Always on the Move · Chat

The spring of 1978 came late. The snow on the Ningyang Railway Station square was only half melted. Wang Xin, wrapped in his newly issued police coat, walked out of the exit. The setting sun shone on the badge on his shoulder, making him squint. This was his first day reporting to the Ningyang Railway Police Station. The iron gate of the compound was ajar, and the hinges creaked, startling the sparrows on the grape trellis that hadn't sprouted yet. Wang Xin stood at the door, in no hurry to enter. By the public water sink a dozen paces away, a girl with two braids was bending over to scrub clothes, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her red-frozen fingers moving back and forth in the cold water. He recognized that silhouette—Ma Yan, the one standing on the left in the third row of their middle school graduation photo. Ma Yan didn't look up, but the window on the second floor opposite was suddenly pushed open. Yao Yuling leaned half her body out, her permed curls fluttering in the wind, urging: "Mom, is my Dacron shirt dry yet? I need to wear it for work tomorrow!" Her voice was as crisp as a radio broadcast—she was a broadcaster, after all. Wang Xin walked forward following the sound, almost colliding with a figure rushing out. The man was skinny, with half a fried dough stick dangling from his mouth, shouting indistinctly: "Dali! Dali, you didn't hide the chicken feathers you stole from Old Wu's house yesterday!" Cai Xiaonian ran out of the yard dragging his shoes, froze for a moment when he saw Wang Xin, and the fried dough stick dropped onto his chest. "Xin... Wang Xin?" Before Wang Xin could respond, a hen's squawking and fluttering of wings came from the backyard. Immediately after, Niu Dali bolted out with a head full of chicken feathers, his face flushing redder than a rooster's comb. The three young men in their twenties stood in the yard staring at each other. No one knew who laughed first, but soon they were all laughing. The laughter was cut short by a cough. Wang Xin turned his head and saw a man standing at the door of the main house at some point. He was in his fifties, with a frame as broad and sturdy as the old locust tree by the yard gate, wearing a faded blue cotton jacket. His face was expressionless, but his gaze swept Wang Xin from head to toe. The yard suddenly fell silent, and even Yao Yuling shrank back behind the window. "Wang Yongge's boy?" the man spoke, his voice as rough as sandpaper rubbing against iron. Wang Xin nodded. The man didn't say another word. He turned and went back inside, closing the door gently, but it sounded like the beat of a drum. Cai Xiaonian leaned in close to Wang Xin's ear and whispered: "Your master, Ma Kui. Didn't your dad tell you?" Wang Xin clenched his fists, his palms slick with sweat. The old hen he had snatched off the train was clucking and pecking at the mud nearby, and the setting sun dyed the entire compound the color of an old photograph. He suddenly felt that once he stepped through this yard gate, there would be no turning back. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>