Work Text:
When Lin Nansheng finally entered the premises of his home, it was well beyond 10 pm. Some residual Japanese scum had grouped together, after the surrender, in hopes of rising from the ashes. They were notoriously difficult to catch, if not for a silly slip-up from a relatively younger member of the group. Deputy station chief Lin had pieced together all the clues, revealing their base of operation – 5 hours of overtime work on 50 cups of tea. Well, maybe not exactly 50 but the number wasn’t far away from the data provided.
He was tired, as expected and craved the comfort of his, albeit small but soft bed. He was dragging himself up the stairs with eyes closed, because seeing seemed to put a strain on his eyes. He was about to enter his room, when a soft voice forced him to turn around, “oh you are late today.” The concern in the voice did not go unnoticed.
“Ms. Lan? You are awake? At this hour?” he was genuinely not expecting to be greeted by his “wife.”
Xinjie opened and closed her mouth, before finally replying with another question, “Have you eaten?”
“Uhh..... yes. I ate at the station. Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
Disappointment flashed on her face, before she shook her head, “No. Nothing. I’m sorry. Good night.”
Not waiting for a reply, she strode fast towards her room, escaping the awkward atmosphere that hung heavy in the corridor.
Lin Nansheng was too tired to dissect this cumbrous conversation and decided it’s best to ignore it for now. He changed into his pajamas and a tshirt, before slipping under the covers. It was a chilly winter night and he was fast asleep within ten minutes.
Deep into the night, when he woke up from a particularly repetitive nightmare, it was 3:30 on the clock. The old bullet wound was acting up, once again, and the dull ache in his chest was steadily becoming more profound with every passing second. He took out two pills from his bedside drawer and would’ve swallowed them dry if he was not sorely parched. He walked lazily inside the kitchen looking for a water bottle. It was then that he noticed all the lidded bowls on the granite kitchen-counter. That was a lot of food! That was indeed a lot of food. The conversation from earlier that day started playing in his mind like an old record.
“Have you eaten?”
“Uhh... yes. I ate at the station. Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
Ms. Lan had cooked for him. She was waiting for him to return so that they can have dinner together.
With one final inspection of the courses, he realized, it was food for two. Ms. Lan went to bed without eating.
“.....I’m sorry. Good night.” The pain flared up in his chest forcing him to grab the counter to steady himself.
There was a different sort of ache integrated with the usual torment of the bullet that tore through his lungs. Lin Nansheng could disregard this new affliction saying it was foreign to him. But he couldn’t because it wasn’t. The autumn of 1936 had taught him all about the cons of this isolated notion.