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

The lights in the research institute stay on very late.

He Yuzhu sat at his desk, the blueprints for the combustion chamber spread out in his hand for half an hour without turning a single page. It was completely dark outside the window, and occasionally a night bird would flutter its wings and fly by, its shadow flashing on the glass before disappearing.

He stared at the numbers on the blueprint, and as he looked, the numbers slowly began to distort. Three circles, five circles, eight circles—they turned into a row of crooked little figures, grinning, toothless.

The door was pushed open.

Ma Yuejin stood at the door, holding two enamel mugs. He walked over, placed one mug on the table, glanced at the blueprint, and then at He Yuzhu.

"Dean, you've looked at the parameters for this cooling channel three times."

He Yuzhu came to his senses.

"Um."

Ma Yuejin didn't leave; he sat down opposite him. He picked up his mug, took a sip, and hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but then stopped.

He Yuzhu raised his head.

"Speak your mind."

Ma Yuejin put the jar down.

"Dean, what's your daughter's name again?"

He Yuzhu was stunned for a moment.

"Nianhua".

Ma Yuejin nodded and stood up.

"A good name."

He walked to the door, then turned back.

"Dean, I'll come again tomorrow. You should go home early."

The door closed.

He Yuzhu looked down at the drawing. Sometime during the drawing process, a pencil had made several black dots on it, arranged in a row, resembling the outline of a little person.

He closed the blueprints.

That afternoon, Old Sun arrived earlier than usual.

He Yuzhu was chopping firewood in the yard when he heard footsteps and looked up. Old Sun was standing by the hanging flower gate, not going in, with a cigarette between his fingers. He took a puff and slowly exhaled.

He Yuzhu stuck the axe into the wooden stump.

"What's up?"

Old Sun walked over and squatted down next to him. He took a document out of his briefcase and handed it to him.

He Yuzhu took it and glanced at it.

Northwest. Half a month.

He folded the document and didn't say anything.

After finishing his cigarette, Old Sun stubbed it out on the ground and stood up.

"Is everything alright at home?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

"That's fine."

Old Sun looked at him for a few seconds.

"Then I'm leaving."

He turned and walked out. But when he reached the hanging flower gate, he turned back.

He Yuzhu was still squatting there, staring at the pile of chopped firewood, without moving.

Old Sun didn't say anything more and left.

That evening, Qin Huairu sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) sewing a small garment. He Nianhua slept beside her, her little mouth moving slightly, perhaps dreaming of eating something.

He Yuzhu sat next to her, watching her sew.

Qin Huairu did not look up.

"Has Old Sun been here?"

He Yuzhu nodded.

"Um."

Qin Huairu paused for a moment, then continued sewing.

"Going?"

He Yuzhu didn't say anything.

Qin Huairu inserted the needle into the fabric, put it down, and looked up at him.

"You weren't like this before. You used to just leave whenever you wanted, without ever hesitating."

He Yuzhu looked at her.

"She wasn't here before."

Qin Huairu was stunned for a moment.

She lowered her head and looked at the sleeping little face for a long time.

"What are you afraid of?"

He Yuzhu did not answer.

Qin Huairu placed her hand on the back of his hand.

Are you afraid you won't be able to come back?

He Yuzhu moved his hand slightly.

Qin Huairu gripped his hand tightly.

"When you were in North Korea, I longed for your return every day. At that time, I thought, if you could come back alive, I wouldn't want anything."

She looked up at him.

"Now that you're alive and have her, what do I have to fear?"

He Yuzhu looked at her without saying a word.

She let go, picked up the child, and patted him gently.

"Go ahead. Half a month will pass in the blink of an eye."

On the morning of the day I left, it was still dark.

A thin mist hung in the courtyard, and the clothes on the clothesline were wet and dangling motionless. He Yushui stood at the kitchen door, clutching her apron, watching him.

He Yuzhu held He Nianhua in his arms and stood in the courtyard.

The little one had just finished nursing and was looking at him with her eyes open, though he couldn't tell what she was looking at. He lowered his head and nuzzled her little face with his nose. She grinned, revealing her toothless gums, and smiled.

He rubbed against it again.

She smiled again.

Rub against it again, laugh again.

When she rubbed against it for the fifth time, her little mouth twitched and she burst into tears.

He Yushui walked over and tried to take it, but He Yuzhu didn't give it to her.

He held her and patted her gently for a while until her crying subsided and turned into soft whimpers.

He Yushui stood beside him, watching him.

"Brother, what will Nianhua do if she misses you?"

He Yuzhu paused for a moment.

Qin Huairu came out of the house, took the child, and hugged him tightly. The whimpering stopped, and the little face nestled against her chest.

She looked at He Yuzhu.

"Let's go. The train won't wait."

He Yuzhu stood there, staring at that little face for several seconds.

Then he turned around and walked out.

I walked to the gate of the courtyard and turned back.

Qin Huairu stood in the courtyard, holding the child, and smiled at him.

He Yushui stood next to her, also smiling, but her eyes were red.

He pushed open the door and went out.

It wasn't until the train had traveled a long way that He Yuzhu realized he had kept his hand on his left breast pocket the whole time.

There's a photo there, taken on the day Nianhua turned one month old. She's sleeping soundly with her eyes closed, her little fists clenched tightly, I don't know what she's grasping.

He took out the photo and looked at it for a long time.

Outside the window, a father and son were working in the field. The father carried a hoe and walked in front. The son, about five or six years old, followed behind, skipping and hopping, chasing a butterfly.

He put the photo away and leaned back in his chair.

The voice in my head rang.

He didn't look at it.

Outside the window, the sun has risen.