His mother really didn't go out.
All morning, she was busy at home—doing laundry, sewing quilts, cleaning the house. Lin Jianguo followed behind her; wherever she went, he followed, like a little tail.
His mother was amused by his constant following: "You little kid, what's going on today? Like a little shadow."
Lin Jianguo didn't say anything, just kept following her.
At noon, his father came back for lunch. He carried a hoe into the house, with mud on his pant legs and sweat on his face. When he saw Lin Jianguo sticking close to his mother, he paused for a moment but said nothing, sitting down to eat.
After finishing his meal, his father set down his bowl, got up, and was about to leave again.
Lin Jianguo also stood up: "Dad."
Lin Dazhu turned around.
"Don't go out, either."
Lin Dazhu frowned: "Why?"
Lin Jianguo didn't know how to explain. He looked at his mother, then at his father, and finally said, "I'm afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid that if you go out, you won't come back."
The words felt absurd even as he uttered them. But he was genuinely afraid. He feared that fire, that rain, those uncontrollable things.
Lin Dazhu looked at him for a few seconds, his expression changing. No longer the look of "This kid is up to something," but something else—complex, tender, as if recalling something long ago.
He walked over, sat down on the edge of the kang, and patted the space beside him: "Come, sit here."
Lin Jianguo walked over and sat down.
Lin Dazhu looked at him, suddenly reached out, and ruffled his hair. His hand was rough and hard, but warm.
"Tell me the truth," he said. "Do you have something on your mind?"
Lin Jianguo lowered his head, silent.
Lin Dazhu waited for a while, neither pressing nor questioning. He just sat there, hand resting on his son's shoulder, patting gently.
After a long while, Lin Jianguo looked up at his father.
"Dad," he said, "do you believe that people can know what will happen in the future?"
Lin Dazhu was taken aback.
"Like… knowing which day something will happen?"
He looked at him, confusion flickering in his eyes, but he didn't speak.
Lin Jianguo waited a moment, then said, "I know you don't believe it. But I really do."
Lin Dazhu was silent for a long time.
Then he sighed, pulled his son into his arms.
"All right," he said, "Today, I won't go out."
Lin Jianguo leaned into his father's embrace, smelling the mixture of sweat, dirt, and tobacco on him, his eyes prickling with tears.
He knew his father didn't believe.
But he still stayed.
That afternoon, his father really didn't go out. He sat in the yard repairing the hoe, his mother sewing the soles of shoes nearby, while Lin Jianguo squatted under the jujube tree watching the ants. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, everything slow and peaceful—like a painting.
Watching his parents' figures, Lin Jianguo thought: This is just fine. Just like this, stay at home forever. Don't go anywhere. Wait until December 20th passes, wait until that fire is over, wait until everything is safe, then go outside.
But he knew it was impossible.
They couldn't stay at home forever. The forest work was waiting, the crops in the fields needed harvesting, life still had to go on. He could stop them for a day, maybe two; stop them for two days, maybe a month.
He could only think of other ways.