Courtyard House: Home Alone

"When do you plan to meet the 'ghost'?" he asked slowly.

"tonight."

Lin Yifan's voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable certainty: "Qingshui Dongsan won't wait long. The pressure from the military could drive him to take desperate measures at any moment. We need to set up the chessboard before he loses patience."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Stabilize the water level."

Lin Yifan picked up his teacup again; the tea was cold, but he didn't care. "Tell him that 'Ghost' is considering his request, but it will take time. Three days, at most three days, 'Ghost' will give him an answer."

"Is three days enough?"

"enough."

Lin Yifan downed the cold tea in one gulp, stood up, and said, "Grandpa, please have someone inform Qingshui. I'll take my leave now."

Tang Baolin watched the thin figure disappear outside the door, his cane gripping tightly in his palm. The eight-year-old child's steps were as steady as an old man's, each step as if measured, treading between the cracks of the blue bricks, neither hurried nor slow.

He suddenly remembered that thirty years ago, he was the same age and was an apprentice in an antique shop in Liulichang with his father.

Back then, my father often said that in this life, it's easy to recognize things, but difficult to recognize people. But now, he couldn't quite tell whether the child in front of him was an object or a person.

"Zhao Gang."

A figure emerged from the shadows: "Master."

"Go to Xizhuan Hutong and tell Qingshui Dongsan that he has three days to wait," Tang Baolin instructed. "Also, after you've taken care of this, go straight back to the pharmaceutical factory. I'll call you if anything comes up here."

"Yes." Zhao Gang responded, but did not immediately retreat. He stood at the boundary between shadow and candlelight, like a sheathed sword, silent and sharp.

"Is there anything else?" Tang Baolin looked up.

Zhao Gang hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice to a whisper: "Master, is my young master... really eight years old?"

Tang Baolin tapped his cane lightly on the blue bricks, producing a crisp sound. He didn't answer, but simply gazed at the courtyard outside the door, bathed in the night. The branches of the old locust tree trembled in the wind, casting dappled shadows like countless hands reaching out into the void.

"Go ahead," he said.

Zhao Gang's figure vanished into the darkness in an instant, like ink dripping into water.

Tang Baolin sat alone in the main room, the candlelight crackling and popping. He looked down at the jade gourd in his palm, the one his master had left him before his death, saying it contained the true meaning of "keeping oneself simple." For thirty years, he had caressed it countless times, yet he still couldn't understand it.

Until tonight.

The child's silhouette standing before the words "Shou Zhuo" strangely overlapped with the outline of his master in his memory. It wasn't appearance, but something deeper—an almost obstinate determination unrelated to age.

"Holding back on simplicity..." he murmured to himself, then suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with self-mockery, "So it wasn't 'holding back,' but 'concealing.'"

Lin Yifan didn't go straight home, but went to Xilai Teahouse. When Manager Zhou saw him come in, he quickly came out from behind the counter. "Oh, young master, please come in." As he spoke, he led him into a private room in the back courtyard.

After sitting down, Lin Yifan stopped Manager Zhou, who was preparing to make tea, and used his mental power to check the backyard before getting straight to the point: "What level can your radio station contact?"

Shopkeeper Zhou's movements froze in mid-air. The spout of the teapot hovered above the rim of the cup, a drop of water falling and spreading a small dark patch on the table. He slowly put down the teapot, his smile like a thin mist blown away by the wind, revealing a somber undertone beneath.

"Young master, is it something urgent that you're asking this…?" He carefully chose his words, his gaze involuntarily drifting towards the old plum tree outside the window.

"I want to talk directly to the cave dwellings."

Lin Yifan's voice wasn't loud, but it was like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, creating ripples that spread outwards: "Not the Jin-Cha-Ji government, not the Ministry of Works in Beiping, but the highest level."

Manager Zhou's Adam's apple bobbed. He had been in this position for seven years and had handled no fewer than a thousand coded radio messages, but he had never before seen an eight-year-old child sitting in his elegant room and uttering the word "cave dwelling" in such a calm tone.

"The line is available."

He finally spoke, his voice an octave lower than before, "But activation requires a codebook and a specific timeframe. The nearest window is..."

He glanced at his pocket watch. "Two in the morning, wavelength 37.5 meters, call sign 'Yanshan'."

"Okay." Lin Yifan took out a folded piece of thin paper from his pocket. The paper was smooth, made of imported American Dowling paper. "This is a telegram. Decode it and send it directly. Don't keep a copy, and don't copy it to any intermediate links."

Manager Zhou took the telegram, his pupils contracting sharply the moment he unfolded it. The telegram was short, yet every word carried immense weight—"We propose to offer the entire city of Beiping as a gift, seeking joint rule with your party. Conditions four: 1. Preserve the ancient city's cultural relics and buildings; 2. Protect the rights and interests of industrialists and merchants; 3. Post-war resettlement of civilians will take priority over military takeover; 4. Assist in the city's defense. Ghost."

"This…" Shopkeeper Zhou's fingers trembled slightly, "Young master, this 'ghost' is…"

"The recipient of the telegram should be clearly identified as 'Sir,' and 'Don't ask questions you shouldn't know!'"

Lin Yifan stood up, walked to the window, and ran his fingertips across the cold windowpane. "This is for your own good! Also, tell the gentleman that he must reply within three days."

Shopkeeper Zhou's breath hitched. He had been working underground for seven years and had seen too many storms, but he had never felt this way before—the back view of an eight-year-old child reminded him of the oil lamp that burned all night in the cave.

"Understood." He folded the telegram neatly and tucked it into his inner pocket. "Young master, is there anything else you require?"

"Yes." Lin Yifan didn't turn around, his gaze fixed on the old plum tree outside the window. Buds had already appeared on the branches, and they would be in full bloom in a while.

"Tell the gentleman that 'Ghost' is not a person, but a promise. As long as your party agrees to these four conditions, 'Ghost' will send you a great gift."

A thin layer of sweat beaded on Manager Zhou's back. He knew that the "ghost" was incredibly powerful, but he never imagined that the "ghost" would have such confidence.

"Young master," he couldn't help but lower his voice, "what's this?"

Lin Yifan finally turned around. The morning light shone through the window paper, casting interplay of light and shadow on his youthful face, while his eyes remained as calm as a deep pool.

"Manager Zhou," he began slowly, "your party wants power, while 'Ghost' wants living people and peace of mind. These four things are fundamental."

"Alright, I have something to do, so I'll be leaving now. Tell someone to come find me in Nanluoguxiang if you get any news." He said as he walked out of the private room.

Manager Zhou stood there, watching the thin figure walk through the corridor and disappear outside the side door of the teahouse. He subconsciously touched the telegram in his inner pocket; the edge of the paper was digging into his ribs like a piece of red-hot coal.