Sold into a ghost marriage? Four-year-old and his thuggish father go on a killing spree.

As soon as the sky began to lighten, Gu Yanqiu sat up from the bed.

He put on his cotton-padded coat in the dark and tiptoed out of bed.

Niannian huddled under the covers, breathing evenly, her little face buried behind the corner of the blanket, only half of her forehead and a scar covered by a strip of cloth were visible.

I was sleeping soundly.

Six days of escape, high fever, and constant travel—

Her body finally relaxed completely in this drafty but at least guarded room.

Gu Yanqiu squatted by the bed and watched her for a while.

Her eyelashes were long and trembled slightly in the morning light.

His lips were downturned—not because of a nightmare, but because he was so thin. His cheeks were sunken, his lips were chapped, and the downward curve wasn't an expression, but a mark etched by hunger and exhaustion.

Gu Yanqiu pulled the blanket up to cover Nian Nian's shoulders.

Then he took a raw sweet potato from beside the stove and broke it in half—

The larger half was placed on the stove, covered with a bowl, and reserved for Niannian's lunch. The smaller half was tucked into the pocket of his cotton-padded coat; it was his own lunch.

He bent down and whispered in Niannian's ear, "Daddy went to work. Don't go out, and make sure the door is closed."

Niannian hummed softly in her sleep and tucked her little hands deeper into the blanket.

Gu Yanqiu pushed open the two broken wooden doors, and a gust of cold wind immediately hit his face.

On the morning of the 26th day of the twelfth lunar month, the mountain gully of Chengjiawan was as cold as an ice cellar, and the breath you exhaled immediately turned into white mist.

The distant mountain ridgeline was faintly visible in the hazy sky, and a few crows perched on the old elm tree at the village entrance, cawing loudly.

Gu Yanqiu turned up the collar of his cotton-padded coat, hunched his shoulders, and walked towards the threshing ground.

The threshing ground was in the middle of the village. There was no grain to thresh in the twelfth lunar month, but there was still plenty of work to be done in winter—repairing the brigade's warehouse, moving and storing firewood, cutting ice to fetch water, and repairing tools.

These jobs are available every winter, and work points are calculated on a daily basis, six work points per day.

It's neither too little nor too much.

Gu Yanqiu used to work for half a day at most and then leave.

There were already a few people in the threshing ground.

Old Sun, the accountant who kept the work points, was sitting on a stone stool at the entrance of the warehouse, with a notebook in his arms. His fingers were red from the cold, and he was breathing on them to rub his hands.

Several strong laborers squatted on the sidelines smoking their pipes, waiting for the team leader to assign them tasks.

When Gu Yanqiu walked over, everyone was stunned.

That stunned look was as if they had witnessed something utterly impossible—

For example, the sun rises from the west, or the old ox on the sidelines suddenly speaks human language.

"Holy shit—" A man squatting on the far right nearly swallowed his pipe. "Gu Yanqiu?"

"Who is this? Arriving before dawn? Am I still half asleep?"

Old Sun stood up from the stone stool, rubbed his eyes, checked three times, and opened his mouth wide enough to fit an egg.

"Gu Yanqiu, you...you haven't come to the wrong place?"

Gu Yanqiu walked silently to the warehouse door and looked at the work to be done today—dozens of bundles of firewood cut from the mountain were piled up by the field and needed to be moved into the warehouse and stacked.

He rolled up his sleeves, bent down, picked up a bundle of firewood, and walked into the warehouse.

The entire threshing ground was silent for two seconds.

Then the crowd erupted into a frenzy of discussion, as if it had been set ablaze.

"Gu Lao Er is at work? This is as rare as celebrating the New Year!"

"That can't be right. Does he owe someone money? Is he in a hurry to earn work points?"

"Haven't you heard? He brought a girl home last night, saying she's his daughter!"

"His daughter? Isn't he a bachelor?"

"Heaven knows where it came from—and who knows if it's even related to us."

The noisy sounds buzzed around Gu Yanqiu like flies, but he didn't respond to a single word.

He carried a bundle of firewood in, and when he came out, he carried another bundle.

Others take a break after carrying a load, catch their breath, have a smoke, and chat for a bit.

Gu Yanqiu did not rest.

Bundle after bundle, their steps were so heavy they felt like they were nailed to the ground.

His cotton-padded coat was too thin. After working for a while, his back started to sweat—not from the heat, but from overexertion, a kind of cold sweat. His body had been depleted for too long; in recent years, he hadn't eaten enough or worked, and his muscles had shrunk.

But he kept going.

Sweat dripped down his temples and onto the frozen mud.

After making more than a dozen trips, I developed blisters on my hands.

One by one, blisters swelled up, translucent, and the pain was excruciating.

He wiped his hands with the corner of his shirt and continued moving things.

At this moment, Gu Yanchun arrived.

Uncle, wearing a cotton-padded jacket that was much better than Gu Yanqiu's, walked slowly to the edge of the threshing ground with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

He spotted Gu Yanqiu bending over carrying firewood at a glance.

A meaningful smile appeared on Gu Yanchun's face—a smile that was faint but piercing.

"Yo."

His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the threshing ground heard it.

"The sun must have risen in the west. Did the second son move today?"

Gu Yanqiu put down the bundle of firewood on his shoulder without saying a word.

Gu Yanchun took two steps forward, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and looked his younger brother up and down.

"You picked up a worthless piece of trash and now you're ready to work? Good for you, second brother, you've got some ambition."

The words "money-losing goods" changed the expressions of several people in the threshing ground who knew the inside story.

That's a really harsh thing to say.

But no one spoke up for Gu Yanqiu.

In Chengjiawan, Gu Yanchun was the militia captain, a respected figure in the village. Gu Yanqiu, on the other hand, was a lazy bum, a good-for-nothing whom everyone looked down upon. The two brothers were not on the same level at all.

Gu Yanqiu clenched her fists.

His fingernail dug into the newly formed blister on his palm, making him wince in pain.

But he didn't reply.

He bent down and picked up another bundle of firewood.

This bundle was exceptionally heavy—it was made from old locust wood cut from the mountain, and it was difficult for two people to carry it.

Gu Yanqiu shouldered the burden alone.

His legs were trembling; his knees bent and straightened repeatedly.

The veins on his neck bulged out, like several earthworms burrowing under his skin.

But he didn't give up.

Step by step, he carried the bundle of old locust wood into the warehouse, and placed it on the ground with a "bang," shaking the dust in the warehouse and covering his face.

He turned around, walked out of the warehouse, and faced Gu Yanchun.

There was no retort.

There was no argument.

She simply looked up and glanced at Gu Yanchun.

That glance was different from before.

In the past, when Gu Yanqiu was scolded and bullied, his eyes were dead—like two puddles of mud, which would sink in if poked and not even a splash would appear.

But that one glance—

It wasn't anger, nor was it resentment.

It was something that made Gu Yanchun's smile freeze for a moment.

It was like a spark suddenly appearing from under a pile of ashes.

Gu Yanqiu withdrew his gaze and bent down to continue carrying firewood.

By the end of the morning, he had moved more firewood than the two strong laborers next to him combined.

All the blisters on my hands burst, and blood and mud mixed together, covering my hands completely.

When Old Sun was writing in the work points book, his hand paused for a moment—he neatly wrote "six" after Gu Yanqiu's name.

Six work points.

This was the first time Gu Yanqiu had earned a full day's worth of work points since arriving in Chengjiawan.

Gu Yanqiu did not go home at noon.

He found Cheng Tiezhu.

"Captain, can we get an advance on work points?"

Cheng Tiezhu was drinking water at the brigade headquarters when he heard this and almost spat it out.

"Advance payment?"

"Hmm. Can I exchange my six work points for three steamed buns?"

Cheng Tiezhu stared at him for a long time.

Look at those bloodshot eyes,

Look at those two hands covered in blood and mud.

Look at that thin, still unkempt face, but with a subtle change in appearance.

"OK."

Cheng Tiezhu took three white steamed buns from the steamer in the kitchen, wrapped them in a cloth, and handed them to Gu Yanqiu.

Three fist-sized white steamed buns.

White flour was a New Year's ration, steamed in advance by the brigade's kitchen. It wasn't supposed to be taken without permission, but Cheng Tiezhu was the team leader—if he said it was okay, then it was okay.

Gu Yanqiu took the bag of steamed buns with his two hands covered in blisters and glanced down at them.

Three plump, white steamed buns, steam rising through the cloth.

He swallowed hard.

My stomach growled.

He stuffed the steamed bun into his pocket and turned to walk home.

In the afternoon, Niannian was eating half a raw sweet potato in the house when she heard footsteps outside the door.

The door opened.

Gu Yanqiu stood at the door, his cotton-padded jacket covered in dust and sawdust, his hair clung to his hair, his face flushed red from the wind, and his hands behind his back.

Niannian threw down the sweet potato and jumped off the kang (a heated brick bed).

"dad!"

Gu Yanqiu stretched his hands out from behind his back—both hands were cracked, blisters and scabs mixed together, a shocking sight.

But in those two hands, they were holding a bundle of cloth.

The cloth is opened.

Three white steamed buns.

It's still hot.

Niannian's eyes lit up.

It wasn't because she saw the shiny steamed buns—although white flour steamed buns were something she only saw during the New Year.

Her eyes were drawn to the light gleaming in Gu Yanqiu's hands.

Those hands were covered in blisters and cracks.

This is not the hand of a lazy person.

This is a father's hand.

"Eat." Gu Yanqiu handed the steamed bun to Niannian, his voice hoarse—he had worked all day without drinking a drop of water, and his throat was parched.

Niannian took the steamed bun.

She broke off a piece and ate it in big bites.

My eyes welled up with tears when I took the bite.

It's not sadness.

She couldn't say what it was.

But this steamed bun was hotter than Aunt Zhao's fried egg, so hot that it almost brought tears to her eyes.

She ate one steamed bun and pushed the other two back.

"Dad eats."

Gu Yanqiu shook her head: "I've already eaten. I'm not hungry."

"You're lying." Niannian looked up, her eyes as sharp as ever—sharpness that a four-and-a-half-year-old shouldn't have. "You haven't finished eating that half-eaten sweet potato in your pocket yet."

Gu Yanqiu looked down and saw that half of the raw sweet potato in the pocket of his cotton-padded jacket was indeed still sticking out.

He was caught red-handed.

Niannian stuffed a steamed bun into his hand.

One for each of you. Save the last one for tomorrow.

Gu Yanqiu looked at the steamed bun in her hand, her hands, covered in blisters, trembling slightly.

But this time it wasn't because of regret.

It was something he hadn't felt in a very, very long time.

The father and daughter squatted in front of the stove, each eating a steamed bun with half a bowl of cold water.

Outside, the north wind was still blowing.

Cold air was still blowing into the crack in the wall.

But the room is a little warmer than last night.

It wasn't because the fire in the stove was burning brightly—it was because something unseen was slowly, little by little, growing in this dilapidated house.

After finishing her steamed bun, Nian Nian suddenly looked up.

"dad."

"Um?"

"Did your uncle say anything to me while you were working today?"

Gu Yanqiu stopped talking.

He looked at Niannian.

This girl—she didn't go to the threshing floor, how did she know?

Niannian looked down at her feet.

"The expression on your face when you came back was the same as when they were scolding you in the yard last night."

Her voice was soft, but steady like a child's.

"Dad, you don't need to pay attention to what they're saying."

Niannian raised her head, and her bright black eyes shone with an unusual light in the reflection of the stove fire—not anger, not hatred, but something deeper and quieter than these.

"My mother used to say—you can't control what other people say. But you can keep moving forward with your own legs."

Gu Yanqiu stopped eating the steamed bun in front of her mouth.

He looked at his four-and-a-half-year-old daughter in front of him.

At that moment, he saw Song Wanqing on Niannian's face.

It's not just a resemblance in the eyes and brows—it's something ingrained in one's very being. It's that feeling of being pressed down in the mud by life, face down, gasping for breath, yet never giving up the struggle.

Gu Yanqiu suddenly smiled.

The smile was brief and faint, appearing on his face, which had been listless for several years, like a very thin slit of light.

"Your mother... taught you a lot."

Nian Nian lowered her head.

"I remember everything my mother taught me."

The fire in the stove crackled, a spark flew out, landed on the muddy ground, flashed twice, and went out.

Footsteps came from outside the door—heavy and hurried, not like those of the Gu family.

"Knock knock knock" - someone is knocking on the door.

Cheng Tiezhu's loud voice boomed in from outside the door.

"Gu Yanqiu! Come out here! Someone's looking for you—they say they're from your daughter's maternal grandmother's side!"