Wang Yan's home was beside the locust tree in the compound—a three-room single-story house.
The houses in this compound were irregular, of varying heights, all old buildings that had stood for decades and had been allocated to the railway system.
There was nothing particularly special inside the house; it was simply the usual layout found in Northeast China.
Upon entering was what Northeasterners called the outer room. To the east by the door was the stove, with a brick-built heater beside it; there was another heater on the opposite western side. Farther in stood a large water vat, while cabinets of different heights lined three walls, holding pots, bowls, utensils, and miscellaneous items. Several washbasins were stacked on the floor, along with two thermos flasks printed with the character for double happiness, though their paint had long peeled away and their colors faded.
In the western room, by the south-facing window, stood a set of rosewood table and chairs. A sheet of glass covered the tabletop, with many old photographs pressed beneath it. Bookshelves covered the other three walls, crammed full of books both vertically and horizontally. An old, battered sofa sat in the open space at the center.
In the eastern room, a heated brick bed had been built by the south-facing window. Another row of cabinets stood along the north wall, though the middle section was made up of low cabinets. Two windows had been opened in the wall, allowing the summer breeze to pass through and cool the room.
Below those windows stood two black-and-white headshots, showing what his father and mother had looked like in their youth. There were also two incense burners, filled with ash...
He was playing the dutiful son in mourning again...
Wang Yan shook his head and smiled at himself, but he