Return to Beijing
Almost at the same time when Lin Xueyin boarded the train home, Song Zhiyuan also boarded the train heading north.
Unlike the crowded and noisy carriages of the educated youth, the sleeper car he was in was relatively quiet and tidy. The scenery outside the window changed from vast, desolate fields to towns and finally to the familiar, majestic northern urban landscape.
The train pulled into the station, filling the air with steam. A young man in a military coat was already waiting on the platform. Seeing him, he quickly stepped forward, saluted neatly, and took the simple luggage from his hands. "Brother Song, the train is outside."
The jeep crossed the broad Chang'an Avenue, passing red walls and yellow tiles, and finally drove into a quiet and solemn courtyard with guards standing guard at the gate. The buildings in the courtyard were Soviet-style, heavy and majestic, with bare branches pointing towards the gray sky.
Pushing open a heavy wooden door, a warm atmosphere mixed with a faint smell of disinfectant hits you. The living room is spacious and simply furnished, yet it exudes a calm and profound atmosphere.
A middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue Chinese cotton-padded jacket and with her hair neatly combed stood up from the sofa with a restrained look of joy on her face: "Zhiyuan is back."
"Mom." Song Zhiyuan called out, his voice a little softer than when he was in Hongqi Commune, but still with his usual calmness.
"You've become thinner and stronger." Mother Song looked at her son carefully. There was heartache in her eyes, but more of a certain satisfaction under scrutiny. "Over there... is everything going well?"
"Yeah." Song Zhiyuan said briefly, taking off his cold coat. "Where's Grandpa?"
"In the study. I knew you were coming back today, so I've been waiting."
Song Zhiyuan nodded and walked straight to the study on the second floor. He knocked on the door, and after receiving an answer, he pushed it open and walked in.
The study was filled with the scent of old books and ink. Behind a mahogany desk, an old man, dressed in old-fashioned military uniform, his hair and beard white, yet his back erect, was reading documents through his reading glasses. Hearing the noise, he looked up, his sharp, hawk-like gaze fixed on Song Zhiyuan through his glasses, a commanding presence even without anger.
"Grandpa." Song Zhiyuan stood still with his posture straight.
The old man put down the documents, looked at him carefully for a moment, and slowly spoke in a loud, metallic voice: "Well, his spirit is still there, and he hasn't been softened by the dampness of the south. How are the old guys over there?"
"Everything has been settled and there is no danger for the time being. I will keep an eye on it secretly as you instructed." Song Zhiyuan reported in a calm tone, as if he was talking about an ordinary official business.
"Well, I trust you to do your job." The old man nodded, then changed the subject, his eyes becoming more serious. "Besides official business, have you gained anything else?"
Song Zhiyuan was silent for a moment. The only sound in the study was the ticking of the old-fashioned clock. He raised his eyes and met his grandfather's inquiring gaze. His tone was calm, but with a clear certainty:
"I met someone."
The old man's eyebrows twitched slightly, but he didn't interrupt and waited for him to continue.
"She's Lin Xueyin, an educated youth from North City." Song Zhiyuan's voice remained steady, as if stating an established fact. "She has a clean background, and her father is a postal official. She's... a little spoiled, but not a problem."
He did not describe her appearance, nor did he mention the entanglements and possessions. He only outlined an outline with the simplest language.
The old man pondered for a moment, then tapped his fingers on the mahogany tabletop. "What are your plans?"
"Wait until she returns to the city." Song Zhiyuan answered without hesitation, as if everything had been planned out long ago. "I might need to give a heads up to the formalities department."
He said this lightly, but the underlying meaning was unmistakable. He wasn't asking for consent, but rather informing his decision, and he needed the support of family resources.
The old man's deep gaze lingered on his grandson's face for a few seconds, as if assessing the weight behind his decision.
Finally, he nodded almost imperceptibly: "As long as the background is clean, it's good. Since you have chosen it, let your mother go out for a walk after the New Year. The eldest grandson's wife of the Song family can't stay in the countryside forever."
"Thank you, Grandpa." Song Zhiyuan nodded slightly. Having achieved his goal, he said no more.
He left the study and returned to his long-missed room. It was large, its furnishings simple and cold, much like him. He walked to the window, gazing out at the bleak winter scenery of the courtyard, his fingers unconsciously stroking the window frame.
What came to mind, however, was the scene of that impoverished mountain village in the south. It was the woman's frightened eyes, her trembling eyelashes as she forced herself to remain calm, her cautious attempts to please me later, and... by the mountain stream, her face, her defenses lowered for a moment as she gazed at the flowing water.
He took out his cigarette case and lit one. His stern features blurred for a moment in the haze of smoke.
He knew she was afraid of him, maybe even hated him, but that didn't matter.
Whatever he sets his sights on must be obtained. The process may be tough, the means may not be fair, but as long as the result meets his expectations, it is enough.
He had enough patience and means to completely bring her into his orbit, let her get used to it, let her adapt, and finally let her understand that staying within the scope he defined was her best destination.
As for the so-called "way" found by her father, a post office cadre... Song Zhiyuan's mouth curled up in a very faint, almost indifferent arc.
In the face of absolute power, those small-scale operations are nothing but a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
He exhaled a puff of smoke, and his eyes returned to their usual deep and cold expression.
Years later, she would know. There had never been only one way for her to return home. And the final direction had long been firmly controlled by him.
A brief separation is only for a better reunion - under his rules.
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