The morning after the funeral, the compound seemed muted. Even the children, usually shrieking as they chased each other through the courtyard, played quietly, stealing glances at the house at the end of the row.
Inside, Li Xueqing sat at the table, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands folded in her lap. An open trunk stood by the wall, half-filled with neatly folded clothes, her mother's medical books, and her father's drafting tools wrapped in cloth. Every touch felt like a goodbye.
A knock came.
When she opened the door, the political commissar stood there once again, a leather folder tucked under his arm. Beside him was Uncle Liu, his white hair ruffled by the wind, his eyes red from the funeral.
"Xueqing," the commissar said gently, stepping inside. He set the folder on the table and drew out several documents. "According to regulations, the unit has arranged the following. For the sacrifice of your father, Comrade Li Zhenhua, and your mother, Comrade Chen Yuying, the army grants you eight hundred yuan in compensation."
He placed a neat stack of bills on the table.
"In addition, you will receive a monthly stipend until you reach eighteen. And when you are of age, the unit has arranged a position in a state-owned factory. This is part of the duty owed to the family of martyrs."
The words pressed heavily against her ears. Eight hundred yuan. To others, it was a fortune. To her, it was the price the world had placed on her parents' lives.
She lowered her head. "Thank you, Commissar."
Uncle Liu's voice was rough. "Child, keep this money safe. Don't let anyone trick you. And when you go to the city house, keep those doors locked tight."
Xueqing nodded faintly, her throat too tight for words.
When they left, the house seemed emptier than before. The stack of bills sat in the center of the table, the red seals staring back at her. Slowly, she picked them up, smoothed the edges, and tucked them into her schoolbag.
The rest of the day blurred into packing. She folded her mother's medical coat carefully, wrapped her father's compass in a handkerchief, stacked her notebooks into neat piles.
It was when she pulled open the lowest drawer of her parents' desk that she froze. Inside was a cloth bundle tied with string. Her fingers shook as she unwrapped it.
A stack of bills lay within—perhaps two hundred yuan, carefully saved. Beside it were ration tickets, neatly pressed flat, each marked with her mother's tidy handwriting.
Beneath them rested a red notebook, its edges worn smooth. She opened it, her breath catching.
Inside lay the house allocation certificate for their city home, stamped with the unit's seal, and the household registration book, her name written in her father's steady hand.
Her chest tightened. They had prepared everything, quietly, responsibly, as though they had always known she might one day need it.
She pressed the book against her chest, whispering, "I'll keep it safe. I won't let anyone take it from me."
By afternoon, neighbors began drifting in and out. Auntie Zhang brought a jar of pickles. "For when you don't have time to cook," she said, pressing it into Xueqing's hands. A young mother from across the lane offered extra ration tickets. "Take them, girl. You'll need them more than us."
But alongside the kindness came the murmurs:
"Eight hundred yuan… more than some families see in years."
"She even has a house in the city. Fate spares her more than others."
"She's only sixteen. How long can she last on her own?"
Xueqing kept her head bowed, thanking those who helped, ignoring the voices that cut.
By evening, the trunk was closed and tied. The house felt hollow, its corners stripped of warmth. She stood in the doorway, gazing at the courtyard where her childhood had passed: her mother's voice calling her in for supper, her father's hands guiding hers over a sketch of gears.
Tomorrow, she would leave the only home she had ever known.
Tomorrow, she would step into a city where no one knew her name.