Chapter 402: Dust Settles on a Joyous Festival

The cold wind of the twelfth lunar month was like a knife, sweeping over the gray-tile eaves of the siheyuan.

But the atmosphere inside the courtyard was much livelier than usual at this time of year.

By the washbasin, several women chatted while washing clothes.

"Now it's peaceful, the three elders have all been dealt with!"

"Indeed, no one is left to put on airs and lecture people all day."

"You say Xu Damao has been running around for nothing, and he hasn't come out well either."

Jia Zhangshi came back from outside with a vegetable basket, heard the discussion, and pursed her lips.

"I say, it's about time! Those first and second elders are just office‑obsessed, acting like big shots."

She set the basket down heavily on the stone platform.

"From now on, just go straight to the neighborhood office for anything—I think that's great! No need for some people to wield a chicken feather as a command arrow."

Although she said that, she felt a little uneasy inside.

When Yi Zhonghai was around, the Jia family could at least squeeze out some advantages.

Now that their backer is gone, it will be hard to skim any profit in the future.

In the central courtyard, Yi Zhonghai's front door remained tightly shut.

The curtains were opened a crack, but soon closed again.

It was as if they were peeking at the outside world, yet afraid of being seen.

In the afternoon, lazy sunlight fell on the polished stone floor of the post office.

Sha Zhu's palms felt a little damp as he gripped the canvas bag.

The bag held those 820 yuan, plus the 500 yuan of private savings that Ma Dongmei had sewn into the lining—she insisted on depositing it together, saying keeping it at home would make her nervous.

The female clerk behind the counter yawned, taking the money without lifting her eyelids.

Bill by bill, she counted with wet fingers, the sound of paper fluttering.

The sound rang especially clear in the spacious post office hall.

Sha Zhu glanced left and right.

Good, there weren't many acquaintances around.

Only a cobbler squatted in the corner, tapping away at shoe soles with a ding‑ding‑dang.

"Fixed term or current account?" the clerk asked.

"Fixed… fixed term, please." Sha Zhu lowered his voice, "For three years."

The clerk glanced at him, said nothing, and lowered her head to fill out the deposit slip.

The pen tip scratched the paper with a soft rustle, like a silkworm eating leaves.

Sha Zhu watched the stack of money being tucked into the drawer; only then did the stone in his heart finally settle.

Last night Ma Dongmei's words still rang in his ears: "Zhuzi, this money must not be shown. So many people in the courtyard are watching with red eyes—Jia Zhangshi's mouth, Xu Damao's scheming—we have to keep a low profile."

We really need to stay low‑key.

He Yushui's tears that day left him feeling choked up inside.

This money was saved by his father through frugal living in Baoding; each note carried an indescribable flavor.

Having deposited it, he felt at ease.

The clerk handed over the passbook—a green plastic cover stamped with gold letters reading "China Postal Savings."

Sha Zhu took it, carefully slipped it into his inner pocket, and pressed it down.

Stepping out of the post office, the sunlight was a bit glaring.

He squinted, then pushed his bicycle back home.

On the handlebars hung a jin of freshly bought pork belly—Ma Dongmei said they'd make dumplings tonight to celebrate.

Celebrate what?

Celebrate having money?

Or celebrate the downfall of Yi Zhonghai?

Sha Zhu couldn't say.

He only felt that the sky that day was blue to an almost unreal degree.

Outside the high walls of the West City prison, withered grass shivered in the cold wind.

The shopkeeper stood in the courtyard, head tilted back to gaze at that narrow strip of sky.

The sky was very blue, blue as if it had been washed.

He wore a brand‑new gray prison uniform, his hair cut very short, revealing a pale‑white scalp.

His handcuffs and shackles had been removed.

Instead, he felt a little unaccustomed to it.

Zhou Zhengwei stood beside him, silently smoking.

"Is there anything else you want to say?" Zhou Zhengwei asked.

The shopkeeper shook his head.

Everything that needed to be said has been said.

Thirty‑seven years underground, thirty‑seven accomplices, three secret accounts, two properties, a batch of gold buried in the Xishan mountains.

And there are those secrets that will never see the light.

It's all been said.

It felt like setting down a burden he'd carried his whole life.

It was light, and also empty.

"You are a smart person," Zhou Zhengwei pinched out the smoke, "You took the wrong path."

Shopkeeper smiled.

His smile was faint.

"The road is chosen by oneself; don't blame others."

Zhou Zhengwei paused.

"Li Ping'an... are you okay?"

"Very well," Zhou Zhengwei said, "Yesterday we just cracked a theft case in the factory and caught three insiders."

Shopkeeper nodded.

"That's good," Zhou Zhengwei said.

Zhou Zhengwei said nothing further.

Zhou Zhengwei just stared at the sky.

He gazed at that stretch of blue he could never reach again.

Footsteps came from afar.

They were orderly, heavy.

Shopkeeper closed his eyes.

Shopkeeper took a deep breath.

The air smelled of earth, of withered grass, and... of freedom.

Although it was the last breath.

The Steel Rolling Mill gave only a half‑day holiday for New Year's Day.

When the noon shift‑end bell rang, the workers surged out of the gate like a tide.

All wore smiles.

The half‑day off was still a holiday, letting them go home early to prepare for the festival.

When Li Ping'an pushed the cart out, Wang Dahu chased after him.

"Director, have you heard? Over at the shopkeeper... the process has begun."

Li Ping'an's steps faltered.

"When?"

"Just this morning," Wang Dahu lowered his voice, "Zhou Zhengwei is personally overseeing the punishment."

Li Ping'an nodded.

He said nothing.

He pushed the cart forward.

Wang Dahu stayed beside him, wanting to say something, but seeing the director's expression, he swallowed his words.

After exiting the factory gate, Li Ping'an finally spoke.

"The case is closed; don't bring it up again."

"Understood."

The two went their separate ways.

Li Ping'an rode a bike through the street.

The street already bore a festive atmosphere.

A long line formed in front of the side‑goods shop; people scrambled for ticket‑required ribbonfish and frozen chicken.

Children ran about holding candied hawthorn skewers, their laughter crisp.

The sunshine was fine, and the wind was light.

It was a good day.

Li Ping'an turned into the Alley and, from a distance, saw his own chimney puffing cooking smoke.

It was faint, bluish‑gray, rising gently against the blue sky.

The ripple in his heart, stirred by the shopkeeper, gradually calmed.

Dust returns to dust, earth to earth.

What should be, is settled.

In Xi Kua Yuan, Lin Xueqing was kneading dough.

The bowl contained white flour mixed with a little cornmeal, yellow‑white speckled, kneaded smooth and fine.

Xiao Nuanqing stood on tiptoe, peering over the table edge, flour on the tip of her nose.

"Mom, I want to knead too."

"You're still little; wait until you grow up," Lin Xueqing said, smiling and pinching her daughter's cheek, "Go call brother to wash his hands, get ready to make dumplings."

Li Yaozong ran out of the inner room, holding a comic book.

"Dad's back?"

"Almost," Lin Xueqing glanced at the sun outside the window, "Go peel the garlic."

Just then, the courtyard gate bell rang.

Li Ping'an pushed the cart inside; a grass carp dangled from the handle, still flopping.

"Hey, bought a fish?" Lin Xueqing wiped her hands and came out to greet.

"We'd been in line for half an hour," Li Ping'an placed the fish into a water basin, "It's New Year's Day, add a vegetable."

Xiao Nuanqing lunged forward and clutched his leg.

"Dad! Fish!"

Let's have stewed fish tonight. Li Ping'an picked up his daughter, looked at his wife, "Is the dough ready?"

"All right." Lin Xueqing said, "The filling is ready too, cabbage and pork. Just waiting for you to come back and roll the wrappers."

The family of four went into the main hall.

Li Ping'an washed his hands and rolled out the wrappers; Lin Xueqing brought the kids to wrap dumplings.

Li Yaozong wrapped them crookedly, but he was very earnest.

Xiao Nuanqing also tried wrapping, but she put too much filling, the wrapper wouldn't close, and she cried out in frustration.

The room was warm and lively, laughter continuous.

A layer of condensation covered the window glass, blurring the outside world.

It seemed this little courtyard was the whole world.

In the central courtyard, Jia Zhangshi sat on the doorstep picking chives.

Her eyes, however, would occasionally glance toward the west wing.

Seeing Li Ping'an come in carrying a fish, she pursed her lips.

"Again fish. Must be nice to have money to burn."

Qin Huairu was pasting matchstick boxes inside the house; hearing her mother-in-law's words, she whispered, "Mom, say less."

"Did I say something wrong?" Jia Zhangshi raised her voice, "They eat meat every other day, but what about us? Bang Geng is at the age to grow, and he can't even get an egg!"

Qin Huairu said nothing.

She lowered her head and continued pasting matchstick boxes.

A paper cut nicked her finger, drawing a bead of blood.

She silently held it in her mouth, the salty, fishy taste.

In the back courtyard, the atmosphere in Liu Haizhong's household was gloomy.

Er Da Ma was frying tofu in the kitchen, the oil sputtering.

Liu Haizhong sat in the main hall, holding a tea jar, but hadn't taken a sip for a long while.

The steward was dismissed.

The prestige he'd built up over decades vanished in an instant.

Now walking around the courtyard, there wasn't a single person who would greet him first.

How fickle human relations are.

Yan Bu Gui's household, by contrast, was peaceful.

San Dama was mending clothes, while Yan Bu Gui was clicking the abacus.

He muttered under his breath: "Cabbage five fen, tofu eight fen, meat coupons saved for New Year to exchange for meat… This batch of dumplings, cost kept under two mao."

The abacus beads clacked.

Like the ledger in his heart.

When the dumplings went into the pot, the sky had already darkened.

A fragrance drifted from the west wing.

The plump dumplings bobbed in the boiling water, like little silver fish.

Lin Xueqing scooped one out, blew on it to cool, then split it open to check if the filling was cooked.

"It's done, we can eat."

Li Ping'an set out the bowls and chopsticks.

The family sat around the table.

Vinegar, garlic paste, chili oil.

Simple condiments, yet they carried the ritual feeling of the holiday.

"'Dad, why do we eat dumplings on New Year's Day?' Li Yaozong asked."

"'Because…' Li Ping'an thought, 'Because dumplings resemble ingots; eating them brings good luck for the coming year.'"

"'And what about eating fish?'"

"'Year after year, there will be surplus.'"

Xiao Nuanqing nodded, half-understanding, picked up a dumpling, and clumsily dipped it in vinegar.

Result: vinegar dripped all over her.

Lin Xueqing laughed as she wiped it off her.

Outside, every household in the siheyuan had lit their lamps.

Cooking smoke mingled in the dusk, making it impossible to tell whose was whose.

Occasionally came the sound of children's laughter and play, and adults' calls.

Ordinary, genuine, warm.

Li Ping'an picked up a piece of fish belly meat and placed it in his wife's bowl.

He also gave each of the two children a piece.

"'Eat a bit more.'"

"'You eat too.' Lin Xueqing gave him a dumpling."

Outside, the night grew darker.

In the distance, faint firecracker sounds drifted over—no one knew which family's mischievous child had set off a few small firecrackers early.

Pop, pop.

Crisp and fresh, as if heralding the arrival of the new year.

Li Ping'an raised his cup; inside was warmed yellow wine.

Come, clink one.

Four cups clinked together.

The sound was soft, but solid.

"Wish our family peace and safety." Li Ping'an said.

"Peace and safety." Lin Xueqing repeated.

The child also followed along learning.

Under the warm yellow light, light was reflected on all four faces.

Outside the house, the cold wind remained.

Inside the house, it was warm as spring.

This siheyuan, this city, this country, all on this night, slowly turned over a new chapter.

And the story belonging to the siheyuan continues.

In the sound of morning martial practice, in the smoke of evening meals, in these ordinary yet precious days, it quietly flows.