"…There aren't many people left. An uncle of mine passed away back in the seventies—that was the last time I returned here. When I came back, there were still a few families in the village, but now they've all relocated. Truly, the world has changed so much; in the blink of an eye, a hundred years have passed… When I was born, my mother was a Women's Federation cadre, and my father was a teacher at the Second Branch of the Anti-Japanese Military and Political University, right in Wuxiang, not far from here, and not far from the old headquarters of the Eighth Route Army. If you think about it, I really am a bona fide second-generation Red, but back then, being a second-generation Red didn't mean an easy life. The only feelings I can remember are hunger and fear. What I remember most clearly is that whenever I heard gunshots, my grandmother would scoop me up and hide me in the cellar… After the victory in the War of Resistance, there was the civil war, and this place became the main battlefield of the Shangdang Campaign. I was still being carried by my grandmother into the cellar every day. At that time, conscription was harsh. One of my childhood playmates, only twelve or thirteen, was a bit tall and was forcibly taken away to serve in the Nationalist Army… It wasn't until the country was liberated that my parents went south with the army. When they left, they gave me the name Nathan Lane. When I was thirteen and my grandmother passed away, they finally brought me to Fujian, and that's when I started school…"

The old man spoke on, rambling about trivial matters, but mostly evoking memories of war. The people of Shangdang have always been known for their resilience, and the suffering they endured during the wars was especially severe. Yet, more than half a century has passed since that brutal conflict, and even when it is discussed, few add any sense of grief—time will eventually drown out all memories.

Seeing her father getting a bit lost in the past and rambling on, his daughter Olivia Lane changed the subject: "Dad, when I was little, I always heard you tell stories about our old home. Seeing it with my own eyes is so much better than I imagined—it's not any worse than Gulangyu, especially the mountains and water here. The environment is so good, it completely overturns my previous impression of the North."

"Of course! Only the water of Mirror Lake in front of our door, the spring breeze never changes the old ripples—what a wonderful place. When I was a kid, I was a real rascal, climbing the mountains to pick fruit, catching fish and shrimp in the river, all right here. There used to be a lot of wild peach trees halfway up that hill. Whenever your great-grandmother couldn't find me, she'd stand on that hilltop and call… 'Mountain boy, your dad is coming to get you, he brought you something tasty, come back now…'"

Old Man Lane acted out the scene, his childlike spirit coming alive. His words were in the authentic Luzhou dialect, calling "dad" as "da," which made the others laugh in agreement. Following her father's pointing finger, Olivia Lane saw a lush hill with a large boulder jutting out, almost the highest point in the area, overlooking the entire reservoir. Turning back, she saw her father's steps had stopped, and the smile on his face, at some point, was squeezed out by a tear of cloudy old age. The daughter was stunned, and her words of comfort died on her lips. The old man wiped his eyes, quietly covering up his emotions.

"Right there—that's our home…"

They had reached the top of the hill. The old man stopped, pointed with a trembling finger, and called out. Where he pointed stood a collapsed stone and mud house. At the top, years-old withered needlegrass; on the ground, fresh green weeds. The old home, battered by wind and rain, could not wait for the wanderer to return—it had long since become a ruin.

In an instant, Nathan Lane's tears gushed forth. He was no longer steady on his feet, staggering as he climbed. His daughter Olivia Lane and the others hurried to support him, but the old man pushed them all away, tottered forward, held onto the rotting doorframe, sobbed, and slowly sat down. His trembling hand grabbed a handful of wild earth, taking a deep breath as if smelling the scent of his homeland. Big, cloudy tears fell onto his veined hands, onto the black-and-yellow earth. His chest heaved with sobs, tears and snot streaming down, unable to control himself. His daughter quickly took out an inhaler and handed it over, but her father blocked her, blocking not only his daughter but also everyone else from coming forward.

No one stepped up to disturb him. They just watched as the old man, seemingly overwhelmed with grief, leaned against the doorframe, calling for his grandmother, calling for his parents, muttering and weeping. After a while, when his mind cleared a bit, he murmured, "Let me be alone… let me be alone… I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

All along, this Professor Lane had given everyone the impression of being kind, open-minded, and composed. No one expected that just moments after laughing and chatting, he would be in tears. Yet, no one thought there was anything shameful about his tears; instead, they felt even more warmth and respect for this kindly old man.

After sitting for a while, he stood up and wiped his eyes. Slowly, he wandered along the now-invisible village path, walking slowly, as if searching his memory—was there still the crowing of the rooster from the east house, the barking of the dog from the west house, the calls of his loved ones? Could he still remember the gunfire that often haunted his nightmares? Gradually, his figure disappeared among the ruins of the village.

His daughter Olivia Lane quietly said to the others, "It's all right. My father likes peace and quiet. Let him be, let him look around more. He hasn't been back here in decades—he's always talked about it…"

So the group waited in silence for the nostalgic old man. Only his daughter followed quietly behind him, wordlessly, searching among the ruins for what had left such an indelible mark on her father's memory…

Chapter 08: Encountering a Beauty—Who Could She Be?