Courtyard House: Home Alone

He turned and headed for the stairs, the hem of his white coat stained with dried blood, a dark brown hue in the morning light. Reaching the corner, he suddenly stopped. "What would you like to eat tonight? I'll have the kitchen prepare."

Lin Yifan was stunned for a moment. The question was so ordinary that it made his eyes well up with tears.

"Sweet rice balls in fermented rice soup," he said. "The one my mother likes."

Lin Qiqing nodded and disappeared around the corner of the stairs. Lin Yifan stood there with the medicine bowl in his hand, listening to his father's footsteps gradually fade into the distance, blending into the clattering of pots and pans coming from the kitchen downstairs.

Inside the room, Meng Zhuolin was already awake, looking at her infant daughter in her swaddling clothes. Sunlight fell on her face, softening and making the fine lines appear translucent. She took the medicine bowl, her brows furrowing slightly, but she still drank it down in one gulp.

"Bitter." She stuck out her tongue like a spoiled young girl. "Your father will never remember to add red dates."

Lin Yifan wiped the medicine stains from the corner of her mouth with his sleeve. "Mom," he said, "I want to write a letter to Beiping."

Meng Zhuolin's hand paused for a moment. Of course she knew what "Beiping" meant—her teachers, her classmates, and all the youth she had failed to take with her.

"To whom is it written?"

"Aunt Han and Uncle He," Lin Yifan said, "she's taken good care of me. I wanted to tell her I arrived safely. Also, the house in the east courtyard should be almost finished, but I'm not sure if we have enough money for labor and materials. I wanted to talk to Uncle He and ask him to look for more if we don't have enough..."

"East courtyard? What east courtyard?" Meng Zhuolin turned to look at her son. "Building a house? What kind of house?"

"Grandma Long gave me the east courtyard next to us. I thought I would have a younger brother or sister."

"You'll all have to go back to Beiping eventually, and our two rooms definitely won't be enough for everyone. So I had someone build the east wing, so it'll be more convenient for our family to have our own courtyard."

Meng Zhuolin stared blankly at her son, the medicine bowl in her hand still hanging in mid-air, the brown medicine sloshing slightly at the bottom of the bowl, reflecting her astonished face.

"Grandma Long...is she Mrs. Long from next door? Why would she give you that yard for no reason?"

Lin Yifan dared not say that it was because of the old lady that he and his wife were forced to flee Beiping. He also dared not say that the old lady had handed over the east wing to save her life; his mother had just given birth, and that would frighten her. "Mom, he doesn't have any children of his own, and he usually likes me quite a bit. It's normal for him to give me the wing!"

Lin Yifan reached out and took the bowl from his mother's hand, placing it on the low table by the bedside. "She had no children, and said we were destined to be together, so she gave me the courtyard."

Meng Zhuolin's gaze swept across her son's face, trying to find a flaw. Of course she remembered Mrs. Long—that old lady who always wore indigo-dyed cheongsams and spoke with a sharp tongue. Would such a person hand over her ancestral property to a seven-year-old child?

"Fate?" she repeated, her voice rising slightly at the end.

Lin Yifan remained unfazed. Having spent years in the business world in his past life, he had long since learned to weave the most exquisite lies with the most sincere expression: "Yes. I often run errands for her; she lives alone and has difficulty walking."

Meng Zhuolin was about to ask more questions when Yu'an, still in her swaddling clothes, suddenly stirred and let out a few soft whimpers. Her attention was immediately drawn to her, and she bent down to check if her daughter had wet herself.

Lin Yifan breathed a sigh of relief. He walked to the window and looked down at the banyan tree. The leaves rustled in the wind, and a few early yellow leaves twirled and fell.

"Yifan."

Meng Zhuolin's voice came from behind, now calm, "When you write, please give my regards to your Aunt Han. She...she's a good person."

Lin Yifan turned around. "I will."

"And another thing," Meng Zhuolin looked up, meeting his gaze, "where did you get the money to repair the house?"

Lin Yifan had anticipated this question. He took out a silver coin from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers: "I work for 'Ghost,' and 'Ghost' gave it to me."

"Did the 'ghost' give it to you? How much did the 'ghost' give you?"

Meng Zhuolin's voice suddenly rose, but the last syllable caught in her throat, turning into a violent cough. Lin Yifan quickly stepped forward and supported her shoulders, feeling her thin shoulder blades trembling in his palms.

"How many?" She grabbed her son's wrist, her nails almost digging into his flesh. "Yifan, do you know who those people are?"

Lin Yifan didn't answer immediately. He gently untied his mother's hand from her wrist and tucked her in. Yu'an was awakened by the commotion, her little mouth pouting, and she looked like she was about to cry. He reached out and gently patted the swaddled baby.

"Mom," he said, his voice as soft as if he were coaxing his sister, "please lie down first, and I'll tell you slowly."

Meng Zhuolin stubbornly propped herself up, a fine layer of sweat beading on her forehead. Postpartum weakness made her face even paler, but her eyes shone with an astonishing light—the vigilance of a mother protecting her child, the prudence of an intellectual facing the unknown, and the instinctive reaction of a Communist Party member to danger.

"Explain yourself first."

Lin Yifan sat down on the edge of the bed, lowering his gaze below his mother's—a gesture of vulnerability and a form of reassurance. He carefully chose his words, as if defusing a bomb that could explode at any moment.

"Mom, this is something only you can know; you can't even tell Father. Can you promise me that?"

Meng Zhuolin's fingers gripped the corner of the blanket tightly, her knuckles turning white. She stared at her son for a long time, so long that the sunlight outside the window moved half an inch across the floor, so long that Yu'an fell into a deep sleep again, emitting soft snores.

"Okay," she finally said, her voice so soft it was as if she didn't want to disturb something, "I promise you."

Lin Yifan took a deep breath. He knew he was walking a tightrope—on his left was his mother's loyalty to the organization, on his right was her protective instincts towards her child, and below him was an abyss.

"Mom! I am the 'ghost' that's been talked about outside," Lin Yifan said to his mother, enunciating each word clearly.

Meng Zhuolin's expression froze.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The sunlight shone directly on her face, making the tiny beads of sweat sparkle like broken diamonds, and causing her pupils to shrink to pinpoints.

"You…" Her fingers slipped from the corner of the blanket, making a grasping motion in the air as if trying to grab something. "What did you say?"

"I said," Lin Yifan grasped her hand, feeling the coldness of her fingertips, "that 'ghost' in the rumors outside, that's me."

The room was eerily quiet. The rustling sound of Granny Wang sweeping the floor came from downstairs, and children chasing and playing in the alley in the distance, but these sounds seemed to come from a very far place, blocked out by an invisible membrane.

Meng Zhuolin suddenly smiled. It was a peculiar smile; the corners of her mouth turned up, but her eyes didn't crinkle; instead, they glistened with tears.

"Yifan," she said, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper, "are you too tired? Your father said you haven't slept much these past few days..."

"Mom," Lin Yifan interrupted her, pulling a handful of Japanese military insignia from his pocket (space), including two sets of general's insignia and five or six sets of lieutenant general's insignia. "Do you recognize these?"