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

It was very cold on the day I moved.

The February wind swept over from behind the mountain ridges, carrying fine snowflakes that stung my face like salt.

All his possessions—all carried in one carrying pole.

The front basket contained an iron pot, two bowls, a shovel, and half a sack of grain. The back basket contained the old quilt and a few tattered clothes. The two items were carried together by a well-worn carrying pole.

Gu Yanqiu walked ahead, carrying the load on a pole.

Niannian followed behind, carrying an earthenware jar in her arms—her entire "private property." Inside the jar were her mother's belongings, an aluminum lunchbox, and the five yuan her father had left her.

From the courtyard to the dilapidated house—it's only thirty steps.

But these thirty steps were taken very slowly.

When I passed by the entrance to the main room, there was no sound from inside.

The door was closed.

The curtains were drawn.

There was no sound at all.

Wang Guifang did not come out.

Gu Yanchun did not come out.

Sun Xiufen didn't come out either.

It's as if the whole family made a pact—to pretend they didn't see it.

As Niannian passed by the window of the east wing, she caught a glimpse of a crack in the curtains—the curtains weren't fully drawn. Behind the crack, a pair of eyes were looking out.

The little girl's eyes.

Gu Xiaohe.

My five-year-old cousin was perched on the windowsill, her cheeks puffed out, looking out with great curiosity.

Niannian and her eyes met.

Gu Xiaohe was stunned for a moment.

Niannian smiled at her—a very faint smile.

Then he turned around and kept walking.

From today onwards—I'm no longer living under the same roof.

-

The dilapidated house—nowadays it should be called a "woodshed"—wasn't actually that dilapidated.

The four walls are still there.

Although a few roof tiles are missing, they can still keep out the rain on most parts.

The stove was cleaned by Nian Nian herself these past few days—the firebox can be lit and the chimney can vent smoke.

You can sleep on a kang (heated brick bed) – although it's drafty, you can make do with it by putting straw on it and then laying out that old quilt.

Gu Yanqiu put down the carrying pole.

First, put the pot on the stove.

The stove was stuffed with dry firewood—which Niannian handed over.

The fire was started.

The flames shot up, casting a warm yellow glow inside the room.

Niannian squatted in front of the stove, watching the fire.

"dad."

"Um."

"We're at home now."

Gu Yanqiu paused for a moment.

He glanced back at his daughter—her little face was flushed red in the firelight, the old wound on her forehead had scabbed over, and her frostbite hadn't fully healed.

But the corners of her mouth were slightly upturned.

That was the first time Gu Yanqiu had seen her daughter smile in all these days.

"Yes. It's my own home."

He squatted down and scooped two bowls of noodles out of the grain bag.

Fine white flour.

Of the fifty catties of grain that were divided among the family members, twenty catties were cornmeal, thirty catties were mixed flour, and only a little over three catties were fine white flour.

We should be frugal with our food.

But not today.

Gu Yanqiu mixed the dough, kneaded it, cut it, shaped it into buns, and steamed them.

There was no steamer; instead, a clean wooden board was placed on top of the pot, and the steamed buns were stacked on it.

A simple, old-fashioned method.

But it works.

When the steam rises, the whole dilapidated house is filled with the aroma of fine white flour.

Niannian squatted in front of the stove and took a deep breath.

Fragrant.

This was the best smell she had encountered since arriving in Chengjiawan.

Over in the courtyard—Wang Guifang's steamed buns were made of cornmeal mixed with sweet potato flour, dark in color, hard and rough. Fine white flour steamed buns were only served on New Year's Day, and even then, she never got a chance to eat them.

"dad."

"Um."

"Let's splurge today."

When the four-and-a-half-year-old child uttered the word "luxury," Gu Yanqiu was taken aback—then laughed.

wry smile.

It was a genuine laugh.

-

I steamed a whole pot of steamed buns.

Eight.

chubby and fair-skinned.

There are no dishes.

Gu Yanqiu rummaged through the jars that had been given to him and found half a jar of soy sauce—aged, its color as dark as ink.

I poured a bowl of soy sauce water.

Tear the steamed bun in half and dip it in the sauce.

Niannian held the steamed bun in her hands, the frostbite and wounds on her hands turning red from the steam.

She took a big bite.

Chewed twice—

Her eyes welled up with tears.

It's not sadness.

It's that feeling of finally being able to sit down and enjoy a full meal after enduring a long, long time—it's more likely to bring tears to your eyes than any other grievance.

"Is it delicious?" Gu Yanqiu asked.

Niannian nodded vigorously. With her mouth still stuffed with steamed bun, she mumbled, "..."

"Dad, it tastes better than the food over there."

Gu Yanqiu's nose tingled with emotion.

He lowered his head and took a big bite of the steamed bun.

As he chewed, the corners of his mouth curved into a smile.

This was the happiest he had ever laughed since becoming a father.

It's not because steamed buns are particularly delicious.

Because of--

From today onwards, his daughter will no longer have to worry about what anyone thinks when she eats.

This bite of steamed bun—is mine.

This bowl of soy sauce water—is mine.

This dilapidated house, drafty on all sides—also belonged to him.

poor.

But freedom.

-

"Knock knock knock—"

There was a knock at the door.

Niannian put down the steamed bun and went to open the door.

Aunt Wang stood outside the door.

He was holding a large bowl with a plate on top, steaming hot.

"The hot pot is here!"

Aunt Wang's voice was so loud that it could be heard throughout the entire alley.

"Once the family splits up, they have to cook—the first meal has to be a 'hot pot,' that's the rule!"

She stepped into the house and placed the bowl on the stove.

The plate was lifted.

A bowl of stewed cabbage.

Thick cabbage stalks are cut into chunks and stewed with glass noodles, topped with two white eggs.

The oily broth was steaming hot, and its aroma made your mouth water.

In the countryside in 1964, being able to eat stewed cabbage and poached eggs in winter was considered a rather decent meal.

"Grandma Wang—" Niannian's voice trembled slightly.

"Don't be polite with me!" Aunt Wang plopped down on the wooden stool by the stove. "I ate both eggs! One for Niannian, one for Yanqiu. If anyone tries to refuse, I'll get angry!"

Niannian stared at the eggs in the bowl.

Plump and round, they lie between the vermicelli and cabbage, like two little moons.

She reached in and scooped out an egg, placing it in a bowl.

I watched for a few seconds.

Then he raised his head and looked at Aunt Wang.

"Grandma Wang."

"What are you doing?"

"When I grow up—"

Her voice was very soft.

But every word was powerful and resounding.

"I'll buy you chicken drumsticks."

Aunt Wang was stunned for a moment.

Then--

The woman, who was in her fifties, trembled her lips and her eyes instantly reddened.

She turned her face away and rubbed her eyes hard with her sleeve.

"Chicken leg—" she muttered, her voice nasal, "I'm waiting. Don't forget."

"I won't forget," Niannian said.

Her voice was flat.

But there was something in those eyes—something that a four-and-a-half-year-old child wouldn't have.

That was a promise.

Aunt Wang sat for a while, watching the father and daughter finish their meal, before getting up and leaving.

As she reached the door, she turned her head back.

"Tell me if you need anything. Don't try to hide it."

The door closed.

-

That night.

She was still snuggled up in bed.

The old quilt was thin, but the residual heat from the stove still lingered in the kang (a heated brick bed), making it warm and cozy.

She turned to the side, looking at her father on the opposite kang (a heated brick bed).

Gu Yanqiu is still awake.

He leaned against the wall, holding a pencil stub and a piece of scrap paper in his hand—doing calculations.

Fifty catties of grain.

If you eat sparingly, one and a half pounds a day—that can last for more than thirty days.

Half an acre of land—it can be planted in the spring. But from planting to harvest, it takes at least four or five months.

What to do about this gap in the middle?

Thirty-seven yuan and fifty cents in savings—enough to buy food. But it was Song Wanqing's keepsake, left to Nian Nian. Gu Yanqiu didn't want to touch it.

Five yuan—that should last for a while.

His bricklaying job has been temporarily suspended—the training course is still more than two months away, and he has to go back the day after tomorrow.

After returning home, Nian Nian was alone—but this time it was different.

My own room. My own door.

Wang Guifang can't get in. Sun Xiufen can't get in either.

Once the bolt is in place, no one can get in.

Gu Yanqiu wrote a few numbers on the paper, then crossed them out.

He sighed.

"dad."

He looked down and saw that Niannian's eyes were wide open, showing no signs of sleepiness.

"Um?"

Will things get better for us from now on?

Gu Yanqiu put down her pencil.

He reached out his hand—a hand covered in calluses and scars—and grasped Nian Nian's little hand in his palm.

"Definitely."

He said.

"Dad promises."

Niannian didn't ask "how to get better".

She buried her face in the blanket, leaving only her eyes showing.

Outside the window—

The wind has died down.

Snow stopped.

Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the broken tiles, drawing a thin, silvery line on the muddy ground. The line stretched from the doorway all the way to the front of the kang (a heated brick bed), like a path with no end in sight.

Niannian gripped her father's hand tightly.

In the darkness—

Two hands, one big and one small, clasped together.

It's warm.

-

But Nian Nian couldn't fall asleep.

She lay there with her eyes open in the darkness—a number swirling in her mind.

Fifty catties.

Fifty catties of grain.

One and a half pounds a day, that's forty-five pounds in thirty days.

Five pounds remain—should we keep them for seeds, or for emergencies?

She turned over and looked at the outline of the half-bag of grain on the stove.

Under the moonlight—the shadow of that half-bag of grain was shorter than her whole body.

Fifty catties.

Thirty days.

The spring famine is not over yet—

Outside the mountains, on the road, is there any work that can be done?

Niannian closed her eyes.

But her hand—never let go of her father's hand.

The last spark in the stove went out.

The room was completely dark.

In the darkened, dilapidated house, only the breathing of two people could be heard. One light, one heavy. One short, one long.

like-

Two seeds that have just fallen into the soil.

Beneath the frozen soil, silently—waiting for spring.