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

He Yuzhu sat in his office all night. The sky outside the window changed from black to gray, then from gray to white, but the sun never came out. The clouds hung low, like a dirty wad of cotton covering the sky. The phone sat on the corner of the desk; he stared at it for a long time, but it didn't ring. He got up twice, once to close the window, and once to pour water. He poured the water into a cup, but didn't drink it; it just sat there, cold.

When Qin Huairu brought breakfast, it was already broad daylight. She opened the door and saw him still sitting in the same spot, in the exact same posture as last night. She placed the bowl on the table, asked no questions, and turned to leave. The porridge was made of millet, thickened with a film on top. He picked at it with his chopsticks, took a sip, couldn't swallow, and pushed the bowl aside.

Old Sun arrived in the afternoon. When he pushed the door open, He Yuzhu was staring at the bare locust tree outside the window. Hearing the door open, he turned around, didn't say anything, and looked at Old Sun's face.

Old Sun sat down opposite him, took out a cigarette, but didn't light it. He held it in his hand for a while, then put it back in his pocket.

"We received a call from Tibet."

He Yuzhu waited for him to continue. Old Sun took the cigarette case out of his pocket, then put it back, repeating this twice before finally speaking.

"Ma Yuejin is fine. The tank is fine too."

He Yuzhu leaned back in his chair and pressed his hand on his knee. He didn't ask about the battle situation, but about the people first.

"How is he?"

Old Sun said, "His voice is alright. He's just a little out of breath; there's not enough oxygen over there. He said he wanted to come back for a hot meal."

He Yuzhu didn't reply. After a while, he said, "Let him come back."

Old Sun nodded, stood up, and left. But as he reached the door, he turned back.

"Nine were destroyed. T-55s, frontal penetration. They lost three intact tanks while they were fleeing, but we towed them back."

The door closed. He Yuzhu sat there, picked up the chopsticks, then put them down again. The porridge had gone completely cold, and the film that had formed was even thicker; he didn't drink any more.

Ma Yuejin arrived in Beijing three days later.

He Yuzhu went to the train station to pick him up. Standing at the exit, he watched the people pouring out of the carriages. Some were carrying large bags and small packages, some were holding children, and some were carrying net bags. The last one to get off was Ma Yuejin. He jumped off the train, his legs buckling slightly as he landed, and he grabbed the handrail for support. His face was darker, his cheekbones protruding, his collar was loose, and his military uniform hung loosely on his body. His lips were chapped and peeling, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as if he had been beaten up.

He saw He Yuzhu and grinned. But the smile faltered, and his lips drooped. He walked over, stood in front of He Yuzhu, opened his mouth, and spoke in a hoarse voice, like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal.

"Dean, you're back."

He Yuzhu looked at him. He noticed how much weight he'd lost, how high his cheekbones were, how loose his collar was. He didn't speak, only nodded. Ma Yuejin took a small cloth bag from his inner pocket, wrapped it in several layers of cloth, unwrapped it layer by layer, revealing a polished shell casing inside. He handed it to him.

He Yuzhu caught it; it was heavy, heavier than he had expected. He turned the cartridge case over; the inscription on the bottom was deeply engraved, and he could feel the grooves when he ran his fingers over it. It was Russian script; he didn't recognize it, but he knew what it meant.

"From the Soviet Union," Ma Yuejin said. He hesitated for a moment before uttering the word "from," as if hesitating whether or not to say it.

He Yuzhu put the spent cartridge into his pocket, turned around, and walked forward.

"Let's go back and eat."

Ma Yuejin followed behind, took a few steps, and then looked back at the platform. The train had already left, and the tracks were empty, stretching into the distance with no end in sight.

Qin Huairu prepared four dishes: braised pork, scrambled eggs, stewed vermicelli, and cabbage soup. The plates were laid out on the table, steaming hot. He Nianhua leaned over the table, poking at the plate of braised pork with his chopsticks. He'd poke a piece, glance at Ma Yuejin, then poke another. He was three years old, but still couldn't hold his chopsticks properly; he poked at it for a long time without managing to pick up a single piece.

Ma Yuejin sat opposite him, watching him poke around without helping. He Nianhua finally managed to poke up a piece, held it up to his eyes to look at it, then put it back on the plate and pushed it towards the edge of Ma Yuejin's bowl with his finger.

"Uncle, eat."

His speech was unclear, but he was very earnest. Ma Yuejin paused for a moment, then smiled, his eyes reddening as he smiled. He lowered his head, stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth, and chewed for a long time. He Nianhua leaned over the table watching him eat, her small face showing a serious and solemn expression, as if she were accomplishing something important.

He Yuzhu sat opposite them, watching them without saying a word. Qin Huairu placed a piece of food on his plate, and he lowered his head to eat slowly.

That evening, He Yuzhu sat alone in his office, placing the spent cartridge on his desk.

The Russian letters were clearly visible under the light. He looked at them one by one, his fingers tracing the grooves. He picked up the phone and dialed Old Sun's number.

"Have you found out about the artillery shells?"

Old Sun said, "We found it. It was produced in the Soviet Union last year, shipped to India by sea, and then transferred to the border. The higher-ups are taking it very seriously. The Soviets say they're neutral, but they've given us plenty of supplies."

He Yuzhu turned the cartridge case over and looked at the letters again.

"Any news about that 'sir'?"

Old Sun remained silent for a while.

"No. We haven't found the third brother either. All those people who ran away listed in the ledger have also disappeared."

He Yuzhu put the spent cartridge down.

"Continue the investigation."

The phone call ended. He sat there, staring at the spent cartridge for a long time. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, bathing the courtyard in a pale light. The shadow of the locust tree fell to the ground, its bare branches like withered fingers reaching towards the night sky.