"Da Yeye, Er Yeye," Qin Yu mumbled with his mouth full, shoveling fragrant white rice in at a rapid clip, words slurred together with food and excitement, his face alight with boundless daydreams about the future. "Don't worry! Once I get to Kyoto and start university, I'll study hard, improve every day!"
"When I graduate, I'll find a good job and make a ton of money! Then I'll buy our family the biggest, grandest, most beautiful villa in Kyoto — you'll see!"
"Like the ones on TV… with big front and back gardens! An outdoor swimming pool! And several maids to look after you!"
"Then you'll stay at home comfortably, drink tea in the yard, soak up the sun, play chess — you won't have to go out hawking fortunes and bending to other people's moods and whims anymore!"
He spoke with bright-eyed enthusiasm, as if that glorious future were already within reach.
But when Feng Yu and Feng Yang — sitting across the table — heard his speech full of filial piety and wildly impractical promises, the smiles that had been warming their faces stuttered in the same instant.
They exchanged a quick, subtle glance. In the well-worn depths of each other's eyes there was a complicated mix of feelings: relief, reluctance, touched pride… and, more than anything, a quiet, hard-to-name heaviness — worry and gravity.
Almost at the same moment, both of them put down their chopsticks.
The faint clink of bowls and cutlery against the table sounded unusually sharp in the hush.
"Yu'er…" Feng Yu looked at the child he and his junior had poured so much effort into raising. Seeing the youthful, hopeful face before him, his expression shifted into something heavy; his voice dropped lower than usual, unusually earnest.
"There's something your Er Yeye and I… have discussed for a long time. We want to tell you."
"Huh? What is it, Da Yeye?" Qin Yu finally noticed the odd change in atmosphere. He stopped chewing, mouth still half full, and blinked at their suddenly solemn faces.
Feng Yu was silent for a moment, weighing his wording carefully. There was even a faint hesitation in his eyes, but finally he spoke slowly, his voice low and clear:
"Your Er Yeye and I… we've talked it over. After you leave in a few days to register at Kyoto, we're going to leave Qingliu Village for a while as well."
"What?!"
Those two words hit Qin Yu like a thunderclap.
The smile froze and then vanished from his face. He shot his head up, forgetting the food in his mouth. His eyes widened until they were round, pupils pinching from shock; his expression was disbelief edged with sudden panic.
"Leave… leave?! Where are you going?!"
He sprang up in alarm, setting down his bowl and chopsticks with a clatter, body pitching forward as his voice shook almost imperceptibly.
"Is there… is there some big problem again? How long are you going? Why don't you take me with you?! I'm grown now! I've learned things! I can help!"
"It's nothing that big, don't jump to conclusions." Feng Yu hurried to soothe him, voice as steady and light as he could make it. "We're just going to settle old matters from years ago — some personal grievances, small affairs. Nothing you need to get involved in."
Feng Yang quickly added, smiling in a way that was, perhaps, a little forced: "Yeah, yeah! Tiny issues, really. We old men are just stretching our legs. We'll be back soon — probably even earlier than when you come home for winter break!"
Feng Yu watched Qin Yu's furrowed brow and worried eyes — he knew the boy wasn't so easily placated. He switched his approach, his look turning encouraging and expectant.
"And besides," he said, "isn't Yu'er about to undertake a much more important, glorious task?"
"A more important task?" Qin Yu's frown deepened. That uneasy premonition in his chest swelled into a wave.
The more the two elders tried to brush it off, the more convinced Qin Yu became that this wasn't trivial.
"That's right," Feng Yu forced a gentle smile and patted the boy's thin shoulder with hopeful encouragement. "You're going to Kyoto — to one of the best universities in Huaxia. That's a matter of great honor for the family."
"You just promised you'd study hard, graduate with a good job, and buy us that villa in Kyoto, didn't you? That's a massive, noble mission! If you want that to happen, you have to start preparing now."
Qin Yu looked at their feigned smiles and caught the fleeting, grave resolution in their eyes. A heavy stone seemed to settle on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
He wasn't a toddler anymore, nor an innocent peer. He knew better than anyone that if these two enigmatic men — men who seldom showed change even before mountains fell — were both choosing to leave the place they'd hidden in for nearly twenty years, informing him seriously in advance, and giving a flimsy excuse… it could not possibly be some trifling "old grievance."
It was likely something dire, complicated, perhaps even filled with dangers beyond imagination.
In all the years he could remember, whenever one of them had left briefly for "business" or to "visit a friend and exchange thoughts," it had always been alone — the other would stay by his side. Never before had both gone at once, and never at such a moment: just when he was about to leave home for Kyoto and be unguarded.
This was the first time.
It could only mean the situation was so severe they would have to tackle it together.
And his current meager strength — his few tricks and clumsy skills — would only be a hindrance if he went along.
A helpless, sour swell rose in his chest at the thought, but harder than that was the deep worry for his grandfathers' safety.
He opened his mouth, throat tightening. He wanted to ask more, to bargain, to at least follow from afar. But when he met their eyes — gentle yet unyielding — the words stuck in his throat and turned into a silent sigh.
He lowered his head; long lashes hid the storm behind them. He nodded slowly, voice muffled and rough with something not quite a sob.
"…I understand."
"I'll… study well."
That night Qin Yu ate without taste.
He tossed and turned, turning over and over in bed until late; only the faint chirping of insects outside finally eased him into a heavy sleep.
The next morning.
When the first faint golden light slid through the old window like a thin curtain and woke Qin Yu gently, the yard was silent — pin-drop still.
At this hour, his diligent Da Yeye would usually be in the open patch of ground, facing the sunrise, slowly practicing a set of inscrutable boxing forms, breathing in and out with a rhythm that sounded like distant thunder.
And the culinary-master Er Yeye would already be busy in the kitchen; the clatter of pots and the smell of breakfast would regularly rouse Qin Yu completely.
But today…
There was no sound.
The whole yard was unnervingly quiet.
Qin Yu's heart gave a sudden jolt — a sharp, gripping unease. He sat bolt upright, stumbling over shoes in his haste, pulling on clothes barefoot, flinging the door open and rushing outside.
The courtyard was empty.
Morning light lay soft on the bluestone, stretching the old scholar tree's shadow long. A few early birds hopped and called from the bare branches, their cheerful cries only amplifying the silence below.
The two bamboo chairs — smoothed and polished by years of sitting beneath the scholar tree where his grandfathers had argued over tea and chess — stood lonely. A few dew-wet yellow locust leaves clung to them from last night.
They… had really gone.
They hadn't waited for dawn, hadn't waited for him to wake, hadn't left a word of parting.
They'd slipped away silently.
Qin Yu walked slowly to the worn wooden chair by the corridor where he'd sat since childhood and sat down. He just sat there, staring empty-eyed at the two vacant bamboo chairs, lost in thought.
Morning light filtered through the still-green locust leaves, casting mottled, flickering patterns across his young, slightly lonely face.
Time seemed to stop.
Scenes of the past unrolled in his mind:
He saw Da Yeye sitting upright, holding a fat, yellowing stitched book, reading with focused attention in the morning light;
He saw Er Yeye lounging in his bamboo chair, legs crossed, eyes half-closed, luxuriating in an afternoon sunbeam;
He could almost hear their childish squabbling over a chess loss or the last chunk of braised pork, their laughter like two old boys' playful bickers.
Even their open, hearty laughter and gentle, parting admonitions seemed to echo faintly in his ears.
He didn't know how long he sat like that.
Only when the sun climbed higher, the light through the leaves growing fierce enough to warm his bare skin, did Qin Yu finally snap out of his long, warm reverie.
He lifted his head, looked once more at the empty chairs. The last trace of confusion and clinging reluctance in his eyes was replaced by a quietly growing resolve.
He stood up, gave the two chairs — those bearers of countless childhood memories — one long, lingering look, then turned and went inside. Calmly and methodically, he began to pack the simple bag he'd prepared long ago.
There weren't many things.
A half-worn canvas backpack, faded at the edges but sturdy.
A few sets of clean clothes.
And the jade pendant — the same one his grandfathers had made him keep on a red cord since he could remember, cool to the touch, the back carved with a plain, ancient character: Qin.
He packed everything into the bag and zipped it closed.
Before leaving, standing in the empty yard, Qin Yu couldn't help but glance back once more. His gaze lingered lovingly and long on the low, old house that had cradled his seventeen years — every childhood laugh, every warm memory — now suddenly quiet and hollow.