Breakfast in the pot was cornmeal porridge and two steamed cornbread buns. The porridge was still warm, the buns a bit hard but fragrant when chewed. Lin Jianguo sat by the stove, eating slowly, but his eyes were surveying the room.
Earthen kang, stove, water vat, dish cupboard. New Year's pictures on the wall—last year's, colors faded, but you could still make out the chubby baby holding a big carp. In the corner, stacks of grain sacks, a scale resting on top, its weight hanging down and swaying slightly.
Everything matched his memories exactly.
After breakfast, he washed the bowls and put them in the cupboard. Then he went to the inner room and opened the drawer of that old-fashioned three-drawer desk.
The drawer was a mess: thread and needles, fabric scraps, a few rusty nails, a candle stub, some buttons—and an old calendar.
He took out the calendar.
A 1978 calendar, palm-sized, pages yellowed, corners curled. On the cover, the red characters "Grasp Revolution, Promote Production" above a harvest scene: golden wheat waves, peasants in straw hats, white teeth showing in broad smiles.
He flipped to October.
October 1st, National Day—someone had drawn a circle in ballpoint pen.
October 2nd, blank.
October 3rd, blank.
He flipped page by page until he reached October 12th.
No circle, no writing—just a tiny line of print: "Lunar Calendar, Ninth Month, Eleventh Day. Auspicious for marriages, inauspicious for travel."
Lin Jianguo stared at that line for a very long time.
October 12, 1978.
He looked up at the window. Sunlight filled the yard, the jujube tree's shadow falling on the earthen ground, swaying gently with the wind. The distant mountains were faintly visible, the foot of the mountains pointing toward the forestry center.
Sixty-eight days left.
He lowered his head and continued flipping.
October, November, December.
December 20th.
He stopped, his finger pressing on that date. This page was no different from any other—yellowed paper, clear print, a small illustration in the corner of children building a snowman.
December 20th.
No markings, nothing special. But Lin Jianguo knew this day was very special. It was the 354th day of 1978, eleven days before New Year's. A Wednesday. The sun would rise as usual.
And on this day, his parents would die in that fire.
Lin Jianguo closed the calendar, held it tightly in his hand for a long moment. Then he stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open a crack.
Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of earth and dry grass. The distant mountains lay quietly on the horizon, a touch of white at their peaks—snow? Not yet. Maybe frost.
He looked at those mountains and remembered that night's fire.
The fire started halfway up the mountain—first a spark, then a line of fire, then a sea of flames. The wind blew this way, the fire followed, turning half the sky red. He stood in the yard, watching, hearing shouts from the mountain—words indistinguishable, just a cacophony.
Then he saw his father running down, face covered in black soot, shouting: "Go! Take your mother and go!"
Then he saw his father turn and run back up the mountain.
He shouted: "Dad!"
His father didn't look back.
He shouted again: "Dad!"
Still no looking back.
After that, he never called "Dad" again.
Lin Jianguo stood at the window, looking at that mountain. The cold wind poured in, but he didn't feel it. He just stood there for a very long time, until he heard his mother's footsteps in the yard.
He closed the window, walked back to the desk, and put the calendar back in the drawer. Then he took out paper and pen and wrote a few characters:
December 20th.
He stared at those characters for a moment, then folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
His mother pushed the door open, carrying a basket of vegetables. Seeing him standing there, she paused: "Jianguo? You're not out playing?"
"No."
"What's wrong? Not feeling well?"
"No."
She came over, felt his forehead, then her own. "Not hot. So why the long face?"
Lin Jianguo looked at his mother's face. Younger than his father's, fewer wrinkles, but with white hair already at the temples. She wore that floral-print blouse—the one in the photograph, faded from washing but still in use.
"Mom," he called.
"Hmm?"
"I want to ask you something."
"What?"
Lin Jianguo opened his mouth, the words circling on his tongue several times before he swallowed them back. He shook his head. "Nothing."
His mother glanced at him, asked no further questions, put the vegetable basket on the stove, and started picking over the greens. Lin Jianguo watched for a while, then said, "Mom, I'm going out for a bit."
"Where?"
"To the forestry center."
His mother's hands paused, then resumed. "Going to find your dad?"
"No, the center director."
"Oh." She nodded. "Come back early. I'll make you dough-drop soup for dinner."
Lin Jianguo grunted in acknowledgment, turned, and walked out. At the door, he looked back once.
His mother sat with her back to him, picking over vegetables by the stove. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling on her back, on her graying hair. Her movements were slow—one by one, removing yellow leaves, putting the good ones in another basket.
Lin Jianguo stood in the doorway, watching her.
He didn't know how many more times he'd see her.
He turned and walked out, gently closing the door behind him.