Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

The data terminal issued an alarm at 4:17 AM. When He Nianhua stood up from his chair, the waveform on the screen had already jumped out of the normal range—the energy reading in the Kunlun Mountains region had been consistently high for 72 hours, and was now rising at a rate of 0.3% per minute, like a kettle of water that had been boiling for too long, about to overflow. He grabbed the car keys on the table, without turning off the lights, and put on only a coat before pushing open the door and walking into the corridor. He Xingchen, fastening his seatbelt in the passenger seat, still had disheveled hair, and his coat zipper was only half-zipped up. "Where to?" he asked. "Kunlun Mountains. You stay in the car." He Xingchen neither agreed nor disagreed. He reached out and zipped the coat all the way up, leaned back in his seat, and watched the streetlights outside the window recede one by one.

The path up the mountain was difficult. He Nianhua walked ahead, his hiking boots crunching into the frozen snow with each step. He Xingchen followed behind, maintaining a distance of about five steps. When they reached the narrow rock ledge, He Nianhua first stepped aside to pass, then stopped and extended his hand. He Xingchen didn't take it. He stepped sideways, his boots slipping on the granite surface as he landed. He braced himself against the rock face to steady himself, then brushed the stone dust off his gloves. He Nianhua withdrew his hand and continued onward.

When they arrived at the observation platform on the north side of the ridgeline, it was still dark. He Nianhua put down his backpack, unzipped it, took out his data terminal, and the screen lit up, showing a continuously rising waveform. He didn't access any more parameters or start the recording program; he simply watched the curve extend to the edge of the screen, then put down the terminal and sat down.

"Dad, what are we waiting for?"

"Wait until dawn. Or maybe wait for something else."

After He Nianhua finished speaking, He Xingchen didn't ask any more questions.

The coordinate paper in He Nianhua's pocket began to heat up. He reached in and pulled it out; the edges of the paper were curling, and the ink on the line of numbers was changing color, from black to a cool, deep blue, as if it had been re-covered with ink. He unfolded the paper and placed it on the granite surface beside him, watching the tail of the coordinate line slowly extend outwards, beyond the edge of the paper, leaving a fading silver-white line on the exposed rock surface. That line didn't stop on the rock surface; it continued forward, along the hillside, through the bushes, through the spreading mist of light, and into the distance, heading southeast.

"It's extending," He Nianhua said.

He Xingchen saw it too. He crouched down, looking at the fading line on the rock, but didn't reach out to touch it. "Where is it going?"

"I don't know. But it arrived before us." He Nianhua looked at the fading line and offered no further explanation.

The beam of light began to weaken. But the layer of silvery-white light mist on the ground did not disappear; it covered the entire ridge and was moving downwards, like a liquid film seeping into the rock. He Nianhua stood up, folded the coordinate paper whose edges had already changed color, and put it back in his inner pocket. He stood there for a while, feeling nothing special—neither cold nor hot, just standing there, watching the clouds in front of him thin out rapidly until they disappeared completely. There was no wind; the fissure had closed, leaving only the layer of light mist spreading slowly across the ground.

"Let's go," He Nianhua said.

He Xingchen stood up and dusted off his gloves. They retraced their steps, this time faster than before. The coordinate paper in He Nianhua's pocket was no longer warm, but he could still feel its outline against his ribs through the fabric. After getting into the car, He Xingchen didn't ask about the paper; he fastened his seatbelt and waited for the car to start.

As He Yuzhu stood on the rooftop balcony of the Chengshan Research Institute, the silvery-white mist had already covered the entire Gobi Desert. He reached out and touched the railing; the mist landed on the back of his hand, cold and weightless, like evaporating water vapor settling on his skin, leaving only a faint, imperceptible sensation. He withdrew his hand, glanced down at his palm—nothing remained. Behind him, on the desk, a corner of the five-cent coin was slowly thinning, its edge melting away at an imperceptible speed, as if etched from the inside by some force field. The mist didn't illuminate anything; it simply covered everything, incorporating the distant launch pads, the runway markings, and the assembly plant's exterior walls into a uniform brightness, eliminating their original differences in depth.

He Nianhua didn't check his rearview mirror on the way back. The light was no longer visible, but the line extending southeast on the map hadn't disappeared. After crossing the Kunlun Mountains, it split into two branches: one extending northeast along the Qinling Mountains, and the other advancing south along the Hengduan Mountains. The line wasn't moving fast, but it didn't stop. He Nianhua didn't report this to anyone. He didn't record any data either.

In the distance, the phoenix continued its journey on its orbit. Its engine glow traced a steady arc across the Gobi Desert, intersecting with the spreading silvery-white mist on the ground at the horizon—like two originally parallel lines converging at some uncertain point of intersection. That light continued to extend, neither stopping tonight nor tomorrow. It merely covered the boundary between ground and sky, moving further into the distance, awaiting the arrival of the next dawn.

As He Yuzhu walked back into the house from the balcony, he didn't look back, didn't count, and didn't confirm its direction or speed. As he passed the desk, only two-thirds of the five-cent coin remained. He didn't stop to examine it, nor did he touch it. He walked through the corridor, pushed open the door, and stepped into the night. The silvery-white mist covering the Gobi Desert didn't extinguish. Tomorrow will be a new day.