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

On his last day before retirement, Old Sun went to the archives of the Chengshan Research Institute. As he slowly walked down the corridor, he passed seven doors, each with a sign that had been changed several times over, except for the last door. The words "Archives" were engraved on a bronze plaque, the edges worn smooth as if touched repeatedly by countless hands.

There were some old folders in the drawer, their spine numbers faded. His hand moved along the neatly arranged spines of the folders, as if reading a silent inscription. Then he stopped, pulled out a blue folder with "Kunlun - Early Design Sketches" written on its spine. The corners of the folder were rounded, as if it had been taken off the shelf and put back many times, the edges of the pages softened from repeated handling. Old Sun opened the folder; on top was a folded piece of paper, yellowed and creased at the edges.

The paper contained the outline of a ship, its bow pointing to the upper left. The lines were drawn with a ballpoint pen, some areas erased, but not cleanly, revealing the repeatedly covered sketches underneath. Old Sun unfolded the paper by the window, and in the light, recognized it as He Yuzhu's drawing—the bow shape wasn't entirely the same as the final design of the Kunlun, and the line's direction was more casual, unlike an engineering drawing; it looked more like someone sitting at a table, sketching it haphazardly. He remembered the autumn of 1979 when He Yuzhu first took him to see the keel of the Kunlun, clutching a rolled-up piece of paper, its edges tattered. He later put that paper in the archives, and no one ever opened that folder again.

Old Sun didn't put the paper back in the folder. He folded it neatly and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. The metal drawer closed with a soft click, like a lock automatically engaging. He paused for a moment, like someone who had just finished checking the last batch of documents, then turned, closed the cabinet door, and walked out of the archives. The corridor lights were still on, the fluorescent tubes emitting a soft hum. As he passed by, he felt the beam of light fall from above, spreading evenly across the floor without casting a shadow.

He walked to the end of the corridor without stopping at any turn, but he knew where he was going. He stopped in front of a door—a sliver of light shone through its crack, indicating the light was still on. He didn't knock or push the door open; he simply stood outside, and through the slightly ajar door, saw He Yuzhu standing with his back to the door, facing the darkening Gobi Desert outside the window, holding nothing in his hands. The beam of light seeping through the crack was cut into several parallel lines by his silhouette, stretching across the floor and ending a hand's width from his heels. Old Sun stood outside that light, the abruptly ending beam fading and disappearing beneath his feet. He remembered He Yuzhu's back as he stood on the edge of the launch pad the night before the Kunlun's maiden flight; he had stood in this very spot then, not looking back at anyone. He didn't linger long, then turned and walked away the way he had come. When he reached the lobby on the first floor, Old Zhao, the doorman, was sitting in the duty room. The window was open, and when he saw Old Sun approaching, he leaned out halfway. "Director Sun, are you coming again tomorrow?" Old Sun stopped and straightened his coat collar. "No, I'm not coming." Old Zhao nodded and closed the window. The window made a slight clattering sound as it closed, echoing briefly in the empty lobby before disappearing.

As Lao Sun walked out the gate, the lights of the final assembly plant were still on in the distance, evenly illuminating the still-unassembled framework of the second-phase structure in the night, giving its outline a precise, semi-finished shape, as if fixed in its own place. He didn't stop to look at the light, continuing to walk along the road. The sandstorm on the Gobi Desert had stopped, and the moonlight shone on the ground like a thin layer of frost slowly solidifying, giving the ground a uniform light gray color. After walking for a while, he stopped, took out the paper from his coat pocket, unfolded it, and looked at the outline of the ship's bow again by the moonlight. The outline appeared clearer in the moonlight, as if it had been redrawn; the previously blurred edges of the lines became distinct under the light, as if its shape had been reaffirmed by some belated attention.

He didn't look at it a second time, folded the paper, put it back in his pocket, and continued walking. The lights behind him were still on, and he heard the low vibrations of the wind blowing across the metal surfaces, like something moving in the distance, or perhaps it was just his own tinnitus. He didn't turn back and kept walking. The lights and sounds gradually blended into the wind, becoming no longer needing to be identified or confirmed. He only needed to know that they were still there, just as he had always known: the lights in the assembly plant wouldn't go out; they would stay on, waiting for the next ship to leave its hull.

After walking for about twenty minutes, Old Sun returned to the unlit dirt road outside the north gate of Chengshan Research Institute. He knew that at the end of the road was a row of old residential buildings, where he had lived for over twenty years. As he entered the unit, the motion-sensor light flickered on and off, as if it had fulfilled its sole function. He climbed to the third floor, took out his key, and opened the door. The light inside was still on; it was the one he had forgotten to turn off before leaving. He didn't turn it off, but instead took off his coat and hung it on the hanger by the door. The piece of paper was still in the inside pocket of his coat; he didn't take it out, and he wouldn't open it again. He just stood there, waited a while, and then closed the door.

The corridor light was on, like an empty passageway. Old Sun sat in the darkness behind his door, feeling the light he'd forgotten to turn off shining behind him, neither extinguished nor dimmed. He sat there for a long time, so long that even his own breathing became unfamiliar. He waited, waiting for time to become discernible again, waiting for the moonlight that had already blanketed the earth to be covered by new light at some unmarked moment. Then he stood up, turned off the light, went into the bedroom, and lay down in the darkness. With his eyes closed, he could still see the outline of the paper: the bow of the ship pointing to the upper left, the lines simple, without superfluous embellishment, like a course yet to be traversed. He continued to look at it with his eyes closed, watching the outline light up in the darkness, like a lamp being relit. He didn't open his eyes again. He no longer needed to look at it a second time.