In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 60. Old Zhou's Past
Mrs. Zhou carefully put away the chicken cake and red shrimp pastry that Zhang Yuqin brought, saying that she would save them for Xiaobao to eat slowly; Han Mingqian's conspicuous box of malted milk powder was solemnly placed in the most conspicuous position in the dresser; Li Weidong's biscuits and Yangguangming's White Rabbit milk candy were opened and placed in a corner of the table, becoming a snack during the meal, and people would pick up a piece from time to time.

After a few cups of warm rice wine, Zhou Bingsheng's lips, which were usually tightly pursed, relaxed a little, and he gradually became more talkative.

He picked up the serving chopsticks and served Han Mingqian and Zhang Yuqin some trembling braised pork. He also urged Li Weidong and Yang Guangming to eat more scallion pancakes. His gratitude, revealed through his clumsiness, was palpable.

After three rounds of wine, five flavors of food.

Han Mingqian looked at the slight blush on Zhou Bingsheng's face and listened to his rarely relaxed, even somewhat rambling, words, and felt a surge of emotions.

He put down his chopsticks, picked up the rough earthenware wine pot, and gently poured another cup for Zhou Bingsheng and himself, the warm pot resting against his palm.

"Old Zhou," Han Mingqian's voice lowered, carrying a hint of distant reminiscence. His gaze passed over the rim of the cup and landed on an old photograph covered in dust on the wall. "Seeing you today reminds me of when you first joined the factory."

As soon as the words were spoken, the air around the table seemed to freeze for a moment.

Zhang Yuqin stopped picking up food, her chopsticks hovering in mid-air; Li Weidong also put down the wine glass he had just picked up, his face showing a bit of bewildered curiosity; Yang Guangming quietly watched Han Mingqian, his eyes focused.

Zhou Bingsheng's smile faltered slightly, then transformed into an extremely complex and indescribable expression, like a mixture of nostalgia and pain.

He picked up his glass, took a sip silently, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he were swallowing something.

"1952...yes, the summer of 1952."

Han Mingqian recalled, his tone calm but carrying a heavy weight that seemed to transcend time, "You carried a half-worn bedding roll on your back, held a letter of introduction in your hand, and went to the factory to report for duty all by yourself."

A top student who graduated from the Chinese Literature Department of a prestigious university, he exuded an air of scholarly refinement, his eyes shone with light, and he walked with an upright posture, like a newly sprouted poplar tree.

"At that time, the factory affairs office had just been established and was short of manpower."

You were newly transferred here; you had a strong writing style, clear thinking, and were efficient and thorough in your work, quickly distinguishing yourself. The old factory director… that's the one who later got into trouble.”

Han Mingqian paused, his voice lowering slightly, "He appreciates you highly and thinks you have great potential. In less than a year, he transferred you to his side as his full-time secretary."

Han Mingqian's gaze swept over the young people present, especially Li Weidong and Yang Guangming, as if sketching out a picture for them that was already blurred but still clearly defined:
"Those five years were the busiest and most tiring time for you, but also the period when you grew the fastest and were the most spirited."

Many of the factory's reports, summaries, and speeches have to go through your hands.

You followed the old factory director around, coordinating with all parties, handling matters methodically and with a very clear mind. Even the leaders from the district patted you on the shoulder and praised you: "Little Zhou, not bad!"

Zhou Bingsheng lowered his head, his fingers unconsciously stroking the rough rim of the wine glass again and again. The tiny bumps on the glass seemed to draw all his attention away.

The dim light slanted down, casting a deep shadow on his thin profile, making him appear particularly lonely.

Those years, sealed away by time and deliberately forgotten, are now being brought up by Han Mingqian. Like a dull knife, they slowly peel back the old scars and touch the softest and most painful place in the depths of the heart.

"I remember you were full of energy back then, and you were much more cheerful."

To finish an urgent report, you could stay up all night, and the next day you'd still be energetic, accompanying the factory manager to meetings, your eyes bloodshot but your spirits high. You also offered many insightful suggestions, some of which were later adopted by the factory with good results.

Han Mingqian's voice was filled with sincere regret, "Back then, everyone in the factory said that Xiao Zhou was a promising talent with a bright future."

Only Han Mingqian's deep voice echoed in the living room, along with the occasional soft crackling sounds from the coal stove.

Zhang Yuqin listened intently, her face filled with deep sorrow, and she let out a soft sigh.

Li Weidong was somewhat bewildered. These old stories were too distant and unfamiliar to him, like listening to a story from another world.

From this simple narrative, Yang Guangming clearly pieced together the root of Zhou Bingsheng's current aloofness and alienation—the mark of having his wings cruelly broken by fate.

Han Mingqian sighed deeply, his tone becoming even heavier, as if carrying an invisible weight:
"What a pity...that old factory director later..."

Sigh, you know, the storm was huge during that period, and many people were swept away...

"Sigh, even though you yourself are completely innocent, and investigations have revealed no problems, and the organization has clearly concluded that your relationship with him was purely professional, you can't avoid being implicated."

He paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, searching for the least hurtful expression:

"Your treatment remains unchanged, your salary will continue to be paid, and your cadre status will be retained."

But this position... was like a slide; he went down from the factory director's secretary position in an instant.

From then on, you were assigned to write the factory's major reports and summaries, becoming one of the... well, one of the "penmen" in the secretariat.

He eventually used this title, which was tacitly understood in the context of the time but was enough to draw an invisible chasm—from a spirited secretary who participated in the core of decision-making, to a pure and even somewhat marginalized craftsman of words.

"I know you're feeling frustrated."

Han Mingqian looked at Zhou Bingsheng's head, which was almost buried in his chest, and sighed with deep understanding and a hint of helplessness:

"Since then, you've been like a different person. You talk less, you're more thoughtful, and there's always something between you and people..."

Aside from your assigned materials, you don't care much about anything else; you just tend to your endless pile of documents and newspapers.

He pointed to the copy of "Reference News" pinned to the wall, saying, "It's like living in another world."

Zhou Bingsheng remained silent, but picked up his wine glass and drank the rest of the wine in one gulp.

The smooth liquor rolled down his throat, yet it stirred a burning sensation in his heart.

No one could see whether his eyes behind his glasses were wet, but his tightly pursed, pale lips and slightly trembling fingers silently betrayed the turbulent emotions within him.

(End of this chapter)