Days passed one by one.
Lin Jianguo didn't mention December 20th again. Every day he helped his mother with chores, helped his father in the fields, went to school, played with the forestry center kids after class. He looked no different from any other child.
But every night, he lay in bed, staring at the pitch-black ceiling, counting the days.
Sixty days left. Fifty days left. Forty days left. Thirty days left.
There was nothing he could do. His father watched him, wouldn't let him go out. The center director frowned whenever he saw him. Even his mother started worrying, quietly asking his father: Is our kid possessed or something?
He wasn't possessed.
He just knew some things that others didn't.
December 20th finally arrived.
When Lin Jianguo woke up that morning, he knew something was wrong.
The sky was particularly red. Not the red of sunrise, but a strange red, as if reflecting something. The wind was strong, rattling the windows, snapping the dry branches of the jujube tree.
He got up and ran to the yard.
On the distant mountain, there was a wisp of smoke.
Very small, like a thin white thread, rising from the mountainside, scattered by the wind.
Lin Jianguo's heart clenched tight.
He ran back inside, shouting: "Dad! Mom! There's smoke on the mountain!"
His father was getting dressed. He froze for a moment, then grabbed his cotton jacket and ran out. His mother followed behind, still holding the unfinished sweater she'd been knitting.
They ran to the yard, stood under the jujube tree, looking at the mountain.
That wisp of smoke had thickened. No longer a white thread, but a mass of gray-white smoke, rolling larger and larger, rising higher and higher. Then, within the smoke, a flicker of fire appeared.
Very small, like the head of a match. But Lin Jianguo knew that small flicker would grow—into a line of fire, into a sea of flames, into a fire that would consume everything.
His father turned and ran back inside, emerging with two buckets. "I'm going up the mountain!" he shouted, and charged out.
His mother ran inside too, emerging also with buckets. "I'm coming too!"
Lin Jianguo stood in the yard, watching their retreating backs.
He remembered so many things. Those cycles, those failures, those moments of watching his parents disappear into the flames. His father's last look at him. His mother's shout: "Live well!"
Would it be different this time?
He didn't know.
But he started running after them.
The mountain path was difficult, full of rocks and thorns. Lin Jianguo climbed behind his parents, hearing his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump, like a drum.
The wind grew stronger, blowing the smoke toward them. The choking smell stung his nostrils, made his eyes water. Lin Jianguo covered his mouth with his sleeve and kept climbing.
Finally, they reached it.
The fire line stretched before them. Not very wide—maybe two or three meters—but burning fiercely, flames leaping higher than a person. Heat waves hit them in the face, making their skin feel scorched.
His father threw bucket after bucket of water into the fire. The water hissed, white steam rising, the flames dimming slightly—then flaring up again.
His mother threw water too, shouted too—what she shouted was unclear, only her moving lips visible.
Lin Jianguo stood behind them, watching the fire, watching his parents' figures.
Then he saw something.
A corner of his father's jacket—somehow a spark had caught it. A tiny flame danced on the hem of the cotton coat, like a golden butterfly.
"Dad!" he shouted.
His father didn't hear, still throwing water into the fire.
"Dad!" he shouted again, rushing forward.
But someone grabbed him.
His mother. She pulled him back, shouting something—probably telling him not to come closer. Her grip was strong; he couldn't break free.
Then he saw something flash in the firelight.
Golden, bright, like a small patch of sunlight.
Grandmother's silver hairpin. His mother always wore it, never took it off. Now it was on her head, glittering in the firelight.
The light flashed once, twice.
Then—darkness.
Everything went black before Lin Jianguo's eyes. Not the sky darkening, but his consciousness sinking, as if falling into a very deep well. He heard his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—slower and slower, farther and farther away.
Then nothing.
He didn't know how long passed.
Maybe a second. Maybe ten thousand years.
A point of light appeared in the darkness.
Very faint, like a candle flame in the distance, like the dimmest star before dawn. He drifted toward it, closer and closer, the light growing brighter and warmer.
Then he heard a sound.
A rooster crowing.
That sound was so familiar it made his whole body tremble.
Then other sounds. The rustle of wind through leaves. The plunk of a bucket dropping into a well in the neighboring yard. The slow, drawn-out moo of a cow in the distance.
And smells. The smell of earth. The smell of firewood. The smell of morning dew.
Lin Jianguo's eyes flew open.
Above him was a wooden beam. Thick, blackened by smoke to a dark brown, hung with strings of dried chili peppers and braids of garlic.
Beneath him was the earthen kang, covered with an old mattress—blue cotton with white patterns, patched in several places.
On the wall were old newspapers. The date read: October 10, 1978.
Lin Jianguo slowly sat up and looked down at his hands.
Young. Smooth. A few mosquito bites.
He sat there, frozen, for a very long time.
Then he smiled.
And as he smiled, tears flowed down his face.
He still had a chance.
Sixty-eight more days.