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

He Yuzhu had already gotten off the kang (a heated brick bed), put on his shoes, and taken the library book from the drawer, tucking it into his coat. He walked to the door and turned back. Qin Huairu stood there, her lips moving, but she didn't say a word.

The gate had been kicked open. He Yuzhu stood in the courtyard, watching the two door panels spring open with a sharp clang. The panels slammed against the wall, bounced back, and were blocked by the people rushing in. Leading the way was a young man in his early twenties, his face flushed red. He wore a red armband with the words "Red Guard" written on it, the ink smudged, the last stroke of the character "兵" (soldier) drawn out. He stood in front of He Yuzhu, panting heavily, his chest heaving, as if he had run a long way.

"You're He Yuzhu?" He Yuzhu looked at him. The young man blushed, not with shyness, but with an uncontrollable flush of blood rushing to his head. Behind him were a dozen or so people, some craning their necks, some standing on tiptoe, some trying to push forward only to be pushed back by those behind them. Some held glue brushes, still covered in bits of paper that hadn't completely dried.

"He Yuzhu, your archives are full of feudal, capitalist, and revisionist propaganda. We need to investigate."

He Yuzhu took out the borrowing register from his pocket and handed it over.

"Every document in the archives is recorded when it enters and leaves. If you want to look at it, you can. Just follow the rules."

The young man took it, flipped through it, and the pages rustled. After a few pages, he threw the register back, the pages scattered, fell to the ground, and were stepped on by the person behind him.

"Rules? Your rules are just to serve the capitalist roaders!"

He Yuzhu squatted down, picked up the register, brushed off the dust, and put it back in his pocket.

"The things in the archives belong to the state, not any one person. You can look into them, but you need the proper procedures. You need approval from higher authorities or a certificate from the public security department."

The young man paused, startled. He glanced back at the people behind him. They were crowded at the courtyard gate; some began to back away, some stood still, and some turned their faces away, refusing to look at him. He turned back again, his face flushing even more.

"We are revolutionary masses! We don't need those things!"

He Yuzhu stood there, watching him. The young man took a step forward, then stepped back, his Adam's apple bobbing. Someone tugged at his sleeve from behind; he shook it off, then got tugged again.

"He Yuzhu, don't be so arrogant! You'll have to hand over those things sooner or later!"

He turned around, pushed aside the people behind him, and walked out. The others followed him, their steps disorderly, some fast, some slow, some glancing back before quickly turning away again. The footsteps faded, the slogans faded, and the alley fell silent again. A gust of wind blew in from the gate, turning the piece of paper with footprints on the ground inside out, revealing the blank white back.

Yang Xiaobing stood at the courtyard gate, his hand gripping a dagger, his knuckles white. He watched the group of people walk away, then tucked the dagger back into his waistband and walked back.

"Commander, they'll be coming again."

He Yuzhu didn't speak. He turned around and went into the house. Qin Huairu was still standing at the door of the inner room. He Nianhua was awake, leaning on her shoulder, rubbing her eyes with her little hands. Seeing He Yuzhu come in, he reached out his hand.

"dad."

He Yuzhu took him and held him in his arms. He Nianhua buried his little face in his shoulder, feeling its warmth and softness. Qin Huairu stood beside him, watching him without saying a word. She closed the door, blocking out the wind, and the room became quiet, with only the clock on the wall ticking away.

That evening, He Yuzhu sat alone in his office. The moon outside the window was bright, shining on the courtyard wall, casting the shadows of the big-character posters on the ground, patchy like welts. He took out the documents from his system space and stacked them on the table. Aerospace, military industry, nuclear submarines, radar. The papers gleamed a yellowish hue in the moonlight, their edges curled up, some still bearing the marks of years of handwriting. He picked up the top one and opened to the first page. "Preliminary Design of Manned Spacecraft," the words on the cover were his own handwriting, pen stroke by stroke. He looked at it for a long time, then closed it and put it back.

Those things are safer there than anywhere else.

The next morning, He Yuzhu went to the archives. Lin Jianguo stood at the door, his hand gripping the key to his chest, his knuckles white. Old Zheng stood beside him, his key dangling from his waist, swaying back and forth. The door opened, and He Yuzhu went in, stopping in front of the innermost row of cabinets. He opened the cabinet labeled "Spaceflight - Manned Spacecraft," but it was empty. He closed it. He then opened the cabinet labeled "Spaceflight - Space Station," which was also empty. He opened and closed them one by one. Lin Jianguo stood at the door, staring at the empty cabinets, his hand gripping the doorframe until his knuckles turned white.

He Yuzhu came out, closed the door, and locked it.

"Let's go," he said.

Lin Jianguo didn't move. He stood there, his hand still gripping the door frame, the white marks on his knuckles still lingering.

"Dean, those things..."

He Yuzhu turned around.

"That's all."

"What does 'gone' mean?"

"Burn it."

Lin Jianguo's hand slid off the doorframe. He looked down at the key hanging from his chest for a long time. The key, threaded with a thin string, was close to his chest. He reached out and touched it, then put his hand down. Then he turned and walked downstairs. He stopped at the top of the stairs without looking back.

"Dean, those things represent my life's work."

His voice came from the stairwell, not loud, but every word was clear. After speaking, he walked down the stairs, his footsteps fading into the distance. He Yuzhu stood in the corridor, looking in that direction, his hands in his pockets. The keys were still there, two, clutched in his palms.

Outside the window, dawn had broken. Several large-character posters on the courtyard wall had been blown away by the night wind, and the remaining ones drooped in the morning light, their edges curled up like closed eyes. In the distance, someone was shouting slogans; the voices were distant, as if veiled by something, and it was impossible to make out what they were shouting, but it was clear that they were shouting. He Yuzhu stood by the window, pulling his hand out of his pocket, leaving the key inside, which was digging into his thigh.

He turned around and walked towards his office.