The village settled into an uneasy quiet after the crowd dispersed, but the silence wasn't peaceful—it was the kind of heavy stillness that comes after lightning strikes, when everyone holds their breath waiting for the thunder. From Lin Xue's house, the sound of a child's muffled sobs drifted through the thin walls like a knife twisting in everyone's chest.
"Daddy... please don't go away again... Daddy..."
Xuanxuan's voice grew hoarse with crying, and even Fat Liu, who was still arguing with Old Ding about roosters and phoenixes, fell silent mid-sentence. He scratched his balding head awkwardly.
"Ah, hell," he muttered. "That little one... it breaks your heart, doesn't it?"
Old Ding nodded grimly, his earlier humor evaporating. "Come on, you old fool. Let's go home. Some things aren't meant for our ears."
They shuffled away, their bickering replaced by an uncomfortable silence that spoke volumes about the weight of what they'd witnessed.
* * *
Three houses down from the commotion, in a small courtyard where a lone persimmon tree stood bare against the night sky, Liang Jianguo sat on a weathered wooden stool, turning an old fishing rod over in his calloused hands. The bamboo was cracked in two places, held together by strips of cloth—repairs he'd made years ago when Zhenwu had been too rough with it, yanking too hard on a stubborn fish.
He'd kept meaning to fix it properly, maybe replace the cloth strips with proper fishing line bindings. But somehow, every time he looked at those makeshift repairs, he could see his son's fifteen-year-old face, sheepish and apologetic: "Ba, I'm sorry, I'll be more careful next time."
There wouldn't be a next time, he'd thought for four years. But tonight...
"Jianguo?" Wu Meifeng's voice drifted from inside the house. "Are you coming to bed?"
"In a moment," he called back, though his voice sounded thick. He set the fishing rod aside carefully, as if it were made of glass instead of bamboo.
Inside, Wu Meifeng lingered in what had once been Zhenwu's bedroom. The space was exactly as he'd left it—bed made with military precision (a habit he'd picked up trying to impress some girl, she remembered), desk still scattered with textbooks he'd never return to, and on the small shelf, a collection of carved wooden animals he'd whittled with Uncle Weiming's help.
She picked up a small wooden rabbit, its surface smooth from years of handling. Zhenwu had given it to her for Mother's Day when he was twelve, proudly announcing that he'd carved it himself. One ear was slightly shorter than the other, and the tail was crooked, but she'd treasured it more than any store-bought gift.
"My silly boy," she whispered to the empty room, pressing the rabbit against her chest. "Where did you go? Why didn't you come home sooner?"
A sharp knock at the front door made both parents freeze. Visitors this late meant either an emergency or gossip too urgent to wait until morning.
"Jianguo! Meifeng! Open up, quickly!"
They recognized Aunt Chen's voice, breathless and urgent. Liang Jianguo hurried to unlatch the door, finding the older woman doubled over, her hand pressed to her chest as she gasped for air.
"Chen-jie, what's wrong? Come in, sit down." Wu Meifeng rushed to help her to a chair. "You look like you've run all the way from town."
"Water," Aunt Chen wheezed. "Give me... some water first."
Wu Meifeng bustled to fetch a cup from their ceramic pitcher, her hands shaking slightly as she poured. Aunt Chen drank deeply, her throat working as she swallowed gulp after gulp.
"Aiyo, Chen-jie, slow down or you'll make yourself sick," Liang Jianguo said, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's happened? Is someone hurt?"
Aunt Chen set the cup down with trembling hands and looked up at them both. Her eyes were red-rimmed, whether from running or crying, neither parent could tell.
"It's..." She took another shuddering breath. "It's Zhenwu. He's back."
The words hung in the air like smoke, visible but somehow not quite real. Wu Meifeng's hand flew to her mouth, the color draining from her face so quickly that Liang Jianguo reached out to steady her.
"What did you say?" Wu Meifeng's voice was barely a whisper.
"Your son," Aunt Chen said more firmly. "Liang Zhenwu. He's alive, and he's here. In the village. Right now."
Wu Meifeng's legs gave out. She collapsed into the nearest chair, her whole body shaking. "No... no, that's impossible. We looked... we searched for days... the river..."
"Where is he?" Liang Jianguo's voice was steady, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the back of his wife's chair. "Where is my son?"
"He's..." Aunt Chen glanced between them, clearly weighing her words. "He's with Old Lin. They went toward the edge of the village to talk."
Wu Meifeng shot to her feet so suddenly that her chair scraped loudly against the floor. "Old Lin? Oh no, oh no, oh no." She started pacing frantically, her hands twisting in her apron. "Chen-jie, you don't understand. Lin Yuheng has been so angry... so angry for years. He blames Zhenwu for everything—Xue's situation, the baby, all of it. What if he... what if he hurts him?"
"Meifeng." Liang Jianguo's voice cut through her panic like a blade. "Sit down."
"But Jianguo, you don't know how he talks about our son! He says terrible things, calls him a coward, says he ran away from responsibility—"
"Sit. Down."
The command in his voice made her sink back into her chair, though her hands continued their nervous wringing.
Liang Jianguo was quiet for a long moment, his weathered face thoughtful. When he spoke, his voice was measured, careful.
"If Old Lin wants to break our son's legs, let him try. As long as he doesn't kill the boy, I don't care what he does." He held up a hand when Wu Meifeng started to protest. "Zhenwu is a grown man now, Meifeng. Twenty-one years old. He made choices, and those choices had consequences. If he's finally come home to face them, then he needs to do it like a man."
"But Jianguo—"
"No buts." His voice softened slightly. "The most important thing is that our son is alive and has come back to us. Everything else... everything else we can figure out."
Tears streamed down Wu Meifeng's face, but she nodded, understanding the wisdom in her husband's words even as her mother's heart rebelled against them.
Aunt Chen watched this exchange with the practiced eye of someone who had seen many family dramas unfold over the decades. "There's more," she said quietly.
Both parents looked at her.
"The little one—Xuanxuan—she recognized him immediately. Called him 'Daddy' right there in front of everyone." Aunt Chen's voice grew soft. "She's been crying for him since they took her inside."
Wu Meifeng let out a sound that was part sob, part laugh. "Our granddaughter... she knows her father."
"And she's sick, isn't she?" Liang Jianguo asked. "The child?"
Aunt Chen nodded gravely. "Very sick. The doctors in the city... they say it's her blood. Without proper treatment..."
She didn't need to finish the sentence. They all understood what hung in the balance.
* * *
At the edge of the village, where the houses gave way to rice paddies and the sound of frogs began to overwhelm human voices, Zhenwu and Lin Yuheng walked in tense silence. The old man's pace was steady but deliberate, leading them away from curious ears toward a spot where they could speak freely.
They stopped beside a low stone wall that had once marked the boundary of the old temple grounds. The temple itself was long gone—destroyed in some political upheaval decades ago—but the wall remained, weathered and covered with moss. Lin Yuheng sat heavily on the stones, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-seven years.
"So," he said, his voice flat and cold. "The prodigal son returns."
Zhenwu remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that had become habitual during his years of training. "Uncle Lin—"
"Don't." The old man's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't call me uncle. You lost that right four years ago when you disappeared like a coward, leaving my daughter to face the shame alone."
Zhenwu absorbed the blow without flinching. "You're right. I wasn't here when I should have been. I wasn't here when Xue needed me, when... when my daughter needed me."
"Your daughter?" Lin Yuheng laughed bitterly. "What makes you think you have any claim to that child? You contributed nothing but the seed. Xue carried her, birthed her, raised her while dealing with everyone's whispers and judgment. I paid for her medicine when my own joints ache from working extra hours to afford it."
Each word hit Zhenwu like a physical blow, but he forced himself to remain still, to listen, to accept the weight of his absence.
"Do you know," Lin Yuheng continued, his voice growing rougher, "what it's like to watch your daughter cry herself to sleep every night for months? Do you know what it's like to see her refuse every decent man who might have married her because she kept believing—kept hoping—that somehow you'd come back?"
Zhenwu's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"And that child," Lin Yuheng's voice broke slightly. "That beautiful, innocent child who never did anything wrong except have the misfortune to be born from your seed. Do you know what it's like to watch her get weaker every month? To see her smile and pretend she's not in pain because she doesn't want to worry us?"
"I know I can't take back the time I was gone," Zhenwu said quietly. "I know I can't undo the pain I caused. But I'm here now, and I want to make it right."
"Make it right?" Lin Yuheng stood up abruptly, his fists clenched. "How? With what? Sweet words? Empty promises? You look healthy enough, well-fed, well-dressed. Were you living comfortably somewhere while we scraped together coins for your daughter's medicine?"
Zhenwu met the old man's furious gaze steadily. "I want to take full responsibility for Xue and Xuanxuan. I want to heal my daughter, and I want to heal you too, Uncle."
Lin Yuheng stared at him for a moment, then let out a harsh laugh. "Heal me? Heal your daughter? What are you, some kind of miracle worker? A traveling doctor with magic herbs?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Don't insult my intelligence with ridiculous promises, boy."
"I'm not insulting your intelligence." Zhenwu took a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to do would change everything between them. "I'm telling you the truth. But first, I need you to promise me something."
"You're in no position to ask for promises."
"Please." Zhenwu's voice carried a note of desperation. "What I'm about to show you... it must remain secret. From my parents, from the village, from everyone. Can you promise me that?"
Lin Yuheng studied his face in the dim moonlight, seeing something in those eyes that made him pause. There was power there, and confidence, but also fear—not fear of physical harm, but fear of something deeper.
"What kind of secret?" he asked warily.
Zhenwu extended his hand, palm up. In the darkness, nothing seemed to happen at first. Then, gradually, a soft light began to emanate from his skin—not bright enough to be seen from the village, but clear and steady, casting their faces in an ethereal glow.
Lin Yuheng stumbled backward, his eyes wide with shock and fear. "What... what kind of sorcery is this?"
"Not sorcery," Zhenwu said quietly, the light pulsing gently in rhythm with his heartbeat. "Something else entirely. Something that means I can keep the promises I'm making to you."
The old man stared at the impossible light, his world shifting on its axis as everything he thought he knew about reality crumbled around him.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
Zhenwu closed his hand, and the light disappeared, leaving them in darkness that seemed deeper than before.
"I'm the father of your granddaughter," he said simply. "And I'm here to save her life."