"Report! Hall Master, three hundred sixty-two answered roll call today. Three fewer than yesterday!" "Report! …
"Report! Hall Master, three hundred sixty-two answered roll call today. Three fewer than yesterday!"
"Report! Hall Master, we have sixty-two sacks of grain left. Enough for sixteen more days!"
"Report!"
Feng Ruzhi flips through the pages in front of him, and pauses over yet another disheartening letter. He merely nods; not because he doesn't care, but because he's grown used to it all: first the daily toll of bad news, then cooking over a mud stove with no rice or flour, and finally, swallowing whatever the world throws at him, taking calamity as routine.
The people who live by the Yellow River seem born to endure. Born to bend, so the ropes bite deep into the shoulders that carry them. Born to face the earth, so their backs hunch low like staples hammered into the dam.
But there are things they never learn to live with: Holding their own bowls while still begging the sky for rain. Jumping into the river and expecting it to wash away blame. Standing tall, only for the world to break their backs. Every act of endurance is just waiting for a moment they stop enduring. The moment they defy the heavens, and refuse to kneel.
"Report! Hall Master! There's word from Baima Station. Boss Feng is coming back!"
"... Got it."