Anti-gang campaign: Female bureau chief

Under the supervision of the Provincial Department of Environmental Protection, the drinking water safety project in Shiqiao County has completed the remediation of the water source. The gully in Chenjiagou mining area that was contaminated by radioactive tailings has been surrounded by barbed wire and a sign that reads "Environmental remediation in progress" has been hung up.

But that's not enough. Far from enough.

There are still dozens of unsolved cold cases on the backlog list. The manpower and equipment of the local police stations are still stretched thin. Some accomplices who were given light sentences or exempted from prosecution in the Shen Wangshan case have been released after serving their sentences and are scattered again in various corners of Yi'an.

These people are like duds that haven't been detonated; no one knows what fuse will ignite them one day.

It was already dark when the plane landed at the provincial capital airport.

Jiang Ruolan dragged her suitcase out of the arrival hall. A cold wind rushed into her collar, and she subconsciously tightened her scarf.

Winters in the provincial capital are much colder than in Yi'an. The air is dry and biting, and the plane trees along the street have long since lost all their leaves, their bare branches casting crisscrossing shadows under the streetlights.

She hailed a taxi and gave them her mother's address.

Her mother, Song Wanqing, lived in a government staff apartment building in the old city of the provincial capital, dating back to the 1990s. It was on the sixth floor and had no elevator.

When Jiang Ruolan carried her suitcase up to the fifth floor in one breath, she smelled the aroma of chive and egg dumplings wafting down from upstairs—the unique fragrance of her mother's dumplings, with plenty of chives, finely scrambled eggs, and homemade dough that was a size larger than other people's dumplings.

She stood at the door, catching her breath, and rang the doorbell. Before the door even opened, she heard the clattering of slippers inside and her mother calling out through the door, "Coming, coming!"

Song Wanqing opened the door, wearing an apron and with flour on both hands. Seeing her daughter standing in the doorway, she smiled briefly, then her expression immediately turned serious.

"You've lost weight again. What did I tell you? I told you to eat properly in Yi An, and you've been eating takeout every day? Look at your chin, it's so sharp it could poke someone."

"Mom, I've gained five pounds, and even Lu Zheng thinks I've gotten too fat."

Jiang Ruolan dragged her suitcase inside. As she bent down to change her shoes, her gaze swept over the framed photo on the coffee table in the living room—a picture of her father, Jiang Weiguo, wearing the judge's robe he wore for the last time before retirement, standing in front of the provincial high court building, smiling gently yet firmly.

In front of the photo frame were three plates of pastries: a plate of peach shortbread, a plate of fried dough twists, and a plate of honey-glazed pastries, all of which were her father's favorite foods.

She changed her shoes, walked over, stood in front of her father's photo for a while, and then called out to the kitchen:

"Mom, you're setting out offerings for Dad again. He's not a god."

"He's not a god, but he's better than a god."

Song Wanqing poked her head out from the kitchen, still holding an unfinished dumpling in her hand. "Did you forget that it was the anniversary of his death the day before yesterday? You were so busy that you didn't even make a phone call. I went to the cemetery myself to burn paper money for him and offered these snacks all day. I just brought them back and you're already back. Perfect, you can eat them for him, so they don't go to waste."

Jiang Ruolan picked up a peach shortbread and took a bite. It was very sweet, almost cloyingly sweet, just the kind of flavor her father liked.

She sat on the sofa, watching her mother's busy figure in the kitchen—Song Wanqing was sixty-three years old this year. Before retiring, she was the head nurse of the surgery department at the Provincial People's Hospital. She had worked in nursing for most of her life and had developed the ability to keep things organized no matter what happened at home.

The year her husband suddenly passed away, she handled the funeral arrangements by herself, packed up his belongings by herself, and arranged everything in the house perfectly by herself, without shedding a single tear in front of others from beginning to end.

On the night before Jiang Ruolan was packing her bags to go to Yi'an to take up her post, she got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water. As she passed by her mother's room, she heard a barely audible, suppressed sobbing coming from inside.

Jiang Ruolan, munching on a peach shortbread, suddenly said:

"Mom, I'll go with you to see Dad tomorrow."

Song Wanqing paused for a moment, her hands moving for a split second, then continued rolling out the dumpling wrappers, her tone remaining calm:

"Sure, you're not busy tomorrow, right? Go in the morning, come back in the afternoon and make dumplings. You said you've been living alone in Yi'an and haven't had a decent meal during the Lunar New Year. Last Lunar New Year—"

"I ate dumplings last Chinese New Year."

Jiang Ruolan interrupted her, "It's from the bureau's canteen, with cabbage and pork filling, it tastes alright."

"Can you even call the dumplings in the cafeteria dumplings? They're more like dough balls."

Song Wanqing slammed the rolling pin on the work surface, her tone carrying the unquestionable authority characteristic of a surgical head nurse, "Tomorrow I'll let you eat what real dumplings are like."

Jiang Ruolan didn't argue back.

She leaned back on the sofa, chewing on a peach shortbread, watching the news broadcast silently on TV, while the night outside the window in the provincial capital grew deeper and deeper.

This was her first time home in almost two years, and every time she came back, everything in this old house was exactly the same as she remembered—the ink stain on the sofa armrest that she had drawn with a ballpoint pen when she was a child was still there, the top shelf of her father's law books was covered with a thin layer of dust, and the clivia that her mother had raised for more than ten years in the corner had sprouted a new leaf this year.

Nothing has changed, except that there is one less person sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper.

The next morning, the mother and daughter went to the cemetery on the outskirts of the city.

Winters in the provincial capital are dry and cold. The pines and cypresses in the cemetery rustle in the wind. Although the sun shines brightly, it doesn't feel warm to people.

Jiang Ruolan, wearing a black coat and holding a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, stood in front of her father's tombstone.

The tombstone is engraved with Jiang Weiguo's name and birth and death dates, and the smile in the porcelain photo on it is exactly the same as the one she remembers.

She placed the white chrysanthemum in front of the monument, squatted down to wipe the dust off the photo, then stood up, took a step back, and bowed deeply three times.

Song Wanqing stood behind her, holding a plastic bag containing a rag she had brought from home and a small bottle of water.

She poured water onto a rag, squatted down, and wiped the edges and base of the tombstone bit by bit, her movements slow and meticulous, as if she were wiping the face of someone who was still alive.

After wiping, she stood up, put her hands together, and muttered something under her breath—probably telling him that her daughter was back, that she was busy with work, that she had lost weight but was in good spirits, and that he shouldn't worry about her over there.

Jiang Ruolan stood to the side listening without interrupting, simply turning up the collar of her coat to block the cold wind blowing through the pine and cypress forest.

On the way back from the cemetery, Song Wanqing suddenly said:

"If your dad were still alive, he would definitely be asking you about the case every day. In the years he retired, his greatest pleasure was watching the news. Whenever he saw a report about the crackdown on organized crime, he would call you and nag you endlessly."

"I know."

Jiang Ruolan drove, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "After I came to Yi'an, every time I encountered a tough case, I would remember what he told me—'Don't be afraid to tackle tough challenges.' His words are more effective than any mobilization order."

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