Chapter 269: Faint Light on a Snowy Night

The winter of 1961 was like a stingy miser, clutching every wisp of warmth and refusing to give it away easily. The heavy snow fell intermittently for several days, sealing Four Nine City tightly; icicles of varying lengths hung from the eaves, flashing cold light under the dim sun.

In the Alley, the accumulated snow had been compacted by passing pedestrians into a solid ice crust; walking required extra caution, and a moment's lapse would send one into a butt‑squat.

In the Siheyuan, life grew ever more cautious.

Xi Kua Yuan was one of the few households in the courtyard that could still maintain a basic semblance of respectability. The rice and meat Li Ping'an had previously procured from the black market had long been used up, but they had at least replenished some oil and water, leaving their foundation slightly thicker than others.

The sorghum rice and cured meat hidden in the cellar were the bottom‑of‑the‑box emergency rations, not to be touched lightly. Lin Xueqing calculated meticulously, each day using a small amount of stick noodles mixed with minced dried vegetable leaves to steam a bowl‑head, and the porridge was boiled especially thick, trying to let the father and son eat a satisfying meal.

Li Yaozong was being raised well; his small face remained rosy, and he crawled merrily on the kang, becoming the brightest splash of color in this bleak winter.

Li Ping'an returned from work, bringing the month's wages just issued by the factory along with cloth vouchers and oil vouchers. He handed the items to Lin Xueqing, watching her carefully lock them into the small drawer of the kang cabinet; the motion was gentle yet solemn, as if she were storing some priceless treasure.

"I heard the authorities are going to further compress the city's population food quota," Li Ping'an rubbed his frozen, stiff hands and whispered. The news spread covertly through the factory like a dark cloud, suffocating everyone.

Lin Xueqing paused, a trace of worry flashing across her face, but she quickly regained composure: "When soldiers come, we block them; when water comes, we cover it with earth. There will always be a way." She looked at her playful son, her gaze gentle yet firm.

In the Front Courtyard, Yan Bu Gui's household, the abacus beads clacked louder. With school closed due to snow, he didn't have to work, so he launched a "cost‑saving scheme" at home. He took a small notebook and recounted the family's pitiful supplies—a half‑cask of sorghum rice, a small jar of salted vegetable lumps, and several bundles of firewood—while muttering under his breath.

"Jie Cheng, go to the courtyard and knock the icicles off the eaves, put them in a basin to melt into water; saving even a little effort of fetching water is something!"

"Jie Fang, patch the hole on the sleeve of your cotton coat again; cotton is now pricey! A single exposed cotton core is like revealing Gold Mountain Silver Mountain!"

He wished he could split a copper coin into eight flower petals, or split a single firewood into sixteen burning sticks. The wisdom of survival, or rather the desperation of survival, was vividly embodied in him.

In the Central Courtyard, the Jia family presented a different scene. The house was only marginally warmer than outside; the coal core in the stove was barely alive, and Jia Zhangshi was reluctant to add more.

Bang Geng and Xiao Dang, wrapped in a patched old cotton blanket, huddled in the kang corner, their small faces turning blue with cold. Qin Huairu, her belly protruding, sat on the kang edge, mending an old garment whose original color was almost invisible under the faint light from the window; her fingers were frozen stiff and bright red.

"Mom, I'm hungry…" Bang Geng muttered softly.

"Hungry, hungry, hungry! Always hungry! Go ask your Grandpa Yi for it!" Jia Zhangshi scolded irritably, while Sanjiao Yan kept glancing toward the door. Yi Zhonghai had promised to bring money and coal tickets today; why was he still nowhere to be seen? She felt as if fifteen water‑pumping buckets were sloshing inside her—up and down—this monthly "relief" had become her greatest hope.

Yi Zhonghai was also in a bind at home at this moment. An older woman looked at the meager wages and vouchers just received on the table and sighed, "Old Yi, this month… the Jia family side…"

Yi Zhonghai waved his hand irritably, "Got it! How could we give them less?" He felt deeply suppressed inside. Supporting the elderly was gone, yet a burdensome load now clung to him. Every time he gave money or tickets, it felt like cutting his own flesh; but not giving was also impossible. Jia Zhangshi's shrew could truly disturb the entire courtyard, and she couldn't afford to lose that person.

He weighed the few paper money notes and the small amount of coal and grain tickets in his hand, and finally took out a portion of them, resigning himself as he walked outward.

In the Rear Courtyard, Xu Damao's household was even colder in atmosphere. Wang Cuihua heated the house and was scolding Xu Damao.

"Look at them! Now look at you! Li Ping'an can bring meat and rice home, and you? You just lie down and play dead! Marrying you, I've truly been cursed for eight lifetimes!"

Xu Damao tucked his neck in, daring not to retort, yet in his mind he cursed Wang Cuihua and Li Ping'an a thousand times. He wanted to "move around", but Wang Cuihua stared at him tightly; the deadly confession paper was like a tightening band, rendering him immobile.

These days were truly god‑damn stifling! He stared at the dancing flames in the stove, his gaze grim, pondering some hidden, unspeakable thoughts.

Night fully enveloped the Siheyuan, the wind and snow seemed to intensify, whistling against the window panes.

Li Ping'an stood at the entrance of Xi Kua Yuan, not entering the house immediately. His Divine Perception spread silently, allowing him to discern the faint movements of each household within an eighty‑meter radius.

In the Front Courtyard, the Yan Family, the clacking of the abacus ceased, replaced by Yan Bu Gui's scolding urging his sons to sleep early to save lamp oil.

In the Central Courtyard, the Jia family could faintly hear Jia Zhangshi's deliberately exaggerated, sycophantic yet barely concealed greedy thank‑you after receiving Yi Zhonghai's goods, as well as Bang Geng's brief cheer upon getting a small piece of candy.

In the Rear Courtyard, the Xu family, Wang Cuihua continued her rebuke, while Xu Damao remained silent, a silence that suppressed a dangerous undercurrent.

There were more households that had extinguished their lights early, conserving energy through sleep amid hunger and cold, silently enduring the endless long night.

This tiny Siheyuan is a microcosm of the whole era. Some endure hardship by scheming, some survive by clinging, some become twisted and deformed under oppression, and others seek a glimmer of light while keeping watch.

Li Ping'an inhaled a breath of icy air, turned back into the house, and gently closed the door, sealing out the wind, snow, and courtyard turmoil. Inside, the light was dim, his son already asleep, his wife quietly stitching by the lamp. The warmth and peace within these few square meters were the result of his painstaking care and protection since crossing over.

He knew this winter would last long, and future hardships would only increase. Yet he was even clearer: as long as he kept his true heart and tended the tiny light lit for himself and his family, even the harshest cold would eventually pass.

He walked to the kang edge, brushed his son's warm little face, and gave Lin Xueqing a soothing smile: "Sleep now, we have to get up early tomorrow."

Outside the window, wind and snow persisted. Inside, a lamp glowed like a bean. In this era of material and spiritual scarcity, ordinary people can only strive to survive, guarding the faint, unextinguishable light that remains beside them.