Chapter 25

The moment “Old Qiao” was mentioned, the grannies rummaged through their memories and gradually recalled.

The village had three great surnames—Yang, Wang, and Dong. Aside from wives married in from elsewhere, most villagers bore these three names; other surnames scattered one or two households at most—one mention of a surname and everyone knew.

Only Grandpa Qiao’s family bore the Qiao surname. He’d moved to the village as a young man, and his own generation had called “Old Qiao, Old Qiao” so long that many might not even remember his given name.

“You… you’re Old Qiao’s little grandson, called… what was it again?”

“I think I remember… Chao…?”

“No, it’s Naonao. Naonao, right? Qiao Naonao! I remember—my memory’s good.”

“Right, that’s the name. Didn’t he not know how to talk when he was little…”

A granny got elbowed by the one beside her and stopped abruptly.

Having his long-unused childhood nickname suddenly brought up, Qiao Ning’s face flushed. Suppressing his embarrassment, he nodded. “That’s me.”

When he’d been sent back to the village, he couldn’t speak. The villagers didn’t think him stupid—the child’s eyes weren’t dull, not like a fool’s—so they decided he was a little Mute Person.

When Grandpa Qiao later learned his name was Qiao Ning, he decided Qiao Chenggong had named the boy badly, and it was suppressing him.

So Grandpa gave Qiao Ning a nickname—”Naonao”—hoping the child would grow lively and rambunctious.

Later, when Qiao Ning truly began to speak, Grandpa Qiao grew even more convinced it had been the name’s doing. He told everyone only the boy’s nickname—and besides, the village never used formal names anyway.

So the grannies only remembered his nickname. Qiao Ning understood—but he was this old now, and being called by a childhood nickname still made him blush.

“Granny, my name is Qiao Ning.”

The grannies went “mm-hm, mm-hm,” but not a single one used his name—out of their mouths came “Little Qiao.”

Qiao Ning’s mood turned peculiar. His classmates, coworkers, bosses, and the parents of his tutoring students had also called him “Little Qiao”—but the grannies were different. Clearly, they called him that because his grandfather was “Old Qiao,” making him naturally Little Qiao.

Then what did that make Qiao Chenggong? “Middle Qiao”?

Qiao Ning laughed at his own thought, then sobered: Qiao Chenggong didn’t count. He hadn’t changed his surname out of any gratitude toward Grandpa Qiao, his foster father—it was purely because his birth parents were trash.

“Little Qiao, you %&house@~”

One granny said something. She was quite old, missing several teeth, mouth puckered, words slurred.

Though Qiao Ning understood the dialect, he’d been away too long and needed a beat to process. He didn’t catch this sentence—only something about a “house”—and assumed she was asking where he’d stay.

After all, he’d returned dragging suitcases, and the family home, long unrepaired, wasn’t fit for immediate living.

Qiao Ning planned to first inspect the old house. Ruined as it was, when Grandpa had built it he’d used good grey brick and good timber, and years ago when he’d come back, the main structure had still held.

He’d see if he could tidy up one room to settle in, then renovate slowly.

Failing that, he’d ask some villager family for lodging, paying a fee—someone would surely agree.

Worst case, back to town for a hotel… did the town even have hotels? In that case he’d need to buy a vehicle fast—missing the once-daily bus would be a disaster.

All this Qiao Ning had already planned. Facing the granny’s concern, he was about to reply—also intending to ask which household had a spare room to rent—when the younger auntie bundling whisk brooms—in the local dialect that’s how they addressed women of his parents’ generation but senior; younger ones were called auntie—explained at the top of her voice: “Little Qiao, Third Granny says you’ve come back at just the right time—the house is all tidied up too!”

She added, “How long are you staying? Is this for Qingming—to sweep your grandpa’s grave?”

That clearly wasn’t Third Granny’s words—Third Granny hadn’t said anything that long.

Qiao Ning froze. The house was tidied? Whose house? His? Tidied by whom?

Another granny said, “Oh, now I remember! The day before yesterday your older brother came back. You two brothers arranged this together, did you? Why’d he leave again? Is he coming back for Qingming?”

The grannies chattered on and on; Qiao Ning answered in fragments. Strangers were rare in the village—everywhere he dragged his suitcase, the grannies followed, warm and talkative, even offering to haul his cases.

But Qiao Ning felt as if he’d stepped into a fog, his whole being dazed.

He HAD wondered, after rebirth, whether he might get the chance to learn of his brother’s whereabouts.

Never had he imagined his brother would appear in his life so suddenly—even if only as an appellation, without even a name spoken.

The village elders still remembered them—remembered how the two boys had been inseparable, two little ones without a care.

Qiao Ning strained to recall: in his past life, had Ji Baiqing ever come back?

He couldn’t remember. Nothing at all. At this point in his past life he’d been buried in part-time jobs, preparing to graduate into employment.

The only return had been for the apartment and household registration transfer—and hard to say whether some avoidance was mixed in. Qiao Ning hadn’t even gone back to the old house; he’d finished the paperwork at the Village Committee and left.

He couldn’t forget the home of his childhood: Grandpa, Eldest Granduncle, Older Brother.

Yet after all these years, when he’d finally grown up and returned to the home that was his, only the desolate, crumbling old house remained. That time, Qiao Ning had all but fled.

Qiao Ning couldn’t help wondering: was that how they’d missed each other, in his past life?

Sharing the same memories, the same longing—yet never crossing paths again.

Thoughts whirling, Qiao Ning followed the grannies on autopilot, crossing half the village to his own front gate.

“Here we are!” One granny pointed at his front door. “Look at that—your brother was thorough! Had people tidy both houses, and replaced the doors with new ones—had Carpenter Dong in the village make them specially. Your old door back in the day was made by Carpenter Dong’s father, when your grandpa commissioned it…”

Qiao Ning stared, dazed, at the house transformed beyond recognition. Last time he’d stood here, he’d seen a broken door panel pocked with what looked like holes smashed by something.

The courtyard wall had been overgrown with moss, weeds thick at its base, sections collapsed—the stretch near the loquat tree half fallen.

Now the wall had been rebuilt. Some stones showed their age; others were clearly newer, added to repair the wall.

The front gate was new too, much like the wooden gate in his memory—only too new; the paint still vivid.

And on that brand-new wooden gate hung an old brass lock.

“Oh right, Little Qiao—do you have the key? Your brother was afraid you couldn’t get in, so he didn’t change the lock…”