Courtyard House: Home Alone

Meng Zhuolin's hand froze in mid-air, as if frozen by those words. She stared at her son, trying to find any trace of a joke on his face, but only saw a calmness that was completely out of place for his age.

"You…" her voice was hoarse, "You mean, sir, you know about 'ghosts'?"

"I know," Lin Yifan said. "However, he didn't know that 'Ghost' was me. He personally went to Beiping for those three hundred-plus planes. I handled all the specific donation details directly with him. At the time, my role was 'Ghost's' liaison."

He took out a seal from his pocket (space). Meng Zhuolin took the seal and saw a proud pine tree on it. "This is something the master always keeps, and he never shows it to anyone easily. Son, how did this end up in your hands?"

Seeing his mother's shocked expression, Lin Yifan gently took the seal back from her hand, his fingertips tracing the warm, smooth Shoushan stone. "This was given to me by your deputy commander before I came here. He met me in a safe house in western Beiping. He asked me what 'Ghost' wanted, and I said 'Ghost' wanted some calligraphy from several of them."

He carefully put the seal away and lowered his voice: "He agreed at the time. Before I came to Chongqing this time, I went to Shanxi and, as agreed, gave the Red Party a batch of airplanes and weapons and ammunition. The deputy commander-in-chief also handed me the calligraphy of several of them."

They also gave me several seals, not just mine, but also those of my teachers, the CEO, and the vice president. They told me to use these seals to invite them for tea sometime.

Meng Zhuolin's breathing became rapid. She knew, of course, what that seal meant—within the organization, very few people had ever seen this pine tree seal, and even fewer had ever heard of anyone possessing it. The master had actually given it to a child, or rather, to the "Ghost's" liaison.

"You…" she struggled to find the words, "What did you talk about with him?"

"We talked a lot." Lin Yifan walked to the window and pushed the half-open wooden window open a little more to let the afternoon breeze in. "We talked about the war situation in North China, the movements of the Japanese, and..." He paused, "...and your situation in Chongqing."

Meng Zhuolin's heart clenched suddenly.

"The master said that you've just arrived in Chongqing and everything is fine here!" Lin Yifan turned around and looked at his mother's suddenly tense shoulders, knowing that these words had not reassured her.

He walked back to the bedside and sat down in the same spot, lowering his gaze below his mother's again—a gesture that served as both reassurance and a prelude to confession.

"These are the exact words the gentleman asked me to convey," he said. "But I can also tell he's worried."

"What else did the gentleman say?" she asked.

"Mom," he said, "the master asked me something else."

"What?"

He asked, "Has 'Ghost' mentioned what kind of reward he wanted?"

Meng Zhuolin's hand stopped. She looked up, a complex understanding in her eyes—having worked in the organization for many years, she knew all too well the weight of this question. Three hundred and seventy-two aircraft, equipment for one hundred thousand people—enough to make any exchange a heavy burden.

"How will you answer?"

Lin Yifan remained silent for a while. Another leaf fell from the banyan tree outside the window, swirling past the window frame and finally landing on his shoe.

"I said, 'The Ghost' only wants one thing," he paused, "never to find out who 'The Ghost' is."

Meng Zhuolin's lips parted slightly, then closed again. Looking at her son, she suddenly understood the weight of this request—it wasn't a plea, but a defensive line, the last barrier Lin Yifan had built for himself and for their family.

"Did the gentleman agree?"

"He agreed," Lin Yifan said. "He said 'Ghost' trusts the organization, and the organization trusts 'Ghost.' Everyone stays within their bounds, and all will be well."

Meng Zhuolin suddenly laughed, this time a genuine laugh, tears still clinging to the fine lines at the corners of her eyes: "That sounds like something he would say."

He also said,

Lin Yifan added, "You can focus on having your baby; everything else will be arranged by the organization. Once you've recovered, we'll arrange for you to return to Beiping—they need comrades like you who are knowledgeable and experienced in struggle."

"I know that although he agreed verbally, there are too many things involved, and you can't just leave whenever you want."

But Mom! Please remember, if anything happens, try to let me know, and I'll find a way to handle it. Whoever dares to harm you, I'll make them pay the price.

Looking at her son, Meng Zhuolin suddenly felt that the child in front of her was terrifyingly unfamiliar.

He spoke in a calm tone, as if he were talking about what to eat for breakfast tomorrow, but the look in his eyes made her, as a mother, feel a tightness in her chest—it was the look of someone who had seen blood and taken lives, as cold as well water in the depths of winter.

"Yifan," she reached out and cupped his face again, this time with a gentle touch as if caressing a fragile piece of porcelain, "promise your mother, unless absolutely necessary, don't..."

"I know." Lin Yifan grasped her hand, enveloping her cold fingers in his palm. "I won't kill innocent people indiscriminately, nor will I actively seek trouble. But Mom, you have to promise me one thing—"

"you say."

"Don't treat me like an ordinary child."

His voice was soft, yet every word was clear: "I can do more than you imagine. I will protect you, Father, Yu'an, and any younger siblings we may have in the future. This isn't about being reckless; it's simply what I can do."

Meng Zhuolin's eyes reddened again. She wanted to say that he was only seven years old, that he shouldn't have to bear these burdens, that he should go to school, climb trees, and fight with his brothers and sisters for a piece of candy—but the words turned into a choked sigh.

More than a month passed in the blink of an eye. The postman delivered a letter, a letter from Beiping (Beijing), sent twenty days ago. The sender was Tang Baolin, Old Master Tang. Lin Yifan knew it was time for him to leave.

Meng Zhuolin watched as her son read the letter over and over three times before gently placing it on the bedside table. The sealing wax on the envelope was already faded; the journey from Beiping to Chongqing was long, and twenty days of bumpy travel had caused the corners of the paper to curl and become frayed.

"Grandpa Tang..." she asked softly, "Is he the one from the Xingyi School?"

"Hmm." Lin Yifan's fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the envelope. "When I left Beiping, I entrusted everything at home to him. For him to write now, something must have happened there."

He spoke, but hesitated to open the letter. The cicadas outside the window chirped tirelessly, and Yu'an snored softly in the cradle. Meng Zhuolin looked at her son's tense profile and suddenly realized that the word "change" carried the same weight as if it had come from a grown man.

"You…" she stood up, "watch it now."

Lin Yifan looked up at her, his gaze questioning, yet also filled with a hesitation she couldn't decipher. In the end, he opened the envelope and pulled out two thin sheets of paper.