the flames leaped up, highlighting the white frost on his temples. "From now on, it will be the stage for the young people," he flicked the ash from his cigarette, which landed on his shiny military pants. "When they grow up, it's time for us old comrades to step down and let them take over."
"Hahaha, you sure have a successor," Xiao Li patted his shoulder and laughed, the army green fabric rustling. "Wenbo got accepted into the military academy this time. You must be so happy your lips are about to burst. I saw you in the political department yesterday and gave everyone cigarettes."
Dong Shiyi laughed so hard that he kept coughing. He fished out a tin cigarette box from his arms, which contained fruit candies prepared for the children. "That's it! Three generations of my Dong family have been in the military, and this brat finally kept up the good work!"
As they were talking, the laughter in the courtyard suddenly stopped. Dong Wenbo said something, and Xiaonuo's face flushed red, and he almost dropped the notice in his hand into the snow. Wang Xuemei leaned close to the window and saw Dong Wenbo scratching the back of his head, the collar of his military coat standing up high. "You're turning 22 this year, so what do you think? Do you want to marry into our Dong family?"
"Ah?" Xiaonuo's voice was as crisp as frozen glass. She stole a glance at Qin Yuji, only to see the hawthorn berries in his hand drop to the ground with a thud. His face was paler than the snow in the yard. Xiaonuo laughed dryly and waved his hands, the lint on his cotton gloves scratching his cheeks. "Brother, are you kidding me? I'm..."
"I'm her adopted husband." Xiao Yuji suddenly spoke, his voice low but like a stone hitting ice. He bent down to pick up the hawthorn, rubbing it against his army-green pants. He turned to Dong Shiyi, who was standing at the door with a ceramic jar, watching the fun. "Uncle Dong, you might have forgotten, I'm from the Qin family. My last name is Qin, and my name is Qin Yuji."
Dong Shiyi shook the teacup in his hand, and the tea splashed on his army green trouser legs. What did this have to do with him? "But... but aren't you brother and sister?"
"I'm the son of my father's friend," Qin Yuji pinched his red, frozen earlobe with his fingertips, his eyes falling on Xiaonuo's trembling eyelashes. "After the Qin family's misfortune, it was my father who adopted me. But when I turned 16, I moved my household registration out and officially changed my surname back to Qin." He fished out a folded household registration certificate from his pocket, the corners of the paper rounded. "Xiaonuo, didn't you ask me why my name on the admission notice was Qin Yuji? Now you understand, don't you?"
Xiaonuo's mouth hung open, like a frozen sparrow. She suddenly remembered last winter, when Qin Yuji burned old homework books in his study, the fragments of a half-page household registration transfer certificate floating in the flames. She remembered how he always told her stories about the Qin family before bed, about his great-grandfather's silk shop in Shanghai, with the golden plaque with the words "Qin Ji" hanging above the door lintel. She remembered the jade pendant he had hidden at the bottom of the camphorwood box, engraved with two intertwined characters for "Qin."
Two buttons on Dong Wenbo's military coat popped. He opened his mouth, then suddenly laughed while scratching his head. "So... so I've never snatched you from you since you were little? But will Uncle Xiao and Aunt Wang agree? After all, you... and Xiao Nuo may not like you either."
Qin Yuji didn't say anything, but just moved closer to Xiaonuo and gently bumped her arm with his shoulder. Just like when they were little in the air-raid shelter, he did the same thing, nudging her trembling with fear with his elbow and saying, "If you don't want to, I won't force you."
His gaze first flicked to Xiao Li in the living room, then to Wang Xuemei, his pupils filled with cautious pleading. Ever since he was adopted by the Xiao family at the age of eight, he had cherished Xiao Nuo's pigtails like a cinnabar mole. When she'd said, "We're relatives as recorded in our household registration," at eight, he'd cried into his pillow for half the night. On the day he received his household transfer certificate at sixteen, he'd gone to a photo studio to take a solo photo. On the back of the photo, the words "Qin Yuji" were written, the tip of the pen piercing the paper.
"Don't look at me. I don't care. Ask your mother." Xiao Li waved his hand quickly, picking up the enamel pot and taking a swig of tea. This kid has been a shrewd child since he was a child. His thoughts are deeper than the underground fortifications of the military zone. He is very much like his late father. Xiao Li glanced at his daughter clutching the corner of her clothes in the yard, and the corner of his mouth curled up secretly. When he and Lao Qin met, they had said that if they had a daughter, they would become in-laws. This promise couldn't be broken.
The roasted sweet potato between Wang Xuemei's fingers had grown cold. She looked at her daughter's red ears in the yard, hesitated for a few seconds, nodded gently, and turned to Huang Cancan with a smile: "Let the children deal with their own affairs."
Huang Cancan dropped the sweet potato peels in her hand. She tugged at Wang Xuemei's sleeve and lowered her voice, "This... This is against the rules, right? After all, we grew up in the same courtyard. Outsiders will gossip."
"They're not really siblings," Wang Xuemei added a piece of coal to the stove, the flames licking the walls, making a crackling sound. "Besides, raising a child yourself is better than finding someone from outside. Look at Yu Ji's love for Nuonuo; it's warmer than a roasted sweet potato."
Huang Cancan glanced at Qin Yuji's face in the yard, which was red from the cold but still staring at Xiaonuo, and suddenly smiled: "Yes, it's better than getting married and being bullied by others."
Icicles from the eaves clattered onto the snow, sending up tiny foamy drops. Inside, Wang Xuemei and Huang Cancan smiled at each other, their wrinkles brimming with warmth. Xiao Li called Dong Shiyi back and refilled his tea. The two veterans, looking at the young men in the courtyard, suddenly remembered how, many years ago, they had done the same thing, standing in the snow for ages, their cotton-padded shoes frozen to ice, for their loved ones.
At that moment, the three young men's laughter rang out again, even louder than the flames in the stove, as if it could keep the entire winter ablaze. Xiaonuo suddenly snatched the hawthorn from Qin Yuji's hand, stuffed it into his mouth, turned and ran, her red hairband scratching a red mark in the snow. Qin Yuji, holding the sour and sweet taste of the ice, smiled at her back, the tips of her ears brighter than the hawthorn.
.......
Xiao Li's eyelids felt like they were glued shut. When he flung them open, the light from the desk lamp blinded him, making him see stars. The wrinkles at the back of his neck were still damp from the pillowcase. He reached for his phone on the bedside table. The moment he unlocked it with his fingerprint, the time ticking on the screen made him lose his composure—5 p.m., City B time. Fourteen hours had passed since he'd curled up in bed.
Outside the window, locust leaves swirled in the wind. He stared at the mold stains on the ceiling, and those mottled lines suddenly transformed into the military green tent roof. The snow in his dream was so heavy. The roasted sweet potato Wang Xuemei handed him burned his palms red. Xiaonuo's red hairband was wrapped around Qin Yuji's wrist like an unresolvable red knot. He could even smell the tobacco from Dong Shiyi's pipe, mixed with the unique scent of ink from the political department office.
"Fuck." Xiao Li picked up his fallen sweatshirt. The grease stain on the collar was as hard as a shell. He shuffled to his computer in slippers. The hum of the mainframe starting up lingered on his fingertips, the coolness of the enamelware pot from his dream still lingering on his fingers. He clicked on the pink icon in his favorites, and when the page for the women's novel website popped up, his eyes were fixed on the serialized title, "Reborn in the 1960s: A Military Wife Has Space."
The latest chapter stops at "Chapter 33: The Secret of the Military Compound", and below it are comments from readers urging for more updates: "Master, please write about the Shura field between the heroine and the three heroes!" "Are there enough gold bars in the space?" Xiao Li's stomach churned. In his dream, Qian Fangyan finally married Xiao Ming and had two children. The couple settled in Guangdong Province. After the country opened up, they started a small business. I heard that they opened several clothing stalls and became small bosses.
The male protagonist in the dream, Xiao Ming, also gradually rose from a young reporter to the top, and finally went to the News Department and became the Minister of the Propaganda Department of XXX. Just like in his previous life in the book, his wife was still Qi Xiaoxue, and they were very loving.
The mouse arrow hovered over the "Modify Chapter" button, and he suddenly remembered the voice message his online girlfriend sent last week. She said in a sweet voice: "Ali, write some more scenes of the heroine and the third male lead in the cornfield. Readers love to read that." He agreed while biting instant noodles at the time. Thinking about it now, those greasy words were like candy wrappers covered with flies.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, the crackling clacking startling the sparrows on the windowsill. He changed the text of every chapter into gibberish, transforming those "domineering military young master" and "running away with the ball" plots into a series of meaningless symbols, like a grand literary funeral. As a final step, he clicked "Lock Work." When the confirmation box popped up, he saw his own face reflected on the screen, his eye sockets sunken, his chin stubble like a patch of weeds.
An hour later, my phone vibrated on my desk. The caller ID read "Sweetheart." I clicked on the voice bar, and a shrill female voice nearly pierced my eardrums: "Are you sick? Why did you lock my novel? I'm telling you, Xiao Li, get well soon, or we'll break up!"
"Let's split it up. It's just right." His voice was hoarse as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper. The calmness of General Xiaoli in his dreams had somehow seeped into his bones. All those "multi-male lead" plots she'd forced him to write, all the tips earned using his account, all the hypocrisy of those who claimed to "love literature" but were only interested in traffic, suddenly became dull.
"Break up! Don't regret it!" The other party hung up in frustration. Xiao Li looked at the explicit photos she had sent him in the chat box and, with a flick of his finger, blacklisted the contact whose note had been changed to "scammer." The sunlight outside the window was just right, casting a soft glow on his dusty fitness tracker.
On the day his new article was published on the men's war channel, he used the pen name "Under the Sophora Tree." The first chapter depicts a 1948 field hospital. A young military doctor named Xiao Li picks up a red star cap badge near an operating table. The character "王" (King) is engraved on the back. While there haven't been many comments, one person commented, "The details are so realistic, it feels like I've experienced it myself."
Three months later, the contract signed by the film and television company arrived at his rental apartment. When his editor called to congratulate him, Xiao Li was jogging in the park, sweat dripping down his jawline. The pattern on the back of his T-shirt had changed from "Fat House Happy Water" to "Serve the People." He remembered General Xiao in his dream, running around the playground at five in the morning, and his pace quickened.
The idea of going to Tiananmen Square to watch the flag-raising ceremony came suddenly. At three in the morning, wrapped in a military green coat, he stood in line, surrounded by strangers speaking various dialects. As the sky began to turn pale, the crowd began to surge forward, jostling him and causing his back to bump against something soft.
"I'm sorry." The girl's voice was as clear as mountain spring water.
Xiao Li turned and saw a girl with neat short hair. A silver brooch depicting a blooming plum blossom was pinned to the collar of her camel-colored trench coat. When she looked up, the morning light fell on the small mole at the corner of her eye—the same exact mole as Wang Xuemei's in his dream, in the exact same position.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he suddenly remembered the female doctor in his dream, bandaging the wounded in the field hospital. She was just like that, her eyes shining brightly even with blood stains. Xiao Li held out his hand, the calluses on his palm a testament to months of practice. He flashed the perfect smile he'd practiced countless times in the mirror. "It's okay. Nice to meet you. My name is Xiao Li."
The girl was a little surprised, but she politely returned the handshake. Her fingertips were slightly cool, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from hand cream. "Hello," she said, her lips curling slightly. "My name is Wang Xuemei."
As the national anthem sounded, the rising sun leaped out from behind the Tiananmen Gate. Xiao Li gazed at the fluttering red flag, feeling as if something had emerged from a dream into reality—perhaps not rebirth, not time travel, but simply a forgotten obsession finally finding its proper place. He tilted his head slightly and saw Wang Xuemei brushing away fallen leaves from her shoulders, her movements as gentle as if she were nurturing a newly opened flower.
He thought, it’s great to meet you again!
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