He Yuyang: The tough eldest brother of the courtyard house

In early summer in North Korea, the azaleas were in full bloom, their pink and purple hues covering the mountains like clouds fallen on a green carpet. He Yuyang wielded an axe, chopping firewood, sweat streaming down his forehead, splashing onto the wood and leaving small, dark spots. He was shirtless, his bronze skin bearing several shallow scars, marks from the months he'd spent working alongside Uncle Park.

"Aba-ji, take a break." Grandpa Park's granddaughter, Soon-yi, brought over a bowl of water; the rim of the porcelain bowl was chipped. "We have enough firewood for today."

He Yuyang took the bowl and gulped down most of it. The water trickled down his chin and into his neck, bringing a refreshing coolness. He grinned, revealing a set of white teeth, but didn't speak. Ever since Grandpa Park rescued him from the snow three months ago, he only knew a few simple Korean words. As for who he was and where he came from, his mind was a complete blank, like a field covered by heavy snow, leaving no trace.

Grandpa Park said that when he found him, he was lying in a snow ditch, his military overcoat covered in blood, with a blood-stained compressed biscuit tucked into his pocket. If he hadn't still been breathing, he would have frozen solid. For the past three months, he had been recuperating in this ditch, helping with chopping wood, carrying water, and feeding the cattle, becoming the taciturn but strong laborer of the Park family. Soon-yi always said he was "as reliable as a mountain," while Grandpa Park often sighed at him, saying, "Such a good young man, how could he forget his family?"

As the axe fell again, He Yuyang suddenly felt as if he had been struck on the back of the head with a heavy hammer. A sharp pain shot up his spine, and his vision went black for a moment. He staggered and grabbed the pile of firewood for support, his mind feeling like it was being pierced by countless needles, fragmented images rushing out of his head—

The bluestone pavement of Nanluoguxiang, the thimble of a mother sewing shoe soles reflecting the light, the water vat in the yard humming as the younger brother Yuzhu practices his boxing, the younger sister Yushui holding up her certificate and shouting "Brother, look!", and Xu Xiuli standing under the locust tree, handing him the unfinished letter...

"Brother! Watch out!"

"Deputy Brigade Commander, charge!"

"Yu Yang, we're waiting for you to come home..."

The sound and images were a jumbled mess, like boiling porridge. He crouched on the ground, clutching his head, trembling with pain, cold sweat instantly soaking his back. Soon-yi screamed in fright, and Grandpa Park rushed over, leaning on his cane, trying to help him up, but he was violently pushed away.

"I am He Yuyang!" he blurted out, his voice hoarse and unlike his own. "I am a member of the Chinese People's Volunteer Army! I want to rejoin my unit!"

These words were like a key, suddenly unlocking the floodgates of memory. Everything came back—the artillery fire of the snowfield ambush, the explosions during the raid, the suffocating feeling of being buried in the ground, and the telegram that was mistakenly sent as "killed in action"... He even remembered that he still had gifts for his family hidden in his space, tucked away in the deepest secret compartment.

"Aba-ji, Shun-yi, thank you!" He Yu-yang stood up, bowed deeply to Grandpa Park, her eyes brimming with tears. "I have to go now, my team is waiting for me!"

He didn't bother to pack his things, but grabbed the military overcoat hanging on the wall—it was cleaned and mended by Grandpa Park, the patches crooked but exceptionally sturdy. Soon-yi handed him a cloth bag containing a few boiled potatoes and a handkerchief dyed with azalea petals, embroidered with the crooked characters for "peace."

"You must come back," Soon-yi said, her eyes red.

He Yuyang nodded vigorously, then turned and ran out of the mountains. He remembered there was a Volunteer Army outpost nearby, and three months ago, in his hazy memory, he seemed to have heard a patrol soldier mention its location. The mountain road was rugged, and he ran like the wind, the hem of his military overcoat fluttering in the wind. He had only one thought in his mind: to return to his unit, to go home.

When the sentry at the outpost stopped him, he was climbing over the barbed wire fence, his movements as swift and clean as the "cat flip" he'd practiced in the army. The sentry raised his gun and demanded an explanation, but he laughed until tears streamed down his face: "Comrade, I'm He Yuyang, deputy brigade commander of the 3rd Battalion! I'm back in the ranks!"

When he announced his unit number, date of joining the Party, and the names of his fallen comrades, the sentry slowly lowered his gun, his eyes widening. The station chief rushed over upon hearing the news, his hands trembling as he looked at the dark-skinned, thin man with astonishingly bright eyes—the news of He Yuyang's "sacrifice" had already spread throughout the entire division headquarters, and even a memorial service had been held.

"Is it really you? You're still alive?" The stationmaster grabbed his arm with such force that it felt like he was going to crush his bones.

He Yuyang nodded vigorously, his eyes stinging with tears: "I'm alive, station chief. Where are the troops now? How's the fighting?"

Only then did he realize how fierce the fighting had been on the front lines during the three months he had been "missing." His unit had moved to a different position and was now on standby near the 38th parallel. What made him even more uneasy were the station chief's words: "Last month, someone from your family came to inquire about you. Your mother... I heard she's very ill."

He didn't dare ask any more questions and followed the supply convoy from the military station to the main force overnight. On the way, he found a secluded corner and slipped into his spatial dimension—the spiritual spring water inside was still clear, the compressed biscuits were piled up like a small mountain, and everything he had hidden in the secret compartment was still there.

His fingers paused when he touched the small ornament made of bullet casings. It was painstakingly carved out of captured American bullet casings during a rest period, resembling a dove of peace with outstretched wings, originally intended as a gift for Xu Xiuli. Next to it was a smooth bluestone, on which was carved the profile of a girl, whose eyebrows and eyes were strikingly similar to Xu Xiuli's. He had carved it during a break on the front lines, taking a whole month to complete.

"Wait for me," he whispered to the statue, carefully placing the items into his backpack.

The day he returned to his unit, the entire Third Battalion erupted in celebration. The soldiers surrounded him, laughing and crying, some patting his back, others pulling his arms, as if welcoming a triumphant hero. Little Chen hugged him and cried like a child, saying, "Deputy Brigade Commander, I knew you weren't dead. You still had half of your compressed biscuit left; I kept it all this time."

He didn't have time to explain in detail what had happened, because the fighting was intense. The American forces were playing dirty tricks at the negotiating table, and the gunfire on the front lines intensified again. He immediately threw himself into command, deploying defenses and analyzing the enemy situation, as if the three-month gap had never existed. The soldiers said that after Deputy Brigade Commander He returned, his eyes were sharper, his mind more meticulous, and even his grenade throwing accuracy was better than before.

Then, on July 27th, news came from the division headquarters: the ceasefire agreement had been signed!

The news spread like wildfire, reaching every position. Soldiers emerged from their bunkers, raising their guns and cheering, throwing their helmets into the air; some even broke into the folk dance they had learned in the rear. He Yuyang stood on the hillside, gazing at the red flag fluttering in the distance, and suddenly smiled. As she smiled, tears streamed down her face.

He thought of his fallen comrades, the warm kang bed at Grandpa Pu's house, his mother's illness and how she was doing, his father He Daqing, his younger brother He Yuzhu, and his sister's red scarf... They had won this battle.

"Deputy Brigade Commander, we're going home!" Xiao Chen ran over, holding a copy of the People's Daily with news of the armistice agreement being signed printed on it; the words were red, like dancing flames.

He Yuyang took the newspaper, his fingertips tracing the word "peace," his heart filled with mixed emotions. He could finally fulfill the promise he made when he left home—to return alive.

The triumphant train carrying the troops rumbled past Changbai Mountain, the scenery outside the window gradually changing from unfamiliar forests to familiar plains. He Yuyang pressed his face against the window, his eyes fixed on the outside. As the train passed Shanhaiguan, he saw the railway sign beside the tracks and lightly traced his finger across the glass: one more day, and we'd be in Beijing.

He opened his backpack and checked the gifts he had brought for his family one last time: the fountain pen for Yushui was a captured American officer's pen, with English letters engraved on the cap, which he sanded off and replaced with the words "Study hard" that he had carved himself; the boxing manual for Yuzhu was one he had memorized in his space, combining military combat techniques with his family's boxing style, with "Preserved by your younger brother Yuzhu" written on the cover; for Xu Xiuli, in addition to the peace dove ornament and stone carving, there was also a piece of dried azalea flower that he had brought back from North Korea, tucked inside a copy of "How the Steel Was Tempered," with a photo of him taken at the military post, wearing his new military uniform and the third-class merit medal he had just received pinned to his chest.

It was early morning when the train entered Beijing. He Yuyang could see the outlines of the hutongs in the distance, their gray tiles stretching endlessly like a long dragon lying on the earth. The locust trees in Nanluoguxiang must be in bloom by now, right? Was his mother still sitting on the stone stool by the door, waiting for him? Had Yushui put on his red scarf? Had Yuzhu's martial arts school taken on new students? Xu Xiuli… was she alright?

"Look! We've arrived in Beijing!" someone shouted in the carriage.

He Yuyang stood up, straightened his uniform, and adjusted his cap. His backpack was heavy, filled with medals, gifts, and his heavy longing. The train slowly slowed down, and the platform drew closer. He saw that the platform was crowded with people holding banners that read "Welcome Home, Hero," the red characters shining brightly in the morning sun.

He took a deep breath and followed the crowd off the bus. His feet touched the soil of his homeland, a sense of solidity that sent shivers down his spine. In the distance, the sounds of gongs and drums, and children's songs, drifted by, like countless hands gently caressing his weathered face.

He knew his family was waiting for him not far away. Those faces he had longed for day and night, those unforgettable concerns, would finally become a real embrace at this moment.

A breeze blew across the platform, carrying the scent of locust blossoms, much like the summer of the year he left home. He Yuyang smiled and strode forward, his military boots making a crisp sound on the concrete, like a belated song of victory and reunion.