Courtyard House: Home Alone

"She looks like you," Meng Zhuolin said softly. "The shape of her ears is exactly the same as yours when you were little."

Lin Yifan looked down at his sister. Yu An suddenly opened her eyes; they were dark, unfocused eyes, yet they stared straight at him, as if she had already recognized something.

Outside the window, the fog in Chongqing was dissipating. In the distance came the hustle and bustle of the morning market, the shouts of vendors carrying loads, and the long, drawn-out whistles of ships. It was an ordinary morning, the morning of a newborn baby, the morning of a seven-year-old child temporarily relieved of his burdens.

But Lin Yifan knew that this peace wouldn't last. He thought of his father's scrutinizing gaze behind his glasses, and of the "one month" he had promised.

He lowered his head and planted a kiss on his sister's wrinkled forehead.

"Peace," he whispered, as if it were a spell, a covenant, "peace."

Looking at her son's profile, Meng Zhuolin suddenly remembered that seven years ago, when he was just born, she held him in the same way, on the same morning, in the east wing of a courtyard house in Beiping.

"Yifan," she called softly, "put her back with me."

Lin Yifan carefully moved his arm and placed his younger sister next to his mother's pillow. Yu'an seemed unhappy with this arrangement, pouting and letting out a few weak protests before falling into a deep sleep again.

"Your father went to prepare the medicine," Meng Zhuolin said, gently running her fingers through her son's sweaty bangs. "He insisted on coming himself, saying that Granny Wang doesn't understand the combination of traditional Chinese and Western medicine."

She smiled, which aggravated her abdominal wound, causing her brow to furrow slightly. Lin Yifan immediately noticed: "Are you in pain?"

"It's alright." Meng Zhuolin held his hand. "Giving birth is like this all the time. Your birth was even more arduous, it took a whole day and night."

I don't know why, but I felt especially strong giving birth to your sister this time. I only held my breath for a moment, and she came out.

Lin Yifan smiled knowingly, thinking that the spiritual spring was indeed very effective. According to the descriptions in the novels of his previous life, Aunt Han must have also had an accident caused by rainwater. He would have to give her more spiritual spring water when he got back this time.

Meng Zhuolin paused, her gaze falling on the banyan tree outside the window. Autumn was deepening, and the leaves were beginning to turn yellow, but there was no sign of them falling yet.

"Yifan," she said, "do you remember what you promised me?"

Lin Yifan's fingers stiffened for a moment. Of course he remembered—once his mother could get out of bed and walk, he wanted to tell her in person what she had experienced in Beiping.

"Remember."

"That month," Meng Zhuolin turned her head and looked him straight in the eye, "starting next month. You're not allowed to go anywhere. You stay in Chongqing with me and watch Yu'an grow up."

This wasn't a request, it was an order. Lin Yifan looked at his mother's pale face and suddenly realized that she was afraid—afraid that he would disappear again, afraid that those "incidental" things would take him away, afraid that this family, which had finally been reunited, would be torn apart again.

She has her own beliefs, but she cares more about her children and her family.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

Meng Zhuolin seemed to be trying to find a flaw in his expression, but exhaustion ultimately overcame her doubts. She closed her eyes, and her breathing gradually became steady.

Lin Yifan sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his mother and sister. Morning light streamed through the window, casting dappled shadows on the floor. In the distance, the sound of Lin Qiqing decocting medicine drifted up; the lid of the clay pot rattled softly from the steam, and the bitter aroma of angelica and astragalus wafted upstairs.

This ordinariness felt foreign to him. In the previous months, he had learned how to stay calm amidst explosions and how to discern someone's intentions from their gait. Here, however, he needed to learn how to wait and how to pretend he was just an ordinary seven-year-old child.

Granny Wang pushed open the door and came in, carrying a basin of hot water: "Young Master Lin, go and rest. I'll take care of things here."

Lin Yifan stood up, his legs feeling a little numb. He took one last look at his mother and sister, then tiptoed out of the room.

In the corridor, Lin Qiqing was carrying a bowl of medicine upstairs when he saw his son and stopped.

"Is she asleep?"

"Um."

The father and son stood side by side by the window, watching the boats slowly moving on the river. The fog had dissipated, and the sunlight was so dazzling it brought tears to their eyes.

"Xiao Fan, I received some messages from above, some of which are about you."

Although the text didn't specify what you did, I could sense from the words that the magistrate and the others greatly admired you.

Lin Yifan did not answer immediately. The boats on the river sounded their horns, the muffled sound echoing across the water, only to be fragmented by the buildings on both banks.

"Uncle Zhou, you flatter me." He finally spoke, his voice more hoarse than expected. "I just did what I was supposed to do."

Lin Qiqing turned his head, his gaze lingering on his son's face for a long time. This angle reminded Lin Yifan of his mother—the same scrutiny, the same hesitation. But in the end, the father only sighed and switched the medicine bowl to his other hand.

"Your mother asked me," he said, "whether you were also working for our party."

Lin Yifan's fingers unconsciously tightened around the window frame. A splinter pierced his palm, the slight pain keeping him awake.

"What did you say?"

Lin Qiqing remained silent for a long time. More boats passed by on the river, their horns sounding incessantly, as if urging something on, or perhaps trying to cover something up.

"I said," he finally spoke, his voice very soft, "I don't know."

Lin Yifan turned his head and looked his father in the eye for the first time. "I also acknowledge your beliefs, but wherever there are people, there will be conflict, and internal strife is more brutal than fighting an enemy."

My faith is very simple: I just hope my family can live a better life and that our people can suffer less. As for the power that those people pursue, it is within my grasp, but I don't care for it.

I feel that I should spend more time with you and my sister instead.

Therefore, I will not join you. I am helping you now not only to lessen the suffering of our country, but also for you and Mother…”

Lin Qiqing's hands trembled slightly, causing tiny ripples to spread across the brown liquid in the medicine bowl. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately simply handed the bowl to his son: "Help me take this inside; it won't get cold."

Lin Yifan took the bowl, the warmth spreading from his palm. He stood still, not moving. "Aren't you going to ask me anything else?"

"What do you want to ask?"

Lin Qiqing gave a wry smile, pushed up his glasses that had slipped down to the tip of his nose, and said, "How can a seven-year-old understand 'internal struggles'? Why do you describe power as 'easily attainable'?"

He shook his head. "Yifan, I'm a doctor. I've seen too many incurable diseases. Some truths, once known, just keep me up at night."