Courtyard House: Home Alone

Lin Yifan felt the bulge in her abdomen pressing against his chest, the unborn life gently wriggling inside her womb.

"You've grown taller," Meng Zhuolin's voice muffled on his shoulder, "and lost weight too. You must have suffered so much on the road..."

"I didn't suffer." Lin Yifan let his mother stroke his hair, his gaze passing over her shoulder to meet his father standing at the top of the stairs. Lin Qiqing was wearing a worn silk shirt, holding a newspaper in his hand, his eyes behind his glasses slightly narrowed, with a scrutinizing look.

"Come in," Lin Qiqing said. "It's not convenient to talk outside."

The interior of the small building was much simpler than its exterior. The leather sofa in the living room was worn, and there were a few rough porcelain teacups on the coffee table, but a painting of shrimp by Qi Baishi hung on the wall, still lively in the dim light.

"Sit." Lin Qiqing gestured to the sofa, then sat down in a wicker chair opposite him. "You said you came from Beiping? How did you know we were in Chongqing?"

"I..." Lin Yifan was about to speak when Meng Zhuolin came over with a cup of hot tea, in which a few red dates and goji berries were floating.

"Have something hot first," she said, placing the teacup in her son's hands. Her fingertips touched his icy knuckles, and her brow furrowed immediately. "Your hands are so cold. How long have you been standing in the wind on the river?"

Lin Yifan held the teacup, the steam blurring his vision. He sipped slowly, using the opportunity to gather his thoughts. The sweetness of the red dates melted on his tongue, a habit of his mother's—she always believed that brown sugar and red dates could cure all ailments of deficiency and cold.

"After you left, someone came to see me and said you were all doing well." He put down his teacup, choosing the safest version of events. "Later, that person came a few more times, saying that you had asked him to take care of me. But he never said where you were."

Lin Qiqing tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest of the rattan chair, the rhythm slow and regular.

"Who is it?" Lin Qiqing asked, his gaze behind his glasses never leaving his son's face.

"A man surnamed Yang, who later became Manager Zhou of the Xilai Teahouse." Lin Yifan lowered his eyes. "He said he had a past connection with my father and was acting on someone's behalf."

This wasn't exactly a lie; it was half-truth, half-lies, making it the easiest way to gain trust. Lin Qiqing didn't press further, instead turning to his wife, "Zhuo Lin, go and rest. Your legs must be swollen from standing for so long."

Meng Zhuolin stubbornly shook her head, sat down next to her son, and placed one hand on his wrist as if to confirm that he was real flesh and blood and not an illusion.

"I'm not tired. Yifan, you still haven't told me why you ran so far alone? Back in Beiping..."

"I haven't gone back to school since you left. Besides, I already know everything they teach there."

Lin Yifan said, "Not long after you left, a guy called 'Ghost' appeared in Beiping. He was always fighting against the Japanese. Now you can't see any Japanese soldiers in Beiping anymore. I was thinking that Mom's baby was about to be born, so... so I... so I took the money you left behind and came to find... find you."

I just wanted to ask you, do you really not want me anymore? Or... or... are you just forced to leave me there alone?

His voice trembled slightly at the last few words, like a truly abandoned child finally asking a question that had lingered for years. This wasn't a pretense—or rather, not entirely.

The loneliness and confusion of those moments, such as waking up alone in a cave dwelling in the Taihang Mountains and listening to the footsteps of the Japanese patrol on the second floor of the Xilai Teahouse, now surged into my heart.

Meng Zhuolin's eyes instantly reddened. She gripped her son's hand tightly, her knuckles turning white: "Silly child, how could I... how could I not want you..."

"Yifan," Lin Qiqing suddenly spoke, his voice much more composed than his wife's, yet tinged with a barely perceptible hint of sadness, "How old are you this year?"

"Eight years old," Lin Yifan replied, then realized that in his parents' eyes, he should only be seven years old. "Eight years old in the traditional Chinese way, seven years old in the Western way."

"A seven-year-old child," Lin Qiqing said slowly, "traversing the occupied territory alone, from Beiping to Chongqing. Do you know how many checkpoints there were along the way? How many refugees? How many…" He paused, "How many children your age died along the way?"

Lin Yifan did not answer. He looked down at the red dates floating in the teacup, the steam had dissipated, and his blurry face was reflected on the water.

"You've changed," Lin Qiqing said. This wasn't a question. "After we left, what exactly happened in Beiping?"

A brief silence fell over the living room. The shouts of a porter carrying loads drifted in from outside the window, growing louder as they approached, then gradually fading away at the end of the winding stone steps. Lin Yifan felt his mother's gaze on his face, a complex mix of heartache and confusion.

"I..." He chose his words carefully, "After you left, I searched everywhere for you. I went to the hospital, the medical school, and asked all your colleagues, but none of them knew where you were."

"I have to find a way to survive. Only by surviving can I find you, and the younger brother or sister in Mom's belly." He raised his head and looked directly into his father's eyes: "To survive, I have to change."

Lin Qiqing's knuckles paused for a moment on the armrest of the rattan chair. The answer was too straightforward, too mature, not the kind of words a seven-year-old should use. But the gaze behind his glasses gradually softened, as if he were seeing something more distant through his son's face.

Meng Zhuolin's eyes reddened even more. She pulled her son closer to her, as if trying to use her body heat to dispel the chill in his words.

Lin Yifan felt the fetal movements in her abdomen becoming more and more obvious. The unborn life was responding to this reunion in a dazed way.

"You just said," Lin Qiqing suddenly changed the subject, "'Ghost'?"

Lin Yifan's heart skipped a beat. He had deliberately planted this hook in his previous narrative, and now the fish had indeed taken the bait.

"At that time, Beiping was in chaos, and the Japanese came to search almost every day. Because... because during that period, a new force emerged in Beiping, which specialized in killing Japanese soldiers and traitors."

Later, they recaptured the Japanese military police headquarters, the North China Expeditionary Army headquarters, Xiyuan Airport, Nanyuan Airport, and the Japanese garrisons outside the city, and all the Japanese soldiers were wiped out.

By chance, "Ghost" took a liking to me and put me in charge of some external communications because they wanted to give the spoils of war to the Red Party.

So I thought of Manager Zhou, and that's how I got to know him. I also sent quite a few things to the Red Party. After several meetings, they told me about your situation.

This explanation connected his motives for heading south; crude, yet effective. Meng Zhuolin was already sobbing uncontrollably, hugging her son even tighter. Lin Qiqing sighed, took off his glasses, and slowly wiped them with the hem of his silk shirt.