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

Chapter 84, Section 83: The Simplest Kind of Care
The warmth made Chen Weihong's fingertips go numb, her heart pounded violently, and she could barely breathe.

She dared not look at Yang Ming again, afraid that her eyes would betray everything. She tried her best to control her breathing, to make the rise and fall of her shoulders less noticeable, and to lock the turbulent emotions in her thin chest. From the depths of her throat, she squeezed out a softer, almost wind-blown, trembling reply: "...Understood."

Yang Guangming stepped back, his face returning to its usual calm, as if the moment that had just changed a person's fate had never happened.

He blended back into the background like a silent reef.

In the courtyard, the neighbors had given what they needed to give and said what they needed to say.

A brief silence fell again, heavier than before. Only the dripping of water from the tap deep in the alley, the faint sound of bicycle bells from the distant road, and the soft rustling of a few sparrows hopping on the roof tiles remained.

This silence is filled with the neighbors' most basic care, the elders' unspeakable heartache and reluctance to part with her, and their deep worry and helplessness for a girl who has just turned eighteen and is as fragile as a flower, who is about to be abandoned alone in the distant, unknown, and unpredictable mountain village of Yunnan.

The air seemed to freeze, and even time itself became viscous.

Chen Le'an coughed heavily, as if trying to expel a boulder stuck in his chest, breaking the suffocating silence.

He bent down, took a deep breath, his bulging muscles taut under his work clothes, and with one hand he forcefully lifted his daughter's incredibly heavy canvas bag, slamming it onto his thick but slightly hunched back. With the other hand, he picked up the jingling net bag containing odds and ends.

Those arms that once bore countless burdens of life now showed a stiffness that betrayed their inability to cope.

He straightened up, looked at his daughter, his eyes filled with complex emotions—a father's tenderness, helplessness, and a resolute determination to let go.

His voice was deep and hoarse, like a grinding wheel grinding over a rough stone, carrying a clumsy yet undeniable firmness: "The time has come... Wei Hong, let's go."

Chen Weihong took one last look at the courtyard where she had lived for eighteen years.

His gaze greedily swept over every familiar inch of the scene:

The faded, mottled whitewashed walls, dotted with patches of moss;
The bluestone slabs were wet and reflected the faint sunlight, with a few small grasses stubbornly peeking out from the cracks.
Clothes dripping wet hung from bamboo poles lying haphazardly, and water droplets splashed onto the stone slabs, creating tiny water droplets.
The oleander in the corner, half-dead, had leaves that shone brightly after being washed by the rain.

And the faces of my neighbors, each one etched with the sorrow of parting—

Zhang Xiuying's eyes were red and swollen, and her lips moved silently.

Mrs. Feng's gentle gaze held a deep concern;
The old woman was being supported by her sister-in-law, Zhang Chunfang, her cloudy, tearful eyes following her intently, her withered hands still trembling slightly...

Even the open window on the third floor, covered with old newspapers, now seemed to her to be tinged with a sense of farewell.

She took a deep, deep breath.

The air, a mixture of coal smoke, damp earth, leftover food, cheap soap, and the faint salty taste of tears, suddenly filled my lungs, carrying a familiar feeling that was almost painful.

This was her last connection with this bustling yet cruel city, a connection imbued with the warmth of everyday life.

She bit her lower lip so hard it almost bled, and with all her might, she straightened her thin, fragile back, as fragile as a piece of paper in the wind.

This action seemed to drain all her strength, and also squeezed out the last bit of her dignity and feigned courage.

She stopped looking at anyone and silently followed her father's tall but endlessly weary figure. The father and daughter walked silently through the narrow and crowded courtyard, one in front of the other.

Chen Le'an's back was as broad and sturdy as a mountain, yet every step he took was heavy, as if he were carrying the weight of his entire life. His steps carried a silent strength, as if he were shielding his daughter from the unknown storms ahead.

The travel bag and net bag on his shoulder swayed slightly with each step, making a dull sound.

Chen Weihong followed behind him, her faded floral shirt looking unusually thin and forlorn in the dim morning light.

She kept her head down, carefully avoiding the puddles on the ground, her footsteps light as a cat's as she walked on the slippery flagstones, almost inaudible.

Only the two braids hanging down her chest, swaying slightly with her steps, were the only moving elements in this silent scene.

The neighbors moved silently, following behind them, until they reached the heavy, black lacquered door.

Zhang Xiuying finally couldn't hold back any longer and quickly wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her rough hand.

Mrs. Feng gazed at that slender figure and let out a long, soft sigh, as if she wanted to express all her unspeakable worries.

Grandma Chen leaned on her cane, her cloudy old eyes fixed on the small figure, her lips moving silently, her withered chest heaving violently.

Zhang Chunfang held the elderly woman tightly, afraid that she might lose her balance due to emotional distress.

Yang Guangming stood a little behind the crowd, leaning against the peeling paint on the door frame.

His gaze passed over the shoulders of his neighbors and fell silently and intently on Chen Weihong.

Looking at her stubborn, straight spine, which seemed about to break at any moment but stubbornly held on; looking at her slightly lowered profile, concealing all her emotions;

My gaze finally lingered for a moment on the inconspicuous patched pocket below her right breast.

His face remained expressionless, as if he were wearing an invisible mask. Only in the depths of his deep, pool-like eyes did a silent sigh well up as he looked at the storm that the little flower before him was about to face.

Chen Le'an gripped the heavy brass ring on the black lacquered gate with his calloused hands and pulled it inward.

Accompanied by a long, teeth-grinding creak that seemed to come from the depths of time, the bustling sounds of the street outside—the ringing of bicycle bells, the cries of vendors, the honking of bus horns, and the conversations of pedestrians—rushed in like a flood, violently impacting this small world within the Shikumen gate, a place steeped in the sorrow of parting.

Chen Weihong paused slightly at the threshold, the boundary separating the familiar from the unknown, the stable from the adrift.

An extremely brief moment.

Her slender neck tensed, her head seemed to want to turn back, and her shoulder blades rose and fell clearly under her thin shirt, like a startled bird wanting to look back at its nest one last time.

But in the end, that slight wavering was suppressed by a more powerful force.

She didn't turn around!
Chen Weihong simply followed her father's silent, mountain-like back, slowly but firmly stepping out of the black lacquered threshold of the Shikumen, a place that held all her childhood games, girlish thoughts, and peaceful years.

(End of this chapter)