An 80s female translator was spoiled rotten by a rough and jealous man.

Chapter 304 Personal Files (Part 1)

After staying in the sanatorium for nearly three months, Meng Youyou's days were filled with simple farm work such as planting vegetables and feeding pigs, leading a routine and almost rigid rural life.

In addition, she needs to have a conversation with psychologist Dr. Lü every day, whether it is long or short, and attend group counseling sessions without fail. She has also tried some post-traumatic stress disorder therapies that are still in the experimental stage.

However, mental reconstruction is not as controllable or predictable as physical recovery.

Most wounds on the body leave traces: stitches being removed, scabs forming, and tender new flesh growing. Each step is visible to the naked eye, and the healing progress can even be recorded with a ruler and medical records.

But the collapse of the spirit is often silent and invisible. You can't see how deep the wound is or how far the scar has grown. There is no data, it is difficult to measure, and people cannot make an accurate judgment about it.

It was like... being alone in an endless abyss, feeling her way across the river, not knowing how far the road ahead was, whether the long march she was on had already gone astray, and whether the tide would suddenly rise in the next second, and a wave would crash over and drown her in an instant.
The water was icy cold, and everything was pitch black, breeding boundless panic. She could only try her best to calm herself, sensing the rise and fall of the water level up to her chest, the direction and speed of the current, and then making vague judgments. Then, she cautiously and nervously stretched out one foot to test the water. Whether she would land firmly or slip into nothingness was unknown. However, the unknown is always the most terrifying!
Although the recovery process has been much more difficult than she had anticipated, it cannot be said that it has been entirely fruitless.

If I had to find a suitable description to describe her current state, it would be a state that is neither bad nor particularly good.

If I were to suddenly hear a gunshot, my limbs would still instinctively stiffen, but I wouldn't completely lose my ability to think. My self-awareness could slowly return to normal within a few seconds, and I could barely control myself. I still couldn't stand the smell of blood, and a faint gagging sensation would rise in my throat, but it wasn't like the worst period when, even the slightest whiff of raw pork wafting from the kitchen would send my stomach churning uncontrollably.

The most noticeable improvement is that she is now able to get most of her nights off, and the consistent sleep allows her to wake up feeling refreshed in the morning. This is very encouraging.

However... stuck in a rut for a long time, Meng Youyou was not satisfied with her unchanging life in the sanatorium—on the one hand, she felt guilty, and on the other hand, the current comfort was like a cup of lukewarm water, gradually eroding the sharpness and adaptability she had developed during her rehab training.

This is not a good sign.

"Dr. Lü, I can't stay here any longer." She finally expressed her intention to leave during a conversation.

Since her current condition does not meet the standards for returning to the front line, she will apply to take up a position she is capable of, and adjust and adapt to regain her condition.

After receiving her application, her superiors sent someone to the sanatorium to have an in-depth conversation with Dr. Lü, who was in charge of her psychology department, for an entire afternoon, and finally agreed to her request to return to work.

She was given two options: one was to be transferred back to her original unit in the capital and return to her original routine; the other was to be transferred to the rear of the war zone to temporarily take on some auxiliary work.

Meng Youyou resolutely chose the latter, because she always felt that there were still some things left undone.

...

In the blink of an eye, the depths of winter have quietly arrived, and the chill near the southwestern border is hardly formidable.

Outside the window, a thin layer of white frost clung to the tips of the withered grass. As the wind swept by, the frost particles fell in a flurry, and the air felt cool to the touch.

The archives were much warmer than outside. In the corner stood a charcoal brazier with only an iron cover. Because the room was filled with shelves of easily accessible paper documents, only smoldering charcoal pieces were allowed in the brazier, which emitted a dim red glow and a warm, fragrant aroma of charcoal mixed with the musty smell of piled-up paper.

Just a few days ago, Meng Youyou received a "Notice of Temporary Transfer," ordering her to immediately report to the Archives Center of the Operations Department of the Ximing Military Region Headquarters to participate in a classified "special project."

The core task of this work is to prepare a sufficiently solid chain of evidence for key accusations at a major international conference early next year. At that conference, our representatives will formally accuse Army Y of repeatedly using illegal weapons during the conflict, seriously violating the law and humanitarian principles.

The personnel who were urgently transferred to the archives center were tasked with sorting out a clear, rigorous, and legally valid logical chain from a vast amount of complex materials, including war reports, reconnaissance records, technical analyses, and physical evidence.

At that moment, the female colleague sitting opposite me stood up from her chair, stretched, and loosened her sore and stiff limbs. "My eyes are blurry, and this smell of charcoal is making me sleepy." Saying this, she picked up an enamel mug from the table. "I'm going out for some fresh air and to get a cup of hot water. Do you want me to bring it to you?"

Meng Youyou's gaze remained fixed on the documents in front of her. Without looking up, she quickly pushed the enamel mug on the corner of the table with one hand. "Thank you." Her female colleague took the two mugs and left, the sounds of the door opening and closing echoing in the distance.

Five minutes later, Meng Youyou organized the documents in her hand with a folder, marked the codes with a charcoal pen, and the next step was to register them in an orderly manner on the form and then put them into the corresponding green "to be verified" document box.

She repeats this process countless times a day, a tedious but unforgiving routine. However, this is merely the most mechanical and basic step within the massive workload. What truly demands mental effort is the brain's information processing from browsing through vast amounts of documents to making categorized judgments.

The female colleague returned and gently placed the enamel mug, which was mostly filled with hot water, on the corner of the table, softly reminding her, "I've put it here, be careful not to knock it over."

Meng Youyou had just finished processing the previous document when she immediately went to get another one, her hands never stopping. Hearing this, she glanced over quickly and simply replied, "Okay." Then she buried her head back down, looking like a document scanning, screening, and classification machine.

The female colleague held the cup with both hands, blowing on it and sipping it slowly, occasionally giving herself a couple of minutes to catch her breath. Her eyes were vacant as she stared at the girl who was just across the table from her.

Suddenly, the diligent and busy figure across from them stopped, and the female colleague's gaze involuntarily focused on him.

Meng Youyou skillfully unscrewed the pen in her hand, glanced at it, and then reached out to pick up the bottle of ink on the table. She held it up to her eyes and gently shook it—the bottom of the bottle was empty, with only a few traces of ink remaining on the wall.

"I have some, use mine," the female colleague said promptly upon seeing the situation. As she spoke, she bent down, opened a drawer, and took out a half-full ink bottle.

As soon as she finished speaking, Meng Youyou quietly walked to her desk, silently took the bottle, and whispered, "Thanks." She lowered her head slightly and focused intently on dipping the pen tip into the ink.

Seeing that she finally had a moment to spare, her female colleague couldn't help but tease her, "After working together for so many days, I've figured out a pattern: the fountain pen in your hand needs to be refilled every two hours, and it takes about three days to use up a whole bottle of ink."

My female colleague exclaimed in amazement, "She's a total workaholic!"

Upon hearing this, Meng Youyou, who had her head slightly lowered, smiled and added with an ambiguous tone, "This job is very important to me. I want to do my best to be able to face them with a clear conscience."

Some wars are fought in two stages: one with guns, the other with pens. The two are interwoven to form a complete relay race, with each link crucial to the next.

There are some people who bravely rush to the front lines, risking their lives and blood to obtain these fragments, and they should take up the baton with high morale and strive to maximize their value.

My female colleague is a university teacher in Ximing City. She has never been to the front lines and has never personally experienced those shocking sights.

For her, the blood and fire on that scorched earth 400 kilometers away were more like blurry printed words in a newspaper or fleeting black-and-white images in a documentary. This is the difference between her and Meng Youyou, and also an objective chasm between the Meng Youyou of the past and herself now—it's hard to blame "them": why do you still feel so relaxed for a moment?
Even though my eyes and heart ache constantly when I look at these pages, I can't utter a single pointless word.

It's just that those painful experiences, filtered through layers of space and time, are reduced to abstract and vague concepts by the time they reach "them," losing their authenticity and weight. After all, without firsthand experience, it's difficult to have a profound empathy.

Meng Youyou believes that when "she" sat in her office reading the military newspaper, her heart must have been heavy and sorrowful. She would fall silent and sigh with regret for the fate behind the numbers. But this sigh was ultimately separated by a layer of security, just like when she was young, sitting in a bright and spacious classroom, learning about the history of war. After a brief moment of grief, she would still be in the mood to joke and laugh with her classmates after class, discussing what to eat for lunch.

They watched the torrential rain from inside a glass enclosure. Raindrops, large as beans, pelted down in strings before their eyes, the thunderous crashing against their eardrums creating an immersive experience. Yet… they weren't actually wet, not a single drop. Therefore, they couldn't truly perceive the warm lives behind those cold numbers, and the world of the living torn apart by the loss of those lives.

It is understandable that people tend to lack a deep and sufficient sense of awe for things that are relatively distant from them. It's not that they don't have awe, but rather that they don't have enough awe.

But upon hearing Meng Youyou's words, the female colleague seemed to be touched by her extremely serious attitude. She immediately closed her eyes, shook her head vigorously, trying to shake off her fatigue, and finally took a big gulp of water, put the lid on the enamel mug, and placed it back on the corner of the table. Then she switched back to work mode.

Before her lay a young officer's wartime personal file. At first glance, the young man in the one-inch black-and-white photo was strikingly handsome.

The female colleague was about to call out to Meng Youyou, who was standing next to her, to come and moisten her eyes, but then she glanced at the vermilion seal on the name column—the word "sacrifice"—and couldn't help but sigh. She immediately abandoned her playful thoughts.