Courtyard House: Home Alone

He gazed at his son, whom he hadn't seen for months, and suddenly noticed something in those eyes—not the fervor or confusion a young person should have, but a deep, almost weary calm.

"You've changed," he said, not as a question, but as a confirmation, like the certainty a doctor has when writing a diagnosis in a medical record.

Lin Yifan did not deny it. He looked down at his hands—hands that, just a few months ago, could only hold a pen to write and turn pages, but now could turn a living person into a corpse in an instant.

"Beijing taught me many things."

He said his voice was so soft it was almost like he was talking to himself, "like how to cross the alley after curfew without alerting the patrol, how to tell if someone is really asleep or pretending."

He looked up, a smile inappropriate for his age tugging at the corners of his mouth: "And how do you fit a sufficiently old soul into a seven-year-old's body?"

Lin Qiqing's glasses reflected the light of the setting sun, making it impossible to see his eyes. He walked back to the wicker chair, but did not sit down. Instead, he gently placed the copy of the Ta Kung Pao newspaper on the coffee table, just enough to cover the bowl of cooled jujube tea.

"You just said 'The Ghost' put you in charge of communications." His tone was flat, as if discussing the weather. "What makes a seven-year-old child think he was chosen?"

"Because I'm small."

Lin Yifan answered quickly, clearly having considered this question countless times: "Small means inconspicuous. I can squeeze into gaps adults can't, I can cry for my mother in front of the military police station without being suspected, I can..."

He paused for a moment, then added, "They can be sacrificed if necessary."

The last few words made the air in the living room freeze. Lin Qiqing's fingers unconsciously tapped the edge of the newspaper, making a dull sound.

"What do they think of you...?"

"No," Lin Yifan shook his head. "They didn't force me. I could choose not to go on any mission."

"But you went anyway."

"I went to all of them."

The father and son stared at each other for a moment. Lin Qiqing suddenly took off his glasses and pressed his brow with his thumb and forefinger, a gesture that made him look much older.

"Do you know why I studied medicine?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Lin Yifan was taken aback. In his memory, his father rarely talked about his past.

"Because the human body is the most honest thing in the world," Lin Qiqing continued, putting his glasses back on. "Wounds don't lie, lesions don't fake anything. A patient may say they're fine, but their pulse, temperature, and pupils will tell me the truth."

He leaned forward, his gaze as precise as a scalpel landing on his son's face: "Tell me now, you came to Chongqing really just to see your mother give birth?"

Lin Yifan's breathing paused almost imperceptibly for a moment. It was this fleeting change that Lin Qiqing noticed.

"There's something else." This is not a question.

"Yes," Lin Yifan finally admitted, "but I can only tell my mother about this."

"What must you be hiding from your father?"

"It's not about hiding it," Lin Yifan corrected, a hint of softness in his voice, "It's... protection. Some truths are better left unknown to most. You're already in danger; you don't need to bear any more burdens."

For the first time, a crack appeared in Lin Qiqing's expression. He opened his mouth, as if to refute, but in the end, it turned into a sigh.

"You're only seven years old."

"Eight years old (by the traditional Chinese age reckoning)."

"Eight years old (by Chinese reckoning)." Lin Qiqing repeated, his lips twitching slightly, as if he were smiling, yet also as if he were suppressing something else. "Good, eight years old (by Chinese reckoning). You know the weight of the word 'protection,' you know the price of 'truth,' you know how to hide another purpose from your father—who taught you all this?"

Lin Yifan did not answer. The sound of a ship's horn drifted in from outside the window, long and desolate, from the river all the way into the old house built against the mountain.

"Nobody taught us," he said. "It's just... as more people died, the living learned."

These words completely shattered Lin Qiqing's defenses. He slumped back into the rattan chair, the rattan groaning under its strain.

He recalled that when he left Beiping last year, his son was still lying in bed, his face flushed, saying, "Mom and Dad, come back soon."

And now, this child sits in front of him, talking about death as if it were the weather.

"Yifan," his voice was hoarse, "If... if we had taken you with us back then..."

"You will die."

Lin Yifan said calmly, "Either my mother will die. Or we will all die. The Japanese devils want to capture you, not me."

If I cry in the yard, Mrs. Long, or Han Fengzhi, or Aunt Han, can take me back. But if you take me with you, any checkpoint or any unexpected situation on the road will wipe us all out.

He stood up, walked to his father's side, and placed his small hand on his father's large, cold hand. This gesture made it seem as if their roles had been reversed—the child comforting the father, not the other way around.

"You made the right choice," he said. "Me too."

Lin Qiqing gripped his son's hand tightly, almost painfully so. He wanted to say something, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

Light footsteps echoed down the stairs. Meng Zhuolin, holding onto the railing, stood at the boundary between shadow and light, and had clearly heard most of them.

Her eyes were red and swollen, but she didn't shed any more tears. She just looked at the father and son below with a complicated gaze.

"Yifan," her voice was soft, yet it clearly pierced the silence of the living room, "come upstairs. I have something to ask you."

Lin Yifan looked at his father. Lin Qiqing slowly released his hand and nodded.

"Go," he said. "Your mother...she needs this."

Lin Yifan turned and headed towards the stairs. As he passed his father, he suddenly stopped.

"Dad," he said softly, "believe it or not, I came here specifically to see her give birth safely. Everything else... was just incidental."

Lin Qiqing did not respond. He picked up the Ta Kung Pao newspaper again, the paper trembling slightly in his hand.

Lin Yifan stepped onto the stairs, each step feeling like he was treading on some invisible boundary—past and present, child and adult, lie and truth. Meng Zhuolin reached out and pulled her son into a tight embrace as he reached the last step.

Her abdomen pressed against his back, and the unborn life was gently wriggling, as if it too were participating in this belated embrace.

"You've lost weight," Meng Zhuolin's voice muffled in his hair. "In Beiping, did they feed you enough?"

"Yes." Lin Yifan closed his eyes, letting his mother's scent surround him. It was the familiarity of blood ties, the echo of memories, and a sense of security he had almost forgotten.

"You lied to me," Meng Zhuolin said softly, without any hint of blame. "Half of what you told your father was a lie."

Lin Yifan's body stiffened for a moment.