Zhenwu walked along the dirt road in the early morning. As the rising sun guided him, Qingshan Village was washed in golds and persimmon yellows. Steam still rose from steamed buns wrapped in cloth, the scent of cooking mingling with the cool air.
"Aiya! Xiao Wu!"
Old Uncle Ding shouted, nearly dropping his hoe when he spotted the young man. His weathered, leathery face split into a toothy grin. "You've really come back! I thought my tired eyes fooled me last night!"
Zhenwu smiled and bowed. "Good morning, Uncle Ding. Yes, I'm back."
"Back? Back?!" Uncle Ding's voice rose on every syllable, and neighbors drifted over from their morning work. The boy who had drowned four years ago had simply returned—as if he'd only gone to buy soy sauce! His eyes glistened; then he laughed. "Your parents must be overjoyed."
Fat Liu stepped out of his gate with breakfast still in his mouth. "Zhenwu! Is that really you?" He staggered forward, squinting. "Not a ghost, right?"
"Not a ghost, Uncle Liu. Just me."
"Hmph!" Fat Liu circled him suspiciously. "A ghost would say the same thing. Let me pinch you—"
"Liu, you fool!" Uncle Ding slapped his friend's reaching hand away. "Stop bothering the boy. Can't you see he's carrying food? Probably for the Lins."
At that, Fat Liu expression shifted. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Oh—going to see old Lin Yuheng, huh? Bring me something better than breakfast, kid. That man—"
"Liu!"
The sharp voice cut through the morning like a blade. Aunt Chen rounded the corner, a basket of vegetables on her hip and an authority in her eyes.
Fat Liu straightened. "Chen-jie, I was just—"
"Just what? Gossiping like a fishmonger in the market?" Aunt Chen's look could make plants wilt. "The boy just came home. Let him breathe!"
"I'm not gossiping, I'm not—" Fat Liu protest. "I was only warning—"
"Warning?" Aunt Chen set her basket down with a thud. "About what? About your four-year tongue and all the drunken tales you feed people? You made Lin Xue's life harder enough with your speculation."
Uncle Ding tried to slip away, but Aunt Chen held him in place with her words. "And you, Ding! I heard you at the teahouse last week saying the boy might have run away because he was too scared to take responsibility!"
"I—I only said what others said—"
"OTHERS? OTHERS?" Thunder itself might have been summoned by her voice. "You're the 'others'! One of you points fingers and the other hides behind his mother who works herself to death!"
Zhenwu stood by, restraining a smirk as two grown men quailed before the old woman. It was the same Aunt Chen he remembered—tender as spring rain to those she loved, merciless as a winter wind to fools.
Her face softened as she looked at him. "Xiao Wuu, why are you up so early? You should be resting. You just came back."
"Good morning, Aunt Chen." Zhenwu bowed. "I wanted to bring breakfast to the Lin family."
She narrowed her eyes, approval plain. "Good boy. That's the right thing to do." She glanced at the two men, who were now busily avoiding eye contact. "Don't let these old gossipmongers stop you."
"Thank you, Aunt Chen. While I was gone you did all you could for my parents."
She waved him off and caught his eyes. "What's there to thank? We're neighbors. We help one another." Then she patted his arm. "Keep going, child. Win Lin Xue's heart back. Work for it. And Xuanxuan—the little one—she wants you. I believe she does."
"Thank you, Aunt Chen. I won't let them down."
As he walked on, more neighbors appeared. Mrs. Wang from the vegetable patch called cheerful greetings while her hands never stopped pulling weeds. "Zhenwu! Welcome home! Your mother must be cooking a feast!"
"The grass grows fast," she muttered to herself, frowning at her bed. "I just weeded this last night. Strange."
Her husband peeked over the fence. "Must've rained last night. A blessing from heaven. Everything is so green!"
A little farther, young Chen Wei was sweeping his courtyard; his head jerked up and down. "Big Brother Zhenwu? Are you really alive?"
"Very much alive, Brother Wei."
"But—they said you drowned! We searched for days!" The broom thudded against the ground. "Where were you?"
"A long story," Zhenwu said. "Maybe another time."
At the village well, a cluster of women drew water. They all stopped mid-conversation when they saw him.
"Zhenwu-ah," old Mrs. Zhao ventured, "are your parents alright?"
"They're fine, thank you, Auntie Zhao."
"And you went to…" She gave the basket a meaningful look.
"To the Lin household. Yes."
The women exchanged glances. Mrs. Zhao's clever daughter-in-law, Mei, stepped forward to defend her. "Well—someone should be held accountable—"
"Mei!" Mrs. Zhao hissed. "Watch your tongue!"
Mei fell silent when Aunt Chen's voice echoed down the lane. "I hear some folks don't know when to stop talking! Shall I go down and teach a few of them a lesson?"
Mei clenched her mouth shut.
Zhenwu stifled a smile and moved on, but not before he heard Mrs. Zhao grumble to her daughter-in-law: "Do you want Chen to come scold us? He could weigh fish against that woman!"
A shadow darted along the road, tongue lolling and tail wagging wildly. Xiao Hei, fresh and panting after a dip in the river, leapt toward Zhenwu with an enthusiasm that suggested he'd been separated from his master for years rather than minutes.
The dog's speed seemed impossible for his stout little body—short legs and a round belly that wobbled with every step.
Zhenwu stopped, mildly amused, as the dog made a beeline for him and without ceremony began running circles around his legs, stopping occasionally to lift a paw against fence posts, trees, and—horrifyingly—Uncle Ding's prized chrysanthemum pot.
"Xiao Hei, must you mark everything, Master?" Zhenwu asked in a friendly tone.
The dog wagged harder, clearly proud of his work.
"Listen to me," Zhenwu hissed, voice low but threaded with steel beneath the softness. "Behave. I'll boil you in a pot if I catch you causing trouble. Understand?"
Xiao Hei flattened his ears but his tail kept faithfully wagging. Yes, Master. Very obedient. No mischief. Promise.
And stop trying to claim the future son-in-law's house—
A crackling voice came over the village loudspeaker and distracted them both. Men and dogs lifted their heads at the familiar announcement in Qingshan Village.
"Attention! Attention! Fellow villagers! This is Village Chief Liang speaking to you."
Zhenwu's heart warmed. Second Grandpa Liang. Liang Shengcun, seventy-two, still held command as if he'd returned from the army yesterday.
The old voice wavered with feeling. "My grandson Liang Zhenwu has returned safely, as many of you know. The prayers of this old man have been answered!" A beat of silence, and then he raised his volume. "To celebrate this blessing, my family will give a jar of pickled cucumbers to every household. Please come to the village office at noon."
Cheers rose from different homes. The Liang family's pickles were famed—the secret recipe of Second Grandpa, a trick from his military days.
Xiao Hei's ears pricked. Pickles? Do they taste good? Can I have some?
"Focus," Zhenwu muttered.
From open windows and doorways came happy chatter:
"Free pickles!"
"Old Liang must be so glad!"
"Of course! His grandson is back from the dead!"
Not every voice was joyful. From one house he heard an edge: Making such a fuss. Probably the boy ran away and now he'll demand a parade….
Xiao Hei growled, but Zhenwu laid a calming hand on his head. "Let them talk. Words can't hurt me now."
He thought of Second Grandpa Liang, once a fighter against invaders, his lungs likely blackened from decades of cheap cigarettes. He needed a visit—and medicine. Something to soothe old war wounds and clear those broken lungs so the old soldier could feel the healing.
But first—the Lin family.
Warm steam rose in the small bath in the Lin house as Lin Xue ladled another scoop of hot water into the wooden tub.
Seeing her daughter half dazed and confused, her hands trembled a little. Just last night Xuanxuan had had a fever, her small body shaking with cold. Lin Xue had braced for another sleepless night, low-cost medicines and cold compresses, counting the last few coins in her head.
But this morning—
"Mommy, is the water too hot?" Xuanxuan asked, voice clear and strong.
"No, darling. Perfect." Lin Xue's eyes stung with tears she couldn't explain. "Tell Mama—how do you feel?"
"Good! Really good!" Xuanxuan danced and splashed; droplets caught the morning sun. "I'm not tired anymore. Can I play outside today?"
Lin Xue pressed her hand to her daughter's forehead—cool. Wholely normal. The dark rings under the child's lovely eyes had vanished. The sickly translucence in her skin was replaced by a healthy glow.
It made no sense. No medicine worked so fast. Fever didn't simply disappear overnight.
But Lin Xue was too thankful to distrust the mercy of heaven.
She rubbed Xuanxuan's back; the little body felt firmer. Then the child's lower lip trembled.
"Xuanxuan? What's the matter, sweetie?"
"Daddy...does he not want Xuanxuan?" the little girl whispered into her mother's shoulder.
Lin Xue froze. "What? Why would you think that?"
"Last night… I saw him." Xuanxuan's voice dwindled. "I called daddy, but Mama came into my room. And this morning… he hasn't come. Maybe he doesn't like me?"
The words stabbed at Lin Xue. She hugged her daughter as though the water didn't wet their clothes. "Oh, sweetheart. No. Your father—" She couldn't find the words. How do you explain four years of absence? What could save this innocent heart?
"He loves you," she said at last, bitter. "He does. He's just… been gone a long time. These things take time."
Xuanxuan clung harder, and Lin Xue's own heart knotted with hope and fear and anger and longing. Last night she had seen him—seen Zhenwu himself. Not a ghost to haunt her lonely nights, but him—somehow older, somehow unmistakably the same.
The father of her child. The man she had loved. Now a man who had vanished without a word.
Outside, the village lived its morning, and somewhere in the tangle of kinship and gossip, Zhenwu was making his way toward them with a bamboo basket of breakfast in hand.
With those large, gentle hands, Lin Xue dried her daughter's hair, and the question that could not be voiced ached in her chest.
Would he really come? And if he did—what would he say?