The black soil of Liaocheng once supported his plow, until artillery fire turned the field ridges into scorched earth and the days shattered into grass clippings in the wind.
Li Yian followed the team for fourteen years, wandering through the ravines of North China, the broken walls of Songhu, and the fireworks of northern Hunan. The smoke of gunfire always enveloped the road ahead like thick fog. When his comrades fell beside him, the light in his eyes was hotter than the muzzle of the gun. The people around him changed one after another, like reeds cut by artillery fire. Only he was still standing, becoming the last one.
The wounds were knotted and cracked, like scars on the earth that healed over and over again. The wind carries the fragrance of wheat from my hometown and the breath of the deceased.
On the day of victory, the gunpowder smoke dispersed into light clouds. He touched the barrel of the gun and it was as cold as the last body temperature of his comrades. Finally, he stood at the intersection where the smoke gradually dissipated. The gun in his hand was heavy, like it was holding the gaze of countless people.
The wind still carries the fragrance of wheat from his hometown, but looking back, he is the only one, carrying the names of countless people, walking in the direction of the smoke.
There are still bloodstains on the ground under his feet, and his shadow is stretched by the setting sun, like an unbroken bone, supporting those who have not been able to wait until this day, towards a future that is too long to end.
He knew that he would take those who had not made it here and step their feet into the soil, like seeds, where despair had bloomed, toward a tomorrow where smoke could be seen.
