The Way Home in the Mist
Three months after my father's burial, I returned to my unit.
The day I returned to the team, the sky was overcast, as if it might rain at any moment. The captain called me in for a talk in the office. He looked at the dark circles under my eyes and handed me a cup of hot tea: "Lin Zhao, if you haven't recovered yet, take some more time off. There's no rush to return to the team." I held the warm cup, but I couldn't feel any warmth in my fingertips. I just shook my head: "It's okay, Captain, I can handle it."
I knew myself that I wasn't prepared at all. My father's smile, the cold white sheets in the hospital, the burnt tea eggs... these images played repeatedly in my mind like a revolving lantern. During training, I often drifted off. When shooting, I would suddenly remember the way my father took me to the training camp. When fighting, I would vaguely think that my opponents were those debt collectors, and I almost got injured several times.
My teammates looked at me with worry in their eyes. They often took me to the cafeteria after training to eat, and served me my favorite dishes, but they rarely said anything. He knew that any words of comfort would seem pale and powerless in the face of the pain in my heart.
My first mission was to track down a smuggling ring at a border dock. We lay in wait in the shadows of the containers, the salty sea breeze carrying the smell of diesel fuel filling our nostrils. The sound of the tide crashing against the dock mingled with the static from the smugglers' walkie-talkies. I huddled behind a rusty steel plate, wrapped in my seawater-soaked down jacket, and a wave of sadness washed over me as I thought of the ginger tea my father used to make for me in the winter.
On the sixth day at dusk, the salty sea breeze, carrying the sound of ship horns, swept across the pier. A dozen figures emerged from the shadows of the cargo ship, carrying waterproof boxes, their knives and guns gleaming coldly in the twilight. I lay in wait among the containers, the captain's suppressed breathing coming through my earpiece. The moment the smugglers tore open the camouflage tarpaulin, a signal flare ripped through the night sky, followed by deafening gunfire mingling with the roar of the waves. My finger tightened on the trigger; the recoil slammed into my shoulder, and a sudden surge of salty blood welled up in my throat—what were they protecting, this day-after-day manhunt, or just a repetition of meaningless killing?
Just as we were about to get the situation under control, an unexpected incident occurred. I didn't notice the enemy who suddenly appeared behind me; he slammed an iron bar into the back of my head. Before the intense pain could fully register, a rope was tightly strangled around my neck, the rough fibers instantly chafing my skin. In the struggle, cold handcuffs locked onto my wrists, the clanging of metal particularly jarring in the silence.
When I regained consciousness, a damp, musty smell mixed with the stench of rust assaulted my senses. A sharp, piercing pain shot through my wrists—I was chained to the wall, dark red scabs already congealed on the marks left by the ropes. The interrogation lights were blinding, and several masked figures loomed in and out of the halo. "Tell me, how did you know our location?" a voice boomed from a metallic megaphone, followed by a merciless whip lashing my back, the pain like countless steel needles piercing my flesh.
I gritted my teeth, the taste of blood spreading in my mouth. Belts, bamboo skewers, and stun guns were used in turn, my consciousness gradually fading. The last shock sent spasms through my body, and before I plunged into darkness, I vaguely heard Xiao Zhang's tearful scream pierce through the iron door of the interrogation room: "Lin Zhao!"
When I woke up again, I was lying in a hospital bed.
The white ceiling, the smell of disinfectant, the IV line in my wrist… these familiar scenes instantly reminded me of the hospital where my father was being treated. I struggled to sit up, but found my whole body ached, especially the back of my head, which felt like it was about to split open.
"You're awake?" A familiar voice came from the hospital bed. It was Xiao Zhang. He was sitting by the bedside, his eyes red, holding an apple in his hand and slowly peeling it. "The doctor said you have a mild concussion and some minor injuries. You need to rest well." I looked at the apple in his hand and remembered how my mother used to peel apples for me when I was little. My eyes suddenly welled up with tears.
Xiao Zhang handed me the peeled apple and said softly, "The captain has already spoken to the hospital and told you to rest here. Leave the rest of the mission to us. Oh, by the way, Grandma Xian and Aunt Zhang from the old alley asked someone to bring you some things; they're on your bedside table."
I looked in the direction he pointed and saw a cloth bag on the bedside table. I reached for it, opened it, and found a bag of osmanthus cakes and a new jade pendant—the pattern on the pendant was exactly the same as the one Grandma Xian had given me before. There was also a note in the bag, written in Grandma Xian's delicate handwriting: "Zhaozhao, I heard you were injured. Don't worry, take good care of yourself. Grandma made you some osmanthus cakes, the kind you used to love. Keep the jade pendant with you, it will keep you safe."
Tears fell like broken beads onto the cloth bag. I picked up a piece of osmanthus cake, put it in my mouth, and the familiar sweetness spread in my mouth, but with a hint of bitterness—no one would ever again ask me with a smile, "Is it delicious?" as I ate osmanthus cake, like my father did.
I stayed in the hospital for half a month before being discharged.
The team leader granted me a month's leave so I could go home and rest. I returned to that empty house—my father's things were still exactly as he left them; the newspaper he hadn't finished reading was still on the sofa; the pot he used to boil tea eggs for me was still in the kitchen; and a family photo was still hanging on the wall.
I sat on the sofa, looking at my father's photo, my heart filled with confusion. Before, I became a secret agent to protect my father, to make our family better. But now, my father is gone, my family is gone, so what's the point of me continuing as a secret agent?
In the days that followed, I stayed home every day and rarely went out. During the day, I would sort through my father's belongings, folding his clothes neatly and wiping his photos over and over again; at night, I would sit on the balcony, looking at the lights in the distance, and think of the days I spent in the old alleyway when I was a child, and of my mother and father's smiles.
One afternoon, I found my mother's old trunk, which contained things I had brought from the old alley—a purse embroidered by Rongrong, a straw rabbit woven by Yahuan, and a jade pendant given to me by Grandma Xian. Touching those familiar objects, I suddenly remembered what Yahuan had said before: "Zhaozhao, when we grow up, let's open a small shop together, selling the straw weaving I made and the embroidery Rongrong made, okay?"
Back then, I smiled and said "okay," but later, I chose to become a secret agent, embarking on this dangerous path. I suddenly wondered, if I hadn't chosen to become a secret agent, but instead opened a small shop like Ya Huan suggested, would my mother and father still have left me? Would my life have been less painful?
One evening, I received a call from Ya Huan. She excitedly told me that she had opened a small straw weaving shop, and business was pretty good. Rong Rong also kept some of her embroidery for consignment. "Zhao Zhao, come visit my shop when you have time. I've saved the prettiest straw rabbit for you." Ya Huan's voice was as sweet as ever, but it filled me with a pang of guilt—over the years, due to training and missions, I had rarely contacted her. She even learned of my father's death from Grandma Xian.
I held the phone, choking back tears, and said, "Ya Huan, I'm sorry, all these years..." Before I could finish, Ya Huan interrupted me, "Zhao Zhao, don't say sorry. I know you've had a tough time. If you're tired, come back. The old alley will always welcome you, and there will always be a place for you in my shop."
After hanging up the phone, I sat on the balcony, gazing at the distant lights, and a glimmer of light suddenly appeared in my heart. I remembered the jade pendant my grandmother had given me for good luck, my mother's dying words, "Live well," and the expectation in my father's eyes when he sent me to the training camp. I suddenly understood that I couldn't remain immersed in pain and confusion forever. I had to live well, not only for my mother and father, but also for the people of the old alley, and for all those who cared about me.
In the days that followed, I slowly began to adjust my state of mind. During the day, I would go to the market to buy groceries and try to cook my father's favorite dishes—although they often didn't taste very good, they made me feel as if my father was still by my side; in the evening, I would go for a walk in the park and watch those families together. Although I felt a little sad, I no longer felt as desperate as before.
One morning, I received a message from my captain asking if I wanted to return to the team after my vacation. I looked at the message and hesitated for a long time. I knew that the path of a special agent was full of dangers, and that I could lose my life at any time. But the training and missions over the years had also made me understand the meaning of protecting others—I didn't want to see any more kids like me lose their families and their homes.
I replied to the captain: "Captain, I will return to the team after the holiday, but I would like to apply for a transfer to the logistics department and no longer perform frontline missions." I know I don't yet have the courage to completely leave the profession of special agent, because it has become a part of my life, but I also don't want to push myself to the brink like before. I want to protect others while also taking good care of myself and living a good life, because I know that my mother and father, and the people in the old alley, all hope that I can be alright.
After sending the message, I went out onto the balcony and watched the sunlight slowly stream into the yard. Suddenly, I felt a surge of warmth. I know the road ahead is long, and there will be many difficulties and challenges, but I'm no longer as lost as before. I will carry the hopes of my mother and father, and the warmth of this old alley, to live well and strive to find my own way home.
That afternoon, I packed my bags and decided to visit Ya Huan's straw weaving shop—I wanted to tell her I would be alright, and I also wanted to see her shop, to see the life we had dreamed of when we were little. I stepped out of the house, and the sunlight shone on me, warm and bright, like my mother and father's hands gently stroking my head, telling me, "Zhao Zhao, don't be afraid, keep moving forward, we'll always be here for you."
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