Qiao Ning did have keys. Two of them.
The old brass lock on the front gate had been bought by Grandpa in his youth, when the house was built—though rarely used.
In the village, when people were home, the front gate was seldom locked; heading out to the fields, you just pulled it to. At night, the bar behind the door was slid into place.
Only leaving the village counted as “going out”—that was when the big brass lock earned its keep.
To Qiao Ning, the lock’s meaning was less about theft and more an announcement: the master was away.
Not that the village was some idyllic place of unlocked doors and untouched property, with no theft or robbery at all—petty chicken-stealing existed. Anything worse… no lock could stop that anyway.
In Qiao Ning’s memory, every time he went out with Grandpa, he’d watch him lock the front gate.
Such occasions were rare, and little Qiao Ning found it fascinating, always begging to lock the door himself.
But back then he was a squat little cub who couldn’t even reach the lock—Grandpa had to hold him up to fasten it.
To give the child a sense of participation, Grandpa would tease him deliberately, bouncing him and coaxing: “Naonao, quick—check Grandpa’s pocket for the keys. Don’t forget the keys, or we can’t come home!”
Little Qiao Naonao wasn’t scared at all. His small hand dove into Grandpa’s pocket, fishing for keys, comforting Grandpa like a little adult: “It’s okay! Eldest Granduncle has a key. If Grandpa forgot, we’ll go find Eldest Granduncle!”
The brass lock had come with three keys: one Grandpa Qiao kept, one spare tucked in the bottom of a chest, and one left with the grandpa next door.
Word was, Grandpa Qiao and Grandpa Ji had been townsfolk originally, fleeing famine together. They’d reached this place, found the folk honest and kind, and settled here.
Arriving as companions, they naturally built their houses side by side. In those early years, with the mountains so near, wild boars often came down to forage—even wolves dragging off villagers’ pigs at night—so every household built courtyard walls out of habit.
The Qiao Family and the Ji Family were no exception. But though walled, the two houses shared one wall: the adjoining side belonged to both the Qiaos and the Jis, built a bit lower than the other three.
Grandpa Qiao and Grandpa Ji, though unrelated by blood, were as close as sworn brothers, friends for a lifetime.
A key to the Qiao front gate lived in Grandpa Ji’s keeping; Grandpa Qiao likewise held a key to the Ji gate.
Qiao Ning silently drew out that key. After Grandpa died and Qiao Chenggong took him away, everything had happened too fast—beyond the clothes on his back, all he had were the two keys Grandpa had left him: one for his own front gate, one for the next yard’s.
He’d guarded those two keys jealously. Qiao Rui had snatched everything he owned and still never got his keys.
He’d been afraid that losing them meant he could never go home—and neither could Older Brother.
Qiao Ning slid the key into the lock and turned it gently, as if turning back time itself. After so many years, the old brass lock opened once more to the same key.
Qiao Ning pushed open the front gate and stepped over the threshold. The courtyard unfolded before his eyes.
A quiet little yard. Facing the gate stood several bays of Grey-Brick Tiled House, the grey bricks etched with age, but most of the tiles replaced with new; the doors and windows mostly repaired or renewed, walls freshly whitewashed—with green mountains in the distance as backdrop, carrying an air of easy serenity.
The easternmost room was the kitchen. Outside it, under the eaves running from the main house, had once stood the big water vat for household storage—when eighteen-year-old Qiao Ning returned, the vat was already broken.
Now even the shards were gone—presumably carted off when Ji Baiqing had the house repaired.
Along the eastern wall near the gate grew a Loquat Tree; the collapsed stretch of wall there had been rebuilt.
South of the loquat tree, toward the courtyard’s center, was a well—dug by hired hands after Grandpa Qiao had settled here.
In the early years there was no running water; villagers either drew from the river or used wells. But wells cost real money to dig, so most preferred hauling water from the river—troublesome, but cheaper.
Now every household had tap water, and well water drew no one’s envy.
When Qiao Ning was small, Grandpa had built a wooden guardrail around the well, terrified the boy might fall in. That railing had vanished; now a large stone slab pressed over the wellhead, sealing it completely.
The western wall adjoined the Ji Family’s yard, and beside it stood a Persimmon Tree.
The loquat tree had been planted by Grandpa for Ji Baiqing. As a small child Ji Baiqing had been sickly, catching colds at every change of season, sometimes with fever, coughs that dragged on and on.
Grandpa Qiao had transplanted a loquat tree to stew loquat paste and brew loquat water for him, thinking that since the child took more medicine than meals, these things at least wouldn’t taste so bitter.
Later, when Qiao Ning was dumped here, Grandpa Qiao treated both boys equally and transplanted a persimmon tree for Qiao Ning too.
Persimmons had carried auspicious meanings since ancient times—Grandpa Qiao wished for his little grandson that all things would go his way.
The courtyard had been paved with stone bricks, clearly cleaned as well; in the brick gaps, along walls and around the tree, the soil was freshly turned, flecked with fragments of weed roots.
And with spring upon them, tiny green sprouts dotted the earth.
At eighteen, Qiao Ning had returned to collapsed walls and broken tiles, weeds so thick there was nowhere to step—the old house steeped in abandonment.
A house needs living warmth. Now, though the old home still felt cold and desolate from its long emptiness, it was also renewed, as if coming back to life.
“Look—isn’t the cleanup nice?” Second Aunt Yang, who’d followed along, boomed. “I was here the day your brother had them work on it. The inside was cleaned too, pillars wiped down and re-oiled with tung oil, main beams checked—sound as ever. Your grandpa didn’t skimp on materials when he built this place, let me tell you.”
On the walk over, the grannies and aunties had realized Qiao Ning probably didn’t recognize them—he’d left the village so young, only seven or eight.
So they’d all introduced themselves—whose family they were from, what history they had with the Qiao household, how he should address them.
This auntie he should call Second Aunt Yang—the “Yang” wasn’t her own surname but her husband’s; he ranked second in their branch of the family.
Modern times had moved past such things, but in the village, some of the older generation still went by these customs.
Qiao Ning called her Second Aunt Yang; the elders called her “Tangyuan’s granny.”
“Tangyuan” was Second Aunt Yang’s little grandson—her son and daughter-in-law worked away in the cities, leaving the child home with the grandparents.
“Tangyuan” was of course a nickname. The grannies giggled whenever it came up. Second Aunt Yang would say resignedly that her daughter-in-law had insisted—city kids all got food nicknames now: “Little Tangyuan,” “little rice cake,” “little flower roll,” “little cream puff.” All things to eat. What was wrong with city people? Didn’t their mouths water every time they called their kids?
Second Aunt Yang also told Qiao Ning that Grandpa had chosen HIS nickname well—one pick and the boy started talking.
Qiao Ning could only laugh along. Nothing that magical—he’d spent a stretch of time back home before slowly learning to speak.
It was Grandpa, Eldest Granduncle, and Older Brother who coaxed and shielded him day after day. They never cursed him a fool or a mute when he couldn’t talk; no one hit him or bullied him; the best food went to him first; he ate his fill every day. He grew less afraid, and slowly dared to open his mouth.
Second Aunt Yang was a warm soul, words spilling out in strings. She followed Qiao Ning into the yard and pointed at the loquat tree: “Those first few years after you went to the city, that tree still fruited. Some villagers would climb your courtyard wall to pick loquats—don’t know who it was, but the wall got knocked down, and your brother bought new stone and had it rebuilt…”
The granny beside her tugged at her—probably to stop her from saying such things. The tree grew in HIS yard; picking loquats and toppling the wall besides was hardly decent.
Second Aunt Yang shook free. “Your brother was in a rush about it, you know. Back in the day we repaired walls with stones picked up ourselves—nobody bought any.”
Her face pained, as if Qiao Ning’s brother had wasted money scandalously.
But Qiao Ning was looking at the loquat tree. Truth be told, the family tree’s fruit had never been very sweet—whether from a poor variety or the tree’s youth, he didn’t know.
As a child, every time Grandpa stewed loquat paste he’d piled in extra sugar, or it was simply too sour.
His own earliest batches had skimped on sugar too—the paste, stirred into water, came out mouth-puckeringly sour. He hadn’t known, because it was all stewed for Ji Baiqing, who never once complained.
Then Qiao Ning was dumped back here. The little cub had grown bolder by then and clung to Ji Baiqing daily, wanting to copy everything Older Brother did.
Seeing Ji Baiqing drink loquat paste, little Qiao Naonao would watch with yearning eyes, swallowing hard.
Ji Baiqing would smile at him and say this was medicine—Naonao was healthy and shouldn’t get sick—then hand him candy instead.
But Qiao Ning still craved it. How could Older Brother’s medicine smell so sweet? And Eldest Granduncle had said it was made from loquats Grandpa picked from the yard, and loquats were fruit, not medicine.
Eventually Grandpa, seeing him so desperate, stirred him a bowl of loquat water too. The child snatched it up eagerly, gulped—and his whole little face scrunched up from the sourness.
Watching him pucker, both grandpas tried a sip themselves, and discovered the paste had been made with too little sugar. Very sour.
Maybe the loquats themselves were too sour.
They asked Ji Baiqing, who said mildly, “It’s fine.”
Qiao Ning had stared at him, amazed—Older Brother was so tough, not afraid of sourness at all.
Thinking back now: Ji Baiqing had swallowed so much bitter medicine since infancy. Against those strange-tasting brews, a bit of sourness in loquat paste was nothing.
Qiao Ning had no idea that this loquat tree had since stopped bearing fruit altogether.
“What about the persimmon tree?” he asked Second Aunt Yang. “Does it not fruit either?”
“Right, that one stopped too,” Second Aunt Yang said. “Some years later, I think. First the loquat quit, then the persimmon. Looks alive to me, though. Give it some fertilizer, prune it a little—might still come back.”
“Just never got pruned,” Granny Wang the Sixth put in. “Take Grandpa Taotao’s place east of the village—his tangerine tree! The old man got taken to the city by his daughter to enjoy life, and the next year the tree stopped fruiting. Then he came back, gave it a trim—and what do you know, it fruited again, and big ones too!”
“That’s nice.” Qiao Ning smiled. “Maybe this year we’ll have loquats and persimmons again. Grandpa planted these trees for me… and for my brother.”
In front of his roommates, who knew nothing, he could mention Ji Baiqing freely—”my brother” this, “my brother” that. But facing the village elders who’d actually watched them grow up, he found himself oddly unable to say it.
As if he’d be forcibly gluing together a bond that had blurred to the point of snapping.
Everyone warmly filled Qiao Ning in on the rest: the wooden railing by the well had rotted away and been tossed; the big slab covering it now had been brought by the Old Village Chief.
Their house had stood empty so long that some mischievous kids treated it as an adventure spot, climbing over sometimes.
The Old Village Chief had caught them a few times, marched each child home by the collar, and dressed down the parents till they couldn’t lift their heads.
But he also feared a child would really fall in one day—so he’d unlocked the gate and had the stone brought to seal the well.
Of the household’s three keys back then, one had been with Qiao Ning’s Eldest Granduncle—later presumably kept by Ji Baiqing; one was in Qiao Ning’s hands; and the household’s spare key, Grandpa Qiao had given to the Old Village Chief for safekeeping.
