Zhao Qi knelt before a new grave on the hill behind Lijia Village in Yongcheng, his fingertips digging into the frozen earth. He hadn’t eaten in two days. When Li Yan’er offered him half a flatbread, his eyes were so dry they stung. Then a crisp sound rang through the wind, and a pop-up appeared in his mind: the enlistment prompt was locked behind the age of seventeen. Gripping a blade of grass, he rose to his feet and called hoarsely after the little girl skipping away with a warm bun: “Yan’er, put away your embroidered shoes. When I get back from Xianyang, I’ll buy you a new pair.”
