In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 82, Section 81: Chen Weihong Goes to the Countryside

On a Sunday morning, the air in the courtyard of a Shikumen house felt thick and viscous, as if it had solidified.

Last night's rainwater collected in the cracks of the bluestone slabs, reflecting the hazy sky.

The aromas of breakfast from each household, mingled with the damp scent of earth, rose and fell in the cool morning breeze.

This should have been the most heartwarming moment of everyday life, but now it felt like a thick cloth soaked in sorrow, weighing heavily on everyone's hearts, making even breathing feel sluggish and grainy.

Chen Weihong stood in the center of the courtyard, like a small blade of grass wilted by a sudden rain.

She was wearing a faded, thin floral shirt with frayed edges at the collar and cuffs. The fabric was so thin it was almost translucent, clearly outlining the girl's slender shoulder blades.

Her two jet-black, glossy braids remained perfectly tied, secured with faded red ribbons, and hung down in front of her slightly heaving chest.

The worn, dark blue canvas travel bag at her feet, bulging and angular, was the best bag she could find after rummaging through her belongings at home. Now, however, it stood like a heavy boundary marker, separating her from the familiar world.

Her face was so pale it was almost transparent, her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and her eyes were vacantly fixed on the wet flagstones at her feet, as if trying to count every mark of time.

Those thin, slender hands unconsciously twisted the hem of their clothes, revealing a sense of aimless wandering.

Her father, Chen Le'an, was wearing his dark blue overalls that seemed to be an extension of his body; the oil stains had seeped into the fibers and could not be washed or patted off.

He stood silently beside his daughter, like a stone statue weathered by time.

He carried a similarly worn net bag with gray cloth patches on his shoulder, filled with an enamel basin, a chipped enamel mug, and a small bundle of old newspapers neatly tied with hemp rope—intended for wrapping things or as a mattress.

His face, etched with deep lines by time and hard work, was furrowed, his deep-set eyes bloodshot, revealing the exhaustion of a sleepless night and an indescribable heaviness, as if a thousand-pound burden was pressing down on his back, causing it to bend slightly.

The usual morning hustle and bustle of the alleyway—the splashing of toilet brushes, the crackling of coal stoves being lit, the shouts urging children to go to school—all wisely subsided, leaving only a repressive silence.

The neighbors emerged one after another from their doorways and kitchens, silently gathering in the courtyard, their gazes falling on the father and daughter who were about to embark on their journey.

The air was so stuffy it was suffocating.

Zhang Xiuying was the first to break the silence.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, clearly from crying, and she held a small package carefully wrapped in a clean, faded cloth, with a little oil seeping from the edge.

She walked a few steps to Chen Weihong, trying hard to force a smile, but the corners of her mouth turned down uncontrollably.

Her voice was choked with suppressed sobs, as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper:

"Wei Hong, take this. We steamed these vegetable and meat buns in the house before dawn, they're still warm."

On the road... to stave off hunger on the road.

When you get there... take care of your health, okay?

Don't force yourself to be strong...

Without a word, she shoved the warm package, filled with the rich aroma of meat and vegetables, into Chen Weihong's cold hands. Her rough fingers patted the back of her hand twice, heavily and tenderly, as if trying to transfer some of her strength to it.

Chen Weihong felt that the package was a little hot to the touch.

Her lips moved a few times, her throat felt like it was blocked by a wad of cotton, and in the end, only a low, almost wind-blown "Thank you, Aunt Xiuying" came out. She took the package, her fingertips trembling slightly uncontrollably, the warmth of the touch only making the chill in her heart even stronger.

Next to walk over was Mrs. Feng, Lin Fengjiao, who was wearing a simple cotton cardigan and her hair was neatly tied up.

She held two pairs of thick, brand-new dark blue cotton socks in her hands, the stitches so fine they looked like machine-sewn socks, clearly made after staying up most of the night.

She walked up to Chen Weihong, her voice low but carrying an intellectual composure and undeniable concern: "Weihong."

She gently patted the girl's arm. "Yunnan is not like Shanghai. There are many mountains and rivers, and the humidity is very high. The chill in the morning and evening is bone-chilling."

Make sure you bring these two pairs of socks; warm feet are essential for a warm body.

Being away from home is different from being at home; you have to be extra careful in everything you do and take good care of yourself.

She bent down and, with gentle yet undeniable movements, carefully stuffed the socks into the small side pocket of Chen Weihong's bulging canvas bag.

Chen Weihong's gaze fell on the thick, soft cotton socks, the stitches as fine as her mother's.

A strong wave of bitterness rushed to her nose. She bit her lower lip hard, nodded fiercely, and squeezed out a broken voice from her throat: "Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Feng!"

Even the elderly Granny Chen, who was over seventy years old, walked over slowly, leaning on her well-worn jujube wood cane, with the careful support of her eldest granddaughter-in-law, Zhang Chunfang.

The old woman's back was hunched, and her cloudy old eyes were filled with tears, swirling in her deep eye sockets.

With her thin, age-spotted hands, she tremblingly reached into the inner pocket of her dark-colored overcoat and pulled out a small square bag made of folded old newspapers.

With trembling hands, she unwrapped the layers one by one, revealing three or four fruit candies wrapped in glutinous rice paper. The edges of the wrappers were slightly torn, and the candies themselves had become slightly sticky and deformed from being left out for a while, losing their bright luster.

In an era of scarcity, these few candies were undoubtedly a precious gift she had treasured for a long time.

“Little girl, take this…” Granny Chen’s voice trembled and became incoherent, filled with heavy phlegm, “Sweetie…be well when you go…be safe and sound…remember to write back to Granny…”

Tears finally overflowed from her sunken eyes, winding their way down her deep wrinkles.

Those few candies seemed to be the simplest yet most heartfelt blessing she could offer.

"Grandma..." Chen Weihong could no longer hold back, and the tears that had been accumulating for so long burst forth, rolling down in large drops and splashing onto the bluestone slab, leaving small dark spots.

She reached out her hands and carefully took the small paper package that carried the warmth of the old man's body and the scent of mothballs, clutching it tightly in her palms as if holding onto the last bit of warmth of home.

Zhang Chunfang quickly and gently comforted the old man from the side.

In this atmosphere filled with sadness and warmth, the thin wooden door of the three-story pavilion suddenly creaked open with some force.

He Caiyun walked down carrying a white porcelain enamel plate with a few pieces chipped off the edge.

Two freshly made scallion pancakes sat on the plate, glistening with oil and golden brown, emitting a strong, smoky aroma of scallion oil, their steaming appearance completely out of place with the somber atmosphere of the courtyard.

The gazes of the crowd, filled with a hint of astonishment and a barely perceptible scrutiny, instantly focused on her.

(End of this chapter)