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

Gu Yanqiu left home before dawn.

He didn't wake Niannian.

He rekindled the fire in the stove, cut up a few pieces of the only sweet potato he had, threw them into the pot to cook, and placed a bowl of warm water by the kang (a heated brick bed).

After doing all that, he put on his patched cotton-padded coat, pushed open the door, and went out.

The mornings in the first month of the lunar calendar are so cold they can freeze your bones.

The dirt road was covered with a layer of white frost, and it crunched underfoot. In the distance, the barren mountains looked like a row of black shadows against the gray-blue sky, with not a single tree visible.

Gu Yanqiu exhaled a breath of white air, which instantly condensed into mist.

He walked very fast.

The direction wasn't the threshing floor—there was no work today; during the first month of the lunar year, the brigade had only assigned odd jobs like inventorying the warehouse, and it wasn't his turn.

He headed towards the commune.

During the few hours yesterday when Nian Nian had a high fever, his mind wasn't just racing—he remembered something.

A few days ago, someone posted a notice on the wooden planks of the threshing ground.

He glanced at it again.

The notice read—

"Brick kiln in Baiyang Commune is hiring temporary porters. Daily wage is 50 cents, lunch included. Bring your own tools. Those interested can register at the entrance of the brick kiln."

Five cents.

Five cents a day.

That's fifteen yuan a month.

Fifteen dollars—in 1964—

Enough to buy thirty catties of wheat flour.

Enough to buy two jin of pork,

That's enough to buy a bottle of Analgin.

That's enough to pay for one medical visit for Niannian.

That's enough for her to have a full meal.

enough.

-

Baiyang Commune is eleven miles away from Chengjiawan.

Gu Yanqiu walked for an hour and a half.

When we arrived at the entrance of the brick kiln, the sun had just peeked over the ridgeline, its red glow resembling a scorching hot iron ball.

The brick kiln was built on the riverbank east of the commune.

Four large chimneys were belching thick smoke.

You can smell the burnt earth from afar.

There were already seven or eight people standing at the factory gate.

They all come from nearby villages looking for work.

A middle-aged man in blue overalls stood at the door, holding a hard-cover notebook, registering each person one by one.

Gu Yanqiu walked up to him.

"Comrade, I'm here to sign up as a porter."

The person registering looked up at him.

He looked her up and down.

thin.

Too thin.

His cotton-padded coat had seven or eight patches.

The exposed cotton fibers were uneven, as if gnawed by mice. His cheeks were sunken in two places, his cheekbones were high, and his stubble was half an inch long. His two hands—

The fingers are long and slender, but the knuckles are large.

My fingers were full of dry, cracked, and bleeding cuts.

Is this the build of someone who does manual labor?

The person registering the information frowned.

Which village are you from?

"Chengjiawan. Gu Yanqiu."

"Have you ever done heavy work? Carrying bricks earns at least three thousand yuan a day, with each stack weighing eighty pounds, carried from the kiln to the material yard—a distance of more than a hundred steps."

"I've done it," Gu Yanqiu said.

I've done it.

Six years ago—no, five years ago—when he was a porter at a textile factory in the provincial capital, he carried two hundred bales of cotton yarn a day. Each bale weighed one hundred and twenty pounds.

But that was five years ago.

For the past five years, he had been a "lazy bum" in Chengjiawan—drinking, passing the days, and living like a slump. His muscles atrophied, his physical strength waned, and he became like a rusty machine.

The person registering was skeptical, but there weren't enough people—few were willing to do such hard work during the first month of the lunar year—so he made a note of it in his notebook.

"Okay, let's try it for one day. Keep up."

-

The work at the brick kiln was even more demanding than Gu Yanqiu had imagined.

The bricks coming out of the kiln still carried a scorching heat—freshly fired red bricks, their surfaces still steaming. You had to wear gloves when handling them, or they'd burn your hands. But the gloves were made of gauze, as thin as paper, and the heat still seeped into your palms.

Eighty pounds in a stack—eight bricks stacked together, tied with straw rope, slung over the shoulder, carried for over a hundred steps, placed on the shelf in the material yard, stacked neatly, and then walked back.

One trip takes two minutes.

I make hundreds of trips a day.

When Gu Yanqiu carried the load for the first time, his shoulder ached as if it had been sawed.

Eighty pounds—not heavy.

But after five years of not doing physical labor, his body was no different from a broken-down tractor. His muscles wouldn't obey him, his joints creaked and groaned, and every step he took felt like being hammered.

By the tenth time, he had developed two blisters on his palms.

On the twentieth trip, the blister burst, revealing pink, tender flesh, and every touch was excruciatingly painful.

On his fiftieth trip, his legs began to tremble.

My back hurts so much it feels like it's going to break.

Sweat dripped from his forehead to his chin, landing on the muddy ground beneath his feet, where it instantly froze into ice crystals.

Several burly men working nearby were secretly watching him.

"This guy is no good, is he? Look at that waist, it's like a shrimp."

"From Chengjiawan? I heard there's a lazy bum there who doesn't work—is that him?"

"A lazy bum wants to move bricks? The sun must have risen in the west."

Gu Yanqiu heard it.

He is not deaf.

But he didn't reply.

He bent down, hoisted the eighty-pound stack of bricks onto his shoulder, straightened up—his knee trembled—he steadied himself—and took a step—and walked.

More than a hundred steps.

lay down.

Turn around.

Walk back.

Keep going.

Let's go again.

Put it in again.

Repeatedly.

-

At noon, the foreman called a halt.

"Have a meal!"

A large pot was set up under the shed of the brickyard, simmering with cabbage and tofu soup. Next to it, a stack of white steamed buns—large, round, and steaming—was piled up in a basket.

The notice stated that temporary workers would be provided with a free lunch.

Two steamed buns and a bowl of vegetable soup for each person.

Gu Yanqiu squatted down against the wall, holding a bowl.

He looked down at the soup in the bowl—cabbage leaves floated in the murky broth, and the oil droplets were only the size of a fingernail.

But it's hot.

It is hot.

He took a sip.

Salty.

It's warm.

It slid down my throat, warming my stomach and making me feel incredibly comfortable.

He hadn't had a hot meal in a long time.

At the Gu family home, he and Niannian always received only half a bowl of cold corn porridge.

He picked up a steamed bun.

White flour.

It was so white it practically glowed.

In the rural areas of 1964, white flour steamed buns were not a daily staple; they were a delicacy reserved for the New Year.

He took a bite.

I chewed it twice.

Then—it stopped.

He looked at the remaining half of the steamed bun in his hand.

Then I looked at the last one left in the basket.

He swallowed the steamed bun in his mouth.

Then he placed the bitten one on the edge of the bowl, picked up another whole steamed bun, wrapped it in a handkerchief—his only handkerchief, washed until it was white, with frayed edges—and tucked it into his cotton-padded coat.

It was pressed against my chest.

It's still warm.

The warmth of a steamed bun seeped through the cotton-padded jacket and onto my skin.

He finished the half that he had bitten.

They drank every last drop of the soup.

Then he stood up and continued carrying bricks.

-

By the time we finished work in the afternoon, the sun had already dipped below the ridgeline.

The foreman handed him fifty cents—a green five-cent banknote.

"You're alright. Are you coming tomorrow?"

"Come."

Gu Yanqiu clutched the five cents in his hand.

His knuckles turned white from gripping the fist so tightly.

He walked for an hour and a half along the mountain path back to Chengjiawan.

By the time I got to my doorstep, it was already completely dark.

A single kerosene lamp shone from the dilapidated house.

Niannian sat on the kang (a heated brick bed).

Her fever had subsided, but she was still listless, pale, and her lips were bloodless.

He was wearing the old undergarment that Aunt Wang had given him, and over it was a cotton-padded jacket with countless patches.

She heard the door open and looked up.

I saw Gu Yanqiu.

Gu Yanqiu stood at the doorway—his cotton-padded coat was covered in dust and brick dust, his hands were terribly rubbed raw, blisters had burst and new ones had formed, and blood seeped from between his fingers. His face was red from the wind, his lips were chapped, and a layer of frost had formed on his stubble.

But his eyes were bright.

He walked over and took the handkerchief pouch out of his pocket.

turn on.

A large white steamed bun.

It still retained some warmth. It wasn't very hot anymore—after walking for an hour and a half on the mountain path, even the hottest steamed buns would have cooled down by about 70-80%—but it still retained a slight warmth.

I kept it close to my chest the whole way, using my body heat to keep it warm.

"Nian Nian".

Gu Yanqiu handed the steamed bun to her daughter.

"eat."

Niannian stared at the steamed bun.

White.

Round.

It's bigger than her face.

She reached out and took it.

Holding a white steamed bun in two hands—those small hands with cracked chilblains, torn fingernails, and wrapped in gauze.

She saw a tooth mark on the side of the steamed bun.

It's the mark of someone being bitten and then put down.

She knew whose teeth marks they were.

Niannian lowered her head and took a bite of the steamed bun.

I chewed it twice.

The white steamed buns had a faint wheat aroma—not sweet, not salty, but tastier than anything she had ever eaten in her life.

As she chewed, her eyes suddenly reddened.

But she didn't shed a tear.

She looked up at Gu Yanqiu, who was squatting in front of the kang (a heated brick bed).

"Dad, you're amazing."

Four words.

Speaking from the mouth of a four-and-a-half-year-old child—it sounds so light and airy.

But the weight that struck Gu Yanqiu's heart was heavier than the thousands of bricks he had moved that day.

He opened his mouth.

His Adam's apple rolled up and down twice.

He didn't say anything.

He turned around and wiped his face abruptly with his sleeve.

Then he squatted back in front of the stove and started a fire.

The dry firewood in the stove crackled and popped.

The firelight reflected on their faces.

One big and one small.

One had hands covered in blisters, the other was covered in wounds.

But that dilapidated house—that house with cracked walls, a door that wouldn't close properly, and a temperature as cold as an icebox—was warmed up a little by the fire in the stove and a steamed bun.

Niannian chewed the steamed bun bite by bite.

Chewing very slowly.

Very serious.

Not a single scrap was wasted.

Gu Yanqiu squatted in front of the stove, added water to the pot, and prepared to cook a bowl of sweet potato soup for Niannian.

His back hurt so badly it felt like it was broken.

His legs were trembling, and he could barely stand up straight.

But his back was straight.

-

The water in the pot started to bubble.

The "glug-glug" sound echoed in the quiet room.

After finishing her steamed bun, Niannian sat on the kang (a heated brick bed) with her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes fixed on the fire in the stove.

"dad."

"Um."

"What did you do today?"

"Go to the commune's brick kiln to move bricks."

Niannian remained silent for a while.

Are you tired?

Gu Yanqiu paused for a moment. He almost said "I'm not tired"—but he knew that Nian Nian would see through his lie.

"I'm tired," he said.

Are you going again tomorrow?

"go."

Niannian nodded.

She didn't say anything more.

The fire in the stove crackled and popped, sending out a spark that landed on the muddy ground, lit up for a moment, and then went out.

Niannian suddenly spoke up and said—

"Dad, will I be able to earn money in the future?"

Gu Yanqiu turned to look at her.

Niannian's eyes sparkled in the firelight.

This isn't a joke—it's serious.

Gu Yanqiu looked into her eyes—Song Wanqing's eyes—and his lips twitched slightly.

"able."

"How do I earn it?"

"Your mother once said—a literate person will never starve, no matter where they go."

Niannian's eyes lit up.

"Then my father taught me to read."

Gu Yanqiu's Adam's apple bobbed.

He was silent for two seconds.

Then he said—

"it is good."

The sweet potato soup in the pot bubbled, and white steam rose from the cracks in the lid, casting a thin layer of mist over the dilapidated house.

In the mist, Niannian sat on the kang (a heated brick bed), while Gu Yanqiu squatted in front of the stove.

The two of them remained silent.

But the air inside that dilapidated house—was different from before.

It used to be dead.

Now—something has come to life.

Like a seed.

Buried in the frozen soil.

It hasn't sprouted yet.

But the roots—have already taken hold.

A sliver of light shone through the kitchen window of Sun Xiufen's kitchen on the other side of the courtyard wall.

She stood behind the window and saw Gu Yanqiu return, covered in dust, with injuries on his hands, and walking in a way that was completely different from before.

Her brows slowly furrowed.

"This person... has changed."

She muttered something to herself and then lowered the curtains.

The moment the curtains fell, she didn't see—in the dilapidated house on this side of the courtyard wall, Gu Yanqiu took out the five-cent banknote from his pocket, flattened it, and carefully placed it under his pillow.

Five cents.

The first five cents.

Niannian's mind was filled with the words her father had just said—

"A literate person will never starve, no matter where they go."

She slowly traced two characters with her fingers on the kang (a heated brick bed)—the first character her mother taught her to write, held her hand in hers.

"Gu".

She can't write it in full yet.

But she will learn.

Meanwhile, in Wangjia Village, northeast of Chengjiawan and beyond two mountain ridges, the old lady of the Wang family sat in a grand chair in the main room, chewing on a pipe and exhaling a puff of murky yellow smoke.

Standing opposite her was a tall, thin middle-aged man—Song's second uncle.

"Are you sure—that girl is in Chengjiawan?"

"I'm sure. I'll go get it after the New Year." Uncle Song said, bowing and scraping. "It's a two-hundred-yuan deal; we can't let it go to waste."

Old Mrs. Wang narrowed her eyes—a sinister glint, sharper than a pungent tobacco, flashed in her cloudy old eyes.

"Before the Lantern Festival—"

She tapped her pipe.

"Bring him back to me."