The silence hung in the air like a taut string ready to snap. Uncle Lin's wooden block hovered, frozen in midair, his weathered arm trembling—not from the weight of the wood, but from the burden of the innocent question that had just shattered the night.
"…Daddy? Are you… Xuanxuan's daddy?"
The door creaked wider. A tiny figure emerged, her small hand still gripping the doorframe. Xuanxuan stood there in her patched cotton pajamas, the ones with little rabbits that Lin Xue had sewn by hand. Her face was pale as moonlight, but her eyes—those unmistakable eyes that everyone said looked just like Zhenwu's—were wide with curiosity and recognition.
She had seen him before. Not in person, but in the faded photograph that sat on Grandpa Liang and Grandma Wu's altar table. The one where a seventeen-year-old boy smiled broadly at the camera, his arm slung around his father's shoulder during last year's Spring Festival. The one Lin Xue had quietly pointed to during their visits, whispering, "That's your daddy, Xuanxuan. He's… he's gone on a very long trip."
Now, that same face stood before her, older and more weathered, but unmistakably the same.
"Daddy?" she whispered again, this time with more certainty.
Lin Yuheng's wooden block clattered to the ground. His shoulders began to shake—not with rage anymore, but with something deeper, more broken. A sound escaped his throat, something between a sob and a growl of pure anguish.
"Aigui, aigui…" he muttered, using the old expression his mother had taught him for when the heart couldn't bear any more. His calloused hands came up to cover his face as tears began to flow through his fingers.
Behind the growing crowd of villagers, Aunt Chen pressed her hands to her mouth, her own tears flowing freely. "Ah, the child recognizes him," she whispered to no one in particular. "After all these years, she knows her father."
Old Ding nudged Fat Liu with his elbow. "Look at you, crying like a woman," he muttered under his breath.
"I'm not crying!" Fat Liu protested, wiping his nose roughly with his sleeve. "It's just… dusty tonight, isn't it?"
"Dusty?" Old Ding snorted. "It rained two hours ago; everything's as wet as a fish."
"Then it's… allergies," Fat Liu mumbled.
"Allergies to drama, more like," Old Ding chuckled despite himself. "You old gossip, you wouldn't miss this if the Emperor himself were calling."
"Shush!" hissed someone from behind them. "This isn't the time for your nonsense!"
But somehow, their familiar bickering provided a strange comfort—a reminder that even in moments when the world felt like it was ending, life went on with all its petty, human absurdities.
Lin Xue appeared in the doorway behind her daughter, her face a canvas of conflicting emotions. Her eyes found Zhenwu across the crowd, and for a moment, the years collapsed between them. There was longing, yes, but also pain so deep it seemed to hollow her out from the inside. She looked away quickly, as if his gaze burned her.
"Hello, little one," Zhenwu said softly, his voice carefully gentle as he took a tentative step forward. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was his daughter—his child. The one he'd never held, never sung to sleep, never watched take her first steps.
"Are you really my daddy?" Xuanxuan asked, tilting her head with that particular curiosity that only children possess—direct, unafraid, and cutting straight to the heart of things.
"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I am."
She smiled then, a radiant thing that lit up her pale face. "I knew it! I told Grandpa Lin you looked just like the man in Grandma Wu's picture, but he said—"
"Xuanxuan, come back inside," Lin Yuheng's voice was hoarse and broken. He stepped between them, his body a wall of grief and protective fury. "Come back inside right now."
But Xuanxuan was already moving, her small legs carrying her forward with the fearless determination of a child who had finally found something she'd been searching for without even knowing it.
"Wait," Zhenwu said, dropping to one knee to meet her at eye level. But Lin Yuheng's hand shot out, gripping his shoulder with surprising strength.
"Don't." The word came out strangled. "Don't you dare touch her."
"Uncle Lin, please. She's my—"
"You're what?" Lin Yuheng's face twisted in anger. "Your daughter? Where were you when she was born? Where were you when she cried for hours with a fever? Where were you when the doctor said her blood was sick, and we had to watch her grow thinner and thinner while we scraped together coins for medicine?"
His voice cracked on the last words, and Zhenwu saw decades of pain carved into the lines around his eyes.
"I wasn't here," Zhenwu said quietly. "You're right. I wasn't here, and I can't change that. But I'm here now—"
"Now?" Lin Yuheng laughed bitterly. "Now, when might it be too late? When she's so sick that some nights she can barely lift her head from the pillow?"
"Grandpa, why are you being mean to Daddy?" Xuanxuan's voice cut through their exchange like a blade. She stood between them, looking up at her grandfather with confusion and hurt. "Don't you love me anymore?"
The question hit Lin Yuheng like a physical blow. He staggered back, his face crumpling.
"Xuanxuan," Lin Xue said gently, finally moving forward. Her voice was steady, but Zhenwu could see the tremor in her hands. "Come here, baby. Come to Mama."
"But I want to talk to Daddy," Xuanxuan protested, even as her mother's arms encircled her. "I have so many things to tell him! About my friends, and about how I can count to one hundred now, and—"
"Inside, Xuanxuan," Lin Xue said firmly, lifting her daughter despite the child's squirming protests. "We need to go inside."
"Daddy!" Xuanxuan called out over her mother's shoulder, her voice growing desperate. "Daddy, don't leave again! Please don't leave!"
The words hit Zhenwu like arrows, each one finding its mark in his chest. He took a step forward, his hands outstretched, but Lin Yuheng blocked his path again.
"You have no right," the old man said through gritted teeth. "No right at all."
"She's my daughter," Zhenwu said, his voice breaking.
"She's Lin Xue's daughter. She's my granddaughter. You?" Lin Yuheng shook his head. "You're just a stranger who shares her face."
In the crowd, Aunt Liu wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, remembering her own harsh words from earlier. Seeing the child—witnessing the hope and confusion in those innocent eyes—made her anger seem suddenly petty and small.
"Xue'er," Lin Yuheng called to his daughter. "Take her inside. Now."
Lin Xue hesitated, torn between obedience to her father and some part of her that had never stopped hoping for this moment. But Xuanxuan's cries grew louder, her small fists beating against her mother's shoulders.
"I don't want to go inside! I want my daddy! Why can't I talk to my daddy?"
"Because—" Lin Xue's voice caught. She looked at Zhenwu one more time, her eyes asking questions she couldn't voice. Then, with visible effort, she turned away. "Because it's late, and you need to sleep."
She carried her struggling daughter toward the house, Xuanxuan's cries echoing in the night air.
"Daddy! Daddy, please!"
The door closed with a finality that seemed to echo through everyone's bones.
Lin Yuheng stood for a moment, swaying slightly. Then he bent down and picked up his fallen wooden block, gripping it as if it were an anchor.
"Come," he said to Zhenwu, his voice empty of everything except exhaustion. "We need to talk. Away from here."
He began walking toward the edge of the village, toward the old fields where the sound of their conversation wouldn't carry back to the houses. Zhenwu followed, his steps heavy with the weight of his daughter's cries still ringing in his ears.
As they disappeared into the darkness, Fat Liu nudged Old Ding again.
"Should we… should we follow them?" he whispered.
Old Ding's response was swift and sharp—a smack to the back of Fat Liu's head that echoed through the night.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"For being an idiot," Old Ding muttered. "Haven't you caused enough trouble tonight with your big ears and bigger mouth?"
"My ears aren't big!" Fat Liu protested, rubbing the back of his head. "And besides, this is important village business!"
"Important village business, my foot. You want more gossip to spread tomorrow morning."
"I do not!"
"You do too! Remember when Widow Zhang's rooster got into Teacher Ma's vegetable garden? You told that story for three months, adding new details every time."
"That's different! The rooster really did—"
"The rooster did what? Learn to fly through walls? Because by the end of your telling, that bird was practically a phoenix!"
Fat Liu's face reddened. "You're just jealous because people actually listen to my stories, you old Alzheimer's patient!"
Old Ding's eyes flashed. "Alzheimer's patient? ALZHEIMER'S PATIENT?" He raised his cane threateningly. "You're the one with Alzheimer's! Your whole family has Alzheimer's! Your grandmother probably forgot she even had you!"
"Take that back!" Fat Liu squared his shoulders, looking for all the world like a puffed-up rooster himself.
"I'll take it back when you learn to mind your own business!"
"Boys, boys," Aunt Chen intervened wearily, wiping her tears. "This isn't the time—"
But they were already walking away, their argument carrying into the night—a familiar comfort of petty human drama that helped mask the deeper pain that had just been laid bare for all to see.
The remaining villagers began to drift back to their homes, whispering among themselves, carrying with them the image of a little girl's tears and a father who had returned too late to catch them when they fell.
In the distance, two figures walked toward the edge of the world they knew, carrying between them the weight of four years of unresolved conflict.