Flip the table and divide the family property! Take his wife and daughter into the mountains and eat

at the same time

Cadre Ward in the Back Building

The heavy rain pounded against the glass outside the window, and the sky was as dark as an unyielding block of black ink.

The lights in the ward were off, and the dim light of the daylight seeped in through the cracks in the window, barely illuminating the two beds placed side by side.

On the bed by the window, an elderly man with gray hair, wearing a faded old military overcoat and reading glasses, was leaning against the headboard reading the day's newspaper.

After reading only a couple of lines, the old man took off his reading glasses and let out a long sigh.

The news published in the newspaper made me feel suffocated.

Ever since the rumors of state-owned enterprise reform were released, his heart has been heavy with anxiety.

As the news reports became increasingly grim and the situation in factories across the country worsened, the old workers' secure jobs became increasingly fragile, and their lives became increasingly difficult.

The news outside is overwhelmingly criticizing the rigid system of old state-owned enterprises, their tendency to foster laziness, and their breeding of corruption.

He found those words extremely jarring.

He wanted to speak up for the older workers in the workshop.

Even if these old bones are slower, more outdated, and can't keep up with the dazzling new world outside, they shouldn't be treated like this. They dedicated their entire lives to the factory, working themselves to the bone, and were the unsung heroes who carried the foundation of this nation's industry. How did they end up as burdens and criminals thrown onto the dock today?

But there was nothing he could do.

This is not simply because he has retired and his fame has faded; it is because he knows better than anyone that their glorious era has completely ended.

The tide of history can never be stopped by any one person, any group, or even any class.

When something new that represents progress emerges, it will inevitably take root, sprout, and expand until it grows into a behemoth capable of destroying the old order.

That's how he got to where he is today. From an illiterate peasant, he fought his way up with the army.

He personally witnessed how that nascent force grew from a spark into an unstoppable and irresistible prairie fire, ultimately overthrowing an old world.

That is why he revered this law more than anyone else, and understood the cruelty of this great force of the times more than anyone else.

The train of time, whistling deafeningly, rumbles and accelerates toward the next station. And they, these old cogs, are destined to be inevitably left behind on abandoned platforms.

He had long since stopped wanting anything from himself. He had been pulled out of a pile of corpses, and being alive today was already a blessing.

He could only hope in his heart that the growing pains and sacrifices of moving into a new era would be less, much less.

Don't let those who have suffered their whole lives sacrifice themselves again.

This was also his last hope, even though he was an old man.

"Well……"

A very soft, hoarse groan came from the bed next to the old man, interrupting his thoughts.

Old Scar slowly opened his eyes.

The effects of the anesthesia haven't completely worn off yet.

It felt like a red-hot iron block was stuffed into my head, and with every breath, the wounds on my chest and severed fingers pierced me with excruciating pain.

Old Scar stared at the yellowed ceiling for a few seconds, his dry, bleeding lips twitching slightly.

"water……"

The sound was very soft.

It was almost completely drowned out by the sound of the rain outside.

The old man by the window heard it.

He put down the newspaper in his hand and turned to look at him.

"woke up?"

Old Scar did not answer.

His eyelids were heavy, as if weighed down by lead, and he just opened his mouth, which was like a broken bellows, and squeezed out another word from his throat.

"water."

Song Qingshan pulled his old military overcoat draped over his shoulders and slowly stood up, supporting himself on the edge of the bed.

He was getting on in years, and his legs were a bit heavy, but he took each step very steadily, without making any unnecessary noise in the quiet ward.

He walked to the bedside table, picked up the chipped military green enamel mug, and pulled out the cork from the thermos.

"Splash..."

A small half-filled tub of hot water was poured in, and a wisp of white steam rose in the hazy ward.

Song Qingshan picked up the water jug ​​next to him, added some cooled boiled water, and habitually touched the outside of the jug with his rough thumb to test the water temperature before carrying it back to the bedside.

Old Scar lay on the hospital bed, most of his body wrapped in thick, blood-soaked gauze, tubes inserted all over his body, and he didn't even have the strength to lift his neck.

His bloodshot eyes were fixed on the steaming enamel mug, and he swallowed hard, his throat making a dry, bellows-like sound.

Song Qingshan pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed. He first glanced at the tubes on Old Scar's body to make sure they weren't in the way, then stretched out his calloused hand and placed it under Old Scar's neck, carefully lifting his upper body up by half an inch.

The edge of the enamel mug was gently pressed against the old, cracked, and bleeding lips.

As soon as the warm water touched his lips, Old Scar, like a dying man parched in the desert, suddenly opened his mouth and began to greedily swallow it in large gulps.

Some water, not swallowed in time, trickled down the corners of his mouth, dripping and soaking the pillowcase under his chin.

Song Qingshan neither dodged nor complained about the dirt. The hand supporting Old Scar's neck remained motionless, like a hard stone. He simply tilted the jar slightly in rhythm with Old Scar's swallowing, patiently letting him finish drinking.

After pouring down most of the tub of warm water, Old Scar's withered chest heaved violently a few times, and the burning pain in his throat was finally forcibly suppressed a bit.

Song Qingshan gently placed his upper body back on the pillow and casually put the empty enamel mug on the bedside table next to him.

"Thanks……"

Old Scar closed his eyes and took two heavy breaths, squeezing out two hoarse, broken words from his throat.

"What are you thanking me for?"

Song Qingshan put the enamel mug back on the bedside table, then casually pulled the blanket that had slipped down to Lao Ba's chest and lifted it up for him.

"Just something I did."

Old Scar didn't say anything more.

He closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Once the excruciating pain in his chest subsided slightly, he laboriously turned his head, his gaze, aided by the dim light, discreetly observing the old man beside him.

A faded old military overcoat, a peeling military green enamel mug, and a canvas bag with worn-out edges tucked at the bottom of the bedside table.

Old Scar stared at these objects, which exuded an extremely strong sense of age, for two seconds, and a rough, hoarse sound rolled out from his dry, cracked throat.

"Old man."

Old Scar narrowed his bloodshot eyes slightly and asked in a hoarse voice, "Were you a soldier before?"

Song Qingshan sat down on the chair by the bed, his hands habitually tucked into the sleeves of his old military overcoat, his tone very calm.

"I served for a few years and fought in a few bad battles."

The old man's gaze did not dodge, but quietly fell on the old scar's right hand, which was not wrapped in gauze, his eyes sweeping over his large and deformed joints.

"Judging from the thick calluses on the web of your right hand and the old marks worn on the side of your index finger, you must be an expert with guns and knives."

Song Qingshan looked at him, his tone casually probing, "What, are you in the mountains hunting, or doing some other kind of work?"

The ward was quiet for a few seconds, with only the sound of rain pattering outside the window.

"I served in the military."

Old Scar stared at the yellowed ceiling and uttered four words in a hoarse voice.

"Where are the soldiers from?" Song Qingshan asked.

"The Northeast region."

"Where in Northeast China?"

Old Scar paused for a moment.

"It's been too long, I can't remember."

Song Qingshan looked at him, his originally peaceful gaze instantly turning cold, like a piercing knife nailing into the old scar's face.

"lie."

Song Qingshan's voice wasn't loud, but every word was sharp: "You've never been a soldier. Not only do you not resemble a soldier, but looking at the blood and gunshot wounds all over you, you don't even resemble a decent, upright person."

Old Scar, upon hearing this, was not angry at all; on the contrary, it seemed as if he had heard something interesting.

The feigned weakness in his eyes faded somewhat, and an extremely cold and fierce light slowly gathered.

He didn't argue, but only laboriously tugged at the corners of his dry, bleeding mouth, squeezing out a faint muffled sound from his throat.

"What did that old man think of me?"

Song Qingshan sat in the chair, his hands still firmly tucked into the sleeves of his old military overcoat, his thin frame ramrod straight.

He looked at Old Scar's severed hand, which was wrapped in thick bandages, and then at the penetrating wound under his shoulder that was oozing black blood. His gaze was as sharp as a newly sharpened bayonet.

"Judging from your physique and the way you can endure pain, you've been through thick and thin. But you lack the discipline and integrity of a soldier; instead, you exude an uncontrollable malice."

Song Qingshan stared intently into Old Scar's bloodshot eyes and uttered a sentence with utmost decisiveness.

"You're like a desperate criminal who lives on the edge, with lives on his hands."