From the village to the forestry center took over half an hour.
The road was dirt, pitted and uneven—rain a couple of days ago, some places still muddy. Lin Jianguo walked through the mud, his pants splattered with spots he couldn't be bothered to wipe off.
He passed several acquaintances on the way—village adults. Some nodded, some asked "Where to?" He mumbled replies without stopping.
Half an hour later, he stood outside the forestry center office.
A simple brick building, gray and dusty, windows pasted with old newspapers, door ajar, voices coming from inside. He stood there for a moment, took a deep breath, and knocked.
"Come in."
He pushed the door open.
The room was dim, only one window, half-covered with newspaper. Against the wall stood a desk piled with documents, a mug, an ashtray. Behind the desk sat a man in his forties, square-faced, thick eyebrows, wearing a faded blue Mao suit.
That was the center director, surname Zhou, Zhou Deming. Lin Jianguo remembered him—after the fire, he resigned voluntarily, later went south, and then disappeared from news.
Director Zhou looked up, saw a half-grown kid, and blinked. "You are?"
"I'm Lin Dasuan's boy, Lin Jianguo."
"Oh, Dasuan's kid." Director Zhou put down his pen. "What's up?"
Lin Jianguo stood at the door, not entering. He looked at Director Zhou, at that forty-year-old face, at the mug and documents on the desk, at the pennant on the wall—the characters "Forest Protection Model" still faintly legible.
He remembered what happened later. After the fire, this office was gone too—burned to ashes. These documents, this pennant, this mug—all gone.
"What's up?" Director Zhou asked again, impatience creeping into his voice.
Lin Jianguo spoke: "Director Zhou, on December 20th, the mountain will burn."
Director Zhou's hand stopped in mid-air.
He stared at Lin Jianguo for a few seconds, his expression shifting from puzzlement to surprise, then from surprise to suspicion.
"What did you say?"
"December 20th, the mountain will burn," Lin Jianguo repeated. "The mountain will catch fire, burn badly."
Director Zhou threw down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and looked Lin Jianguo up and down. After a long moment, he let out a scoffing laugh.
"Kid, what nonsense are you talking?"
"I'm not talking nonsense." Lin Jianguo took a step forward. "It will really burn. Starting halfway up, the wind blowing this way, the fire following, turning half the sky red."
Director Zhou stood up, walked around the desk, and came face to face with Lin Jianguo. He was a head taller, looking down at him, his expression somewhere between angry and amused.
"How do you know? Dreamed it?"
Lin Jianguo said nothing.
Director Zhou waited a few seconds, got no answer, shook his head, and walked back behind the desk, sitting down again.
"Alright, stop fooling around here. Go home and do your homework."
"Director Zhou—"
"Out." Director Zhou picked up his pen, bent over his documents, ignoring him.
Lin Jianguo stood there, not moving.
Director Zhou looked up, about to speak again, when the door pushed open.
Someone walked in.
Lin Dasuan.
Seeing his son in the room, he froze for a moment. Then he glanced at Director Zhou's expression and probably guessed what had happened. He walked over, tugged his son's sleeve. "Come on, let's go home."
Lin Jianguo didn't move.
Lin Dasuan tugged again. "Come on."
Lin Jianguo shook off his hand and looked at Director Zhou. "Director Zhou, if you don't believe me, you'll regret it."
Director Zhou looked up, his expression changing. He stared at Lin Jianguo for a long moment without speaking. The room was very quiet, the ticking of the wall clock audible.
Lin Dasuan's expression changed too. He grabbed his son's arm and pulled him toward the door. "Go! We'll talk at home!"
This time Lin Jianguo didn't resist. He let himself be pulled outside. At the door, he turned back and looked at Director Zhou.
"December 20th," he said. "Remember that date."
Then his father pulled him out.
In front of the yard, Lin Dasuan let go and stood there looking at his son. His face was flushed red, his chest heaving violently—whether from anger or anxiety, hard to tell.
Lin Jianguo stood across from him, head down, silent.
After a long moment, Lin Dasuan finally spoke: "What were you just saying?"
Lin Jianguo didn't look up.
Lin Dasuan took a step forward, lowering his voice but unable to suppress the anger: "I'm asking you—what were you just saying?"
Lin Jianguo looked up at his father's face. That face was flushed red, the veins at his temples bulging, eyes wide—containing anger, bewilderment, and a trace of... fear.
Not fear of him, but fear that he might really be losing his mind.
"Dad," Lin Jianguo began.
"I'm asking you a question!" Lin Dasuan cut him off. "What nonsense were you spouting in front of the director? What December 20th? What mountain fire? Where did you hear this?"
"I didn't hear it."
"Then what?"
Lin Jianguo opened his mouth, not knowing how to explain. Tell him he'd been reborn? That they would both die in that fire? That he'd come back to save them?
He couldn't say it.
No one would believe him.
Lin Dasuan looked at him, waiting. After a few seconds with no answer, his anger subsided slightly, replaced by another tone—the one he used when asking "Have you finished your homework?"
"Jianguo, have you had something on your mind lately?"
Lin Jianguo shook his head.
"Then why say those things?"
Lin Jianguo shook his head again.
Lin Dasuan sighed and reached out to touch his son's head. That hand was rough, hard, but warm.
"Alright, stop thinking about it. Let's go home."
He turned and walked toward the village. After a few steps, realizing his son hadn't followed, he looked back.
Lin Jianguo still stood there, watching him.
"Come on," Lin Dasuan said.
Finally Lin Jianguo moved. He walked over slowly, fell into step beside his father, and they walked back together.
After a few steps, he suddenly spoke: "Dad."
"Hmm?"
"You don't believe me."
Lin Dasuan said nothing.
"You don't believe me," Lin Jianguo repeated, "and you'll regret it."
Lin Dasuan's steps faltered for just a moment, then continued.
He didn't look back.
(To be continued)