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

It was already very late at night.

Wang Xiulan was afraid that she would do something foolish, so she insisted on sleeping next to her on the outside of the kang (a heated brick bed). She didn't even turn off the light completely, leaving only a small flame on the corner of the table, which was dim and yellow, making the shadows in the room appear blurry.

Zhao Xiaoyu hadn't slept.

She stared intently at the dark beams, her ears filled with Wang Xiulan's heavy breathing.

One sound, one sound.

Like the residual heat of a fire suppressed in a stove pit, it is unhurried and calm. Listening to it for a long time can even soothe the chill in one's bones.

The room was warm, and the air was warm too, which should have made people sleepy.

But Zhao Xiaoyu was anything but sleepy.

This extremely hypnotic sense of security felt like tiny needles pricking her skin, making her skin tighten and her mind become clearer the longer she lay there.

Just thinking about what she was going to do made her palms sweat and her heart pound like a drum in her chest.

But she knew even more clearly that she couldn't wait any longer. If she waited any longer, she would have no chance left and would only rot away and die on that rotten road.

After an unknown amount of time, Wang Xiulan finally turned over, mumbled a few words, and her breathing became completely shallow, as if she had fallen asleep in that dim light.

Zhao Xiaoyu then slowly moved her body away.

She moved very gently, first lifting a corner of the quilt, then slowly lowering her feet off the kang (heated brick bed). As soon as her toes touched the ground, the piercing cold air made her shiver, but she gritted her teeth and didn't dare to make a sound.

She picked up her shoes, carefully slipped them on, and then, in the dark, picked up the short-handled shovel from the corner of the wall.

She also took the small lantern on the table.

As soon as the lamp was lifted, the tiny flame flickered slightly, casting an intermittent glow on her thin, pale face.

Wang Xiulan was still asleep, half her face buried in the blanket, her brows furrowed tightly, as if she were worrying about her even in her dreams.

Zhao Xiaoyu's throat moved, but she didn't speak. She just slowly unlatched the door, twisted her body, and slipped out of the room.

A gust of cold wind suddenly rushed in from outside, scraping my face like an iron brush.

The courtyard was pitch black, and the snow had hardened in the wind, making a crunching sound underfoot, each sound sending shivers down her spine.

A dog from somewhere in the distance suddenly barked twice, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the wind.

She stood at the doorway, glanced out into the pitch-black night, and felt a chill run down her spine. The more uneasy she felt, the tighter she gripped the shovel in her hand.

She can't turn back. If she does, her life will be over.

Carrying a lantern, Zhao Xiaoyu walked step by step down the icy dirt road behind the village towards the back slope.

The wind made her ears numb and her fingers numb.

The lamplight flickered, illuminating only a small area around my feet; any further away, it was completely swallowed up by the darkness.

As she walked, she always felt someone was behind her. She would take a few steps and then look back, but behind her there was only snow, old trees, wind, and a night as black as the mouth of a well.

She walked faster and faster, each step feeling like she was stepping on her own heart.

She didn't stop until she reached the bottom of the barren slope behind the village.

Ahead, the old tree, twisted so badly, stood like a monster in the dark ground, its trunk half-twisted, as if struck by lightning, with one branch stretching straight out, looking like a strange hand in the darkness.

Zhao Xiaoyu stood under the tree, her whole body stiffening for a moment.

She remembered; it was winter that year, and the wind was just as strong.

She was still young, and as she followed behind Zhao Shanhe, her legs trembled.

She was wearing a brand-new, thick, and warm red floral cotton-padded jacket.

Zhao Shanhe himself was only wearing an old cotton-padded coat with patches upon patches, and yellowed cotton wadding was showing at the shoulders. His face was blue from the cold, but he didn't utter a sound.

Zhao Shanhe didn't say a word, just kept his head down, picked up a shovel and dug a hole in the frozen soil, his face as cold as a stone.

Zhao Xiaoyu shrank her neck and asked in a low voice: "Brother, what are you burying?"

Zhao Shanhe didn't even look up, only coldly throwing out a sentence to her: Just remember the place, keep it to yourself, and don't tell anyone.

The wind that night was exactly the same as it is now, chilling to the bone.

Zhao Xiaoyu stood under the tree, her fingers tingling, her heart gripped tightly by this memory.

But it only lasted for a moment.

The next second, she put down the lantern and started digging into the frozen ground with a shovel.

With a clang!

The first impact made her hands go numb; the soil was frozen solid like a steel plate, and the impact made half of her arm tremble.

Zhao Xiaoyu gritted her teeth and swung the shovel again and again, once, twice, three times.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled down my temples, but when the wind blew, it felt cool and clinging to my face.

She would dig for a while, then stop for a while, squatting there panting, and then continue digging once she had caught her breath.

It was pitch black all around, with only the howling of the wind blowing across the barren slope, like someone crying in a low voice not far away. She dared not stop, afraid that if she stopped, she would lose the courage to dig down.

I don't know how long I dug, but finally the shovel hit something hard.

Zhao Xiaoyu froze, quickly threw down the shovel, knelt down, and used her hands to dig through the layer of frozen soil mixed with ice shards.

Mud, snow, and grass roots were all mixed together as she frantically dug.

A lump of something tightly wrapped in oiled paper was revealed. The paper had been soaked in the dampness from the ground, turning it black and brittle, and its surface was covered with a layer of foul-smelling, rotten mud.

With trembling hands, Zhao Xiaoyu pulled out the lump of something, knelt down beside the lantern, and peeled it off layer by layer.

The moment the innermost layer of oil paper was peeled off, a pungent smell mixed with old engine oil and rust hit me right in the head.

It was a Type 60 pistol.

Most of the gun barrel was rusted, with dark red rust spots like dried blood clots, stuck to the tarnished barrel.

The plastic patch on the handle was cracked, and it felt cold, hard, and heavy in my hand.

Zhao Xiaoyu stared at the iron lump that had been dug out of the mud pit, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of her throat.

This is what Zhao Shanhe buried back then.

There was also a small tin box next to it, the lid of which was half rusted shut.

Zhao Xiaoyu pried it open with her fingernails, revealing five gleaming yellow bullets inside, which shimmered with a cold, dull light under the dim lamplight.

She picked up a bullet, and the moment her fingertips touched the cold metal, she couldn't help but shiver.

Tucked at the bottom of the box were the yellowed photograph and several old shadow puppets, her father's treasured possessions.

When my father was alive, he loved to play with these paper figures under the kerosene lamp. With the slightest movement of the thin bamboo stick, the shadow puppets behind the white cloth would come to life.

But since Dad left, no one has touched these things.

During the campaign to destroy the Four Olds, Zhao Shanhe, in order to avoid getting into trouble and unwilling to burn them, buried them together with the gun in a pit one dark night.

A long, chilling howl suddenly echoed from the depths of the barren slope.

Zhao Xiaoyu shuddered in fright, and a cold sweat broke out on her back. She dared not linger any longer and quickly stuffed the shadow puppet and the photo back into the pit.

She kept only the rusty Type 60 rifle and the five heavy bullets.

She tucked the gun into her bosom, letting the cold, rusty metal press against her heart, making her gasp for breath, yet suddenly she felt a sense of security.

Zhao Xiaoyu grabbed the lantern and shovel, not even bothering to fill the hole, and turned to run back.

When she got home, the door hinges clicked softly, and Wang Xiulan, who was lying on the kang (a heated brick bed), stirred slightly, still half asleep.

"Xiaoyu?"

Zhao Xiaoyu stiffened and quickly put down the lamp: "I had an upset stomach, so I went outside to squat for a while."

Wang Xiulan mumbled, half-asleep, "Don't do anything foolish."

Zhao Xiaoyu climbed back onto the kang (a heated brick bed) and crawled into the quilt.

The Type 60 pistol in her arms felt like an unmelting block of ice, digging painfully into her skin. Yet, she reached into her cotton-padded coat and pressed down hard on the iron bar wrapped in oiled paper.