September 1966, A Military Compound in Northern China
The autumn wind swept through the military compound, carrying with it the faint clang of metal from the workshop and the smell of boiled cabbage from the canteen. Inside a modest brick house at the far end of the row, sixteen-year-old Li Xueqing sat at the dining table, her head bent over a Russian reader. Her pen scratched steadily across the page as she copied unfamiliar words into her notebook.
It was an ordinary afternoon—until a sharp knock broke the stillness.
Three times. Firm, heavy.
Xueqing froze, pen hovering. Visitors were rare at this hour. She rose, smoothing her worn skirt with automatic neatness, and went to the door.
When she pulled it open, she saw the political commissar of her father's unit standing there, his square face dark with solemnity. Beside him was Uncle Liu, a retired logistics officer who lived two doors down. His hair had gone white, but his eyes, usually kind, were now clouded with sorrow.
"Xueqing," the commissar said, his voice low but unyielding, "I must tell you something."
Her heart thudded painfully.
"Your father, Comrade Li Zhenhua, and your mother, Comrade Chen Yuying… fell in the line of duty."
The words struck like iron bars.
Fell. Duty.
Her mind refused to make sense of them. For a moment, she thought she had misheard, but the commissar's expression allowed no room for hope.
The orderly who stood behind them stepped forward and laid a sealed envelope on the table just inside the doorway. The red star stamped across its face seemed to burn into her eyes.
"The funeral will be arranged by the unit," the commissar continued. "You will receive further notice. Xueqing, your parents were heroes. Their sacrifice will be remembered."
His tone was official, the phrases clipped and memorized, but his gaze lingered on her, softening. He had seen her grow up since she was a baby running around in her mother's shadow.
Uncle Liu stepped forward, his voice rough. "Child… let yourself cry. You don't need to hold it in." His hand, calloused from years of handling crates and ledgers, rested gently on her shoulder.
Xueqing's lips parted, but no sound emerged. She gripped the doorframe with all her strength, her knuckles white.
The commissar bowed his head slightly. "We'll come again tomorrow. Rest tonight." With that, he and the orderly turned away, their boots striking the stone path in unison, fading into the compound's noise.
The door closed, leaving only silence.
Inside, everything looked the same: her father's drafting compass gleamed faintly on the shelf; her mother's white doctor's coat hung neatly on a peg. Yet the room felt emptied, as though all its warmth had been pulled away with the commissar's words.
Her gaze fell on the envelope. Her fingers trembled as she tore it open.
The notice inside was as blunt as the delivery:
> "Comrade Li Zhenhua and Comrade Chen Yuying perished with honor in service to the People's Liberation Army. Their sacrifice will be remembered."
No details. No comfort. Just a verdict.
Her knees buckled. She sank onto the chair, the paper crumpled in her fist. For a moment she sat rigid, staring blankly, her chest locked tight. Then the first tear slipped free.
At first silent, then trembling, then unstoppable, the sobs poured out. She pressed her face against her arms, shoulders shaking, muffling the sounds so the neighbors wouldn't hear.
The Russian words she had written blurred as tears stained the notebook. The ink spread in jagged blotches, as though the page itself wept with her.
Outside, the compound lived on: bicycles rattled past the gates, children shouted as they played tag, the canteen bell rang to announce supper. The world moved forward, indifferent.
But inside the small house, Li Xueqing's world had collapsed.
She wept until exhaustion dragged her into silence. When the oil lamp burned low, she curled on her narrow bed, clutching the notice to her chest as if by holding it tightly enough, she could somehow keep her parents close.
The night stretched endlessly, heavy with the weight of loss.
By dawn, her eyes were swollen, her throat raw. She lay staring at the cracked ceiling, knowing one truth she could not escape:
Her father and mother would never return.
And she was alone.