Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

As night deepened, the pomegranate tree in the east courtyard cast a swaying silhouette outside the window.

He Damin leaned against the headboard, his English textbook on mechanical principles closed and casually placed beside his pillow. Only a bedside lamp was on in the room; the lampshade, a piece Chen Xueru had found last year at Longfusi Temple, was a celadon enamelware painted with pale ink orchids. The light filtering through the porcelain was even softer, like old jade imbued with the patina of time. A soft, orange glow spread out, outlining the gentle contours of the figure nestled beside him.

Her fingertips gently traced circles on his abdomen.

This was Chen Xueru's bedtime routine. After more than two years of marriage, He Damin was already familiar with the temperature and traces of her fingertips—from the initial awkwardness and tentative exploration to the natural attachment they now shared. This small gesture seemed to have become her ritual before falling asleep: confirming his presence, confirming the tranquility of the night, confirming that there were only the two of them in the room.

But tonight, her wandering fingertips carried a hint of thoughtful hesitation. She drew slowly, round and round, as if tracing an invisible map.

"Brother Damin," she said softly, her voice sounding especially gentle in the quiet night, like the moonlight outside the window falling into her throat.

"Um?"

"Today, I've taken care of all the transfer orders and promotions for Master Liu and Teacher Yan." Her fingertips paused on the lines of his abdominal muscles as she looked up. Her clear eyes, reflecting the light, seemed to hold two crushed stars. "Are you... hiding something else in your plans?"

He Damin looked down at her, a slight smile playing on his lips.

This woman understood him more and more. Not with cautious speculation, not with treacherous observation, but with a deep understanding based on complete trust and daily companionship. She no longer needed him to explain the cause and effect of every matter, yet she could accurately capture the wrinkles he deliberately smoothed out in countless ordinary details.

"Why do you ask that?" He didn't deny it, he just wanted to know what she had seen.

Chen Xueru thought for a moment, then turned her face to the side and rested her head on his shoulder. This position allowed her to see his expression clearly without being blinded by the light.

"I just feel," she said, carefully choosing her words, speaking slowly as if untangling a fine tangle of threads, "that you're not the kind of person who's kind-hearted and helps others for no reason. You know better than anyone how calculating Teacher Yan is and how ambitious Master Liu is. But you still helped, and you did it so quickly, getting everything done within a day."

She paused, looked up, and met his gaze.

"You did it on purpose."

He Damin did not deny it.

His palm gently covered the back of her hand, holding her slender fingers in his. The touch was soft, yet not delicate—in the past two years, she had handled all the affairs of "Red Star," from administrative documents to personnel allocation, from financial auditing to customer reception, doing everything herself. The abacus beads had roughened her fingertips, the fountain pen had pressed thin calluses into the side of her ring finger, and even her once carefully maintained nails were now trimmed short—so as not to scratch pages when flipping through the ledgers.

He noticed all these subtle changes.

"It's hard to say for sure, Teacher Yan," He Damin said slowly, his tone as calm as if he were discussing dinner tonight, "but I do have my reasons for dealing with Liu Haizhong."

Chen Xueru turned her head slightly and listened attentively.

A breeze stirred outside the window, rustling the pomegranate tree's branches and scattering the moonlight across the ground. A few faint barks echoed from a distant alleyway, quickly fading into silence. On this early autumn night of 1954, as Beijing slowly drifted into slumber, a dialogue concerning human nature, gratitude, and what lay ahead ten years later was just beginning under the glow of a celadon lamp in the east courtyard.

"Teacher Yan is the kind of person who will calculate even the smallest thing, like a clove of garlic or a scallion."

He Damin didn't speak derogatoryly; in fact, it carried a hint of objectivity. He had seen too many people, good and bad, kind and wicked. Yan Bugui was the kind of person whose very being had "calculation" ingrained in his bones—not greed, but instinct. Just as a cat chases shadows and a swallow carries mud to the ground, Yan Bugui's first reaction to any number, object, or favor was: How can I calculate this without losing out?

This kind of personality might make one a bit stingy in daily life, but it might not be a bad thing to have it in the finance department.

"He can keep track of accounts, supplies, and inventory meticulously; not a single penny can escape his calculations," He Damin said. "With the new leader here and him keeping an eye on things, some people who want to do something crooked will have to think twice."

Chen Xueru nodded thoughtfully: "So, Teacher Yan is keeping him around to 'guard the house'?"

"I guess so," He Damin paused, "but it's only 'something'."

He didn't elaborate. Chen Xueru didn't press him further. She gradually learned something: He Damin spoke like an experienced tea drinker brewing tea—the first infusion only moistens the tea leaves, the second brings out the flavor, and the third reveals the true essence. When he wanted to talk, he would naturally continue.

She waited a moment. Sure enough, he spoke again.

"As for Liu Haizhong..."

He paused for a little longer than before. Chen Xueru didn't urge him, but waited quietly. She could feel the hand covering the back of her hand tighten slightly.

"You haven't had much contact with Liu Haizhong, but you should have been able to tell," He Damin said slowly. "He is skilled; he's a level five blacksmith, and his technique is indeed excellent."

However, having excellent technical skills does not mean that one can be reused.

"His problem is also fatal—he gets carried away when he's successful, and he dares to take advantage of anyone who gives him a little taste of his own medicine." When He Damin said this, there was no contempt in his tone, but rather a hint of cold-blooded clarity. "If you praise this kind of person too much, he will easily become arrogant and forget who he is; if you put him down too much, he will be full of complaints and feel that the whole world has wronged him."

"Then this time..." Chen Xueru asked, puzzled, "wouldn't giving him the position of deputy director directly elevate him even higher?"

"Therefore, it should be given at the appropriate time."

He Damin's gaze passed over the top of her head and landed on the deep night outside the window. The moonlight cast the shadow of the pomegranate tree onto the window paper, like a sparse ink painting.

"We're still here, and 'Red Star' is still our business. I personally transferred him here to be the deputy director; that's a favor. Whether he remembers it later or not, he'll at least remember it for now."

He paused.

"Once we leave, the new leadership team will take over. How long he, a former official, can stay in the position of deputy director, and whether he can hold onto it, depends entirely on himself."

Chen Xueru understood the implied meaning.

"You mean..." she carefully chose her words, "that when he's no longer able to hold his position, and remembers who helped him get to this post, then that favor will truly take effect?"

He Damin looked down at her, a faint hint of admiration in his eyes.

"This child is teachable."

Chen Xueru ignored the teasing remark and continued to organize her thoughts.

"But what if he stays in his position? What if the new leader values ​​him, and he's capable enough to excel in that role?"

"Isn't that even better?" He Damin said calmly. "It proves that I didn't misjudge him. He has established himself through his own abilities, and he is doing well. When he remembers who transferred him from the steel mill, even if he doesn't feel grateful, at least he won't... repay kindness with enmity."

He spoke the last four words very softly.

It was so light that Chen Xueru almost thought it was her imagination.

The night was darker.

He Damin remained silent for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the window. Chen Xueru followed his gaze and saw only swaying tree shadows and a patch of sky washed white by the moonlight.

"Until 1965..."

He finally revealed the year.

"1965?" Chen Xueru keenly caught the number, like a cat spotting a moving spot of light. "Why 1965? Is there any story behind it?"

He Damin did not answer immediately.

His gaze was distant, as if piercing through the window paper, through the pomegranate tree, through the layers of blue bricks and gray tiles of this courtyard, looking into another time and space—the past life trajectory that he had not personally experienced, but which he had pieced together from countless fragmented memories.

Along that trajectory, Liu Haizhong also held the title of "leader." Not deputy director of the maintenance workshop, but a much larger and more impressive one.

It was early autumn like this when he led his men into the east courtyard. However, the pomegranate tree from that year had withered and died, the courtyard was piled with clutter, and the once bright and clean main house was covered with big-character posters, with ink dripping down the walls like dried bloodstains.

"Capitalists," Liu Haizhong said, pointing to the empty house left by He Damin, "the exploiting class, they should be raided."

He forgot who had transferred him from the steel rolling mill.

He forgot the look of ecstasy and gratitude on his face when he rode his old bicycle to "Red Star" to report for duty that evening.

He even forgot that his appointment letter as deputy director clearly bore the three words "He Damin".

All he knew was that this place held what he wanted—power, status, and the thrill of trampling those who had once been high above him into the mud.

He Damin withdrew his gaze.

Those fragments of memory are too distant and too complex. Chen Xueru doesn't need to carry those burdens right now. She only needs to know that he is waiting for someone, and also waiting for time to pass.

"You'll understand this later." He withdrew his gaze, his voice gentle, like a night breeze brushing against pomegranate leaves. "People can learn from history, but few can learn from it. Time will prove everything."

Chen Xueru seemed thoughtful and did not press the matter further.

She gradually grew accustomed to her husband's occasional air of superiority, as if he were looking down on the world from a higher vantage point. It wasn't feigned profundity, but rather a tranquility born from genuinely knowing things she didn't know and seeing sights she had never witnessed.

He has his reasons for not speaking.

Just as he didn't say where the "iron bird" that appeared and disappeared on the top of Taihang Mountain came from, didn't say what the faint aura that flowed around him when he sat alone late at night was, and didn't say how he was able to turn a car shop in a desolate wasteland into a leading industry in Beijing in just two years.

He just did it, and then let her see it.

This is enough.

"So, regarding Master Liu," Chen Xueru organized her thoughts, "you want to see if he'll still remember this kindness ten years from now?"

"Yes." He Damin nodded. "If you forget and it harms the He family's interests, then you're asking for death."

He spoke calmly, even with a hint of a gentle smile.

But Chen Xueru sensed a chilling edge beneath the calm.

She recalled three years ago.

Three years ago, in the winter, the deaf old woman starved to death in her own house. Yi Zhonghai died unexpectedly, and Aunt Yi moved out of the courtyard house. Later, Brother Damin bought back the east wing. At that time, she was not yet his wife, but just the proprietress of Zhengyangmen Silk Shop, who occasionally overheard a few words about He Damin from He Yuzhu. She watched the man's back from afar and felt that he was like a knife hidden in its sheath.

Do not flaunt your talents.

A chill naturally arises.

Now that she is his wife, she can feel his restrained strength even more. He doesn't act rashly, but when he does, it always draws blood; he doesn't easily bestow favors, but when he does, there's always an ulterior motive.

Yan Bugui and Liu Haizhong were gently placed on the "Red Star" chessboard tonight.

It's a chess piece.

It's also foreshadowing.

And she was his wife, the only person he completely trusted and was willing to reveal all his schemes to.

This trust touched her heart more than any sweet words.

"Brother Damin." Chen Xueru's voice grew softer, like the thin layer of moonlight outside the window.

"Um?"

"The people in the compound..." she hesitated, "are actually much more well-behaved now than before."

He Damin understood what she meant.

Over the past two years, No. 95 Nanluoguxiang has indeed become much quieter.

When he first traveled back to this era, he vaguely pieced together an unpleasant picture from countless fragmented memories of "courtyard houses" in his later years—the tantrums of Jia Zhangshi, the scheming and infighting of the elderly care group, and the petty squabbles among neighbors over a single scallion or a clove of garlic that could last for half a month.

In his previous life, he found the saying "whether the courtyard is chaotic or not is up to Jia Zhangshi" laughable.

— Chaos? If you disagree, try to persuade me physically.

—Physical persuasion doesn't work? Then send them down to get a new script.

The assassin's logic is simple: problems that can be solved shouldn't be delayed; problems that can't be solved should be dealt with by eliminating the person who raised the problem. There are no permanent problems in the world, only people who are indecisive in solving them.

But the traditional courtyard houses of today are a completely different story.

Since the disappearance of the deaf old lady, Yi Zhonghai, and the members of the Yi Dama elderly care group three years ago, those who used to be so arrogant and demanding in the nursing home have all become more restrained. Especially Jia Zhangshi—the character who once stirred up trouble in various versions of the story in later generations—is now practically "well-behaved."

She dared not stand in the center of the courtyard anymore and make veiled accusations.

They dared not throw a tantrum and extort money from people anymore.

Even when speaking to Qin Huairu, he was still somewhat polite, calling her "Qin family sister" repeatedly, as if she were his own sister.

Of course, He Damin knew that this was only on the surface.

His divine sense could easily cover the entire courtyard. Countless times, in the dead of night, in the quiet of the east wing, he could "hear" Jia Zhangshi's muffled curses drifting from the cracks in the windows of the Jia family's house in the backyard—

She criticized Qin Huai as a "hypocrite," asking why she didn't marry her son Jia Dongxu back then, leaving Dongxu still a bachelor.

They criticized He Daqing as an "old cow eating young grass," saying he's too old to marry a young woman and is shameless.

She scolded He Damin for "meddling," asking why he couldn't just live his own life and why he had to set up rules in the courtyard, making her afraid to even speak loudly.

She cursed her neighbors as "snobbish," saying they all fawned over He Damin because he was rich and powerful, forgetting that she, Jia Zhangshi, was the elder in the courtyard.

They cursed the injustice of the world, complained that God was blind, and that good people never got rewarded.

But she only dared to curse at home.

After he finished scolding, he went out the next day with the same cautious, slightly ingratiating smile on his face. He nodded to everyone he met, spoke in a low voice, and even covered his mouth when he coughed.

He Damin never exposed it.

To curse in public is suicidal. To vent one's anger behind closed doors is human nature. Although Madam Jia is mean-spirited, she's not stupid. She knows that the courtyard house is no longer a place where she can run wild. Those who are more arrogant and troublesome than her have all quietly moved away. If she doesn't restrain herself, she'll be next.

This is enough.

"She's smarter than before," He Damin said calmly. "She says one thing to your face and another behind your back. But as long as she can maintain her facade in front of you, things won't get chaotic in the courtyard."

Chen Xueru gave a soft "hmm".

She wasn't unaware of Jia Zhangshi's private behavior. The day before yesterday, as she passed by the backyard, she clearly heard the words "That jinx He Damin" coming from Jia Zhangshi's room. As she approached, the door immediately slammed shut, and there was complete silence inside. The next day, upon meeting, Jia Zhangshi greeted her as warmly as ever: "President Chen, you're back early today!"

She couldn't be bothered to argue.

As the husband said, as long as things look good on the surface, who cares what anyone says at home?

"Go to sleep." He Damin's voice softened, carrying the deep tone unique to the night. "Once we get news from District Chief Yang, we need to organize 'Red Star's' accounts and asset inventory. The handover must be done flawlessly."

Chen Xueru lifted her head from his embrace, her eyes filled with seriousness.

"I've been organizing the accounts and filing them monthly, everything is clear and organized," she said. "The asset inventory will be completed this week, with real estate, equipment, and spare parts all categorized and detailed. Yesterday, I also had the finance department make copies of the tax payment receipts for the past three years for future reference, which can be used as supporting evidence during the handover."

Looking at her earnest expression, He Damin felt a surge of warmth in his heart.

In the past two years, Chen Xueru has transformed from a silk shop owner who knew nothing about cars and machinery into a "housekeeper" capable of independently managing the massive administrative, personnel, and financial systems of "Red Star." She has learned not only management, but also account auditing, personnel allocation, customer relationship maintenance, and even can understand simple vehicle repair procedures—she knows what "four-wheel alignment" is, how many man-hours an engine overhaul takes, and which chassis component is causing different abnormal noises.

Her growth rate far exceeded his expectations.

"You've worked hard." He squeezed her hand.

Chen Xueru shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips: "It's not hard work. This is our business, it's what I should do."

She paused, her voice lowering slightly, "Besides, you've taught me so much; if I still can't learn it, wouldn't I be too stupid?"

He Damin looked at her.

In the lamplight, her silhouette was incredibly soft. Those hands, which once only knew about fine silks and satins and manipulated abacus beads, could now write beautiful cursive numbers, spot errors in dense financial statements at a glance, and quickly jot down more than a dozen tasks during his meetings.

He recalled how, when she first took over the administrative affairs of "Red Star," she often worked late into the night, dealing with unfamiliar names, departments, and procedures. Several times, he woke up at night and saw her under the lamp, writing and drawing in her notebook, her brows slightly furrowed, the pen scratching softly.

She never complains of being tired.

Only occasionally, she would show that uneasy look in his eyes, as if wondering, "Am I causing you trouble?", before quickly hiding it and putting on that calm and capable demeanor.

He raised his hand and gently brushed away a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

"Go to sleep."

He reached out and turned off the bedside lamp.