The suppressed in my heart, I had to say fellow comrades reunion

  Where to start?

  At the end of 2002, I ended a wandering career in a drama group and settled down in a city. At that time, I had changed several girlfriends one after another, and my life was not stable at all. The so-called stability was simply renting a less-than-40-square-meter one-bedroom apartment in the family area of a university on the west side of the city.

  I often sit in the small yard with a beer on days when I don't have work, staring blankly. The advantage of living on the first floor is that there's a small yard, and it was already snowing season, but I didn't feel the cold. When I was in the army, I once spent half a month in the northeastern mountains at minus 30 degrees for what they called cold land survival training, so I'm used to the cold. When I was filming in Tibet, I would often get up early and run bare-chested in the wind, and my colleagues thought I was crazy.

  One of the main reasons I've been spacing out in my small yard is that the house is a mess, filled with all sorts of things. There are books, pirated DVDs, bags full of clothes and many other items. I haven't opened or organized them because every time I try to, memories start flooding back into my mind. I don't know what kind of mindset it is for a 27-year-old to be avoiding the past, but I just can't bring myself to open these things up, or maybe I'm just too afraid.

  I'm scared.

  Afraid to recall those dreams of youth.

  Those dreams about the future, about love, and about brothers.

  In my own memory, 17 to 20 years old is a serious disconnection.

  I remember many things from when I was in kindergarten, elementary school, and middle school. I also remember many things after I went to drama school, even vividly.

  But what about my story between 17 and 20 years old?

  Forgot, only some fragments left.

  Only when I'm taking a bath and see my now-chubby body in the mirror do I laugh at myself, saying: "Look what you've become! You used to be in the army..."

  Then I didn't think about it anymore, artificially.

  I still have many friends in the army, they often call me, occasionally come to my city on business, and also come to see me. But I never take the initiative to contact them, hearing their excited voices, that voice with long-lost simplicity and unique hoarseness, always makes me melancholy.

  I wasn't like this when I just left. ... But everything is fate playing tricks on people, I don't think about it anymore, continue drinking beer.

  Far away, through the falling snowflakes, I heard a hoarse shout: "One two, one two..."

  My mind suddenly froze! I'm too familiar with this slogan! But there's only one person, and the rhythm is also intermittent.

  I stood up at once, opened the door of the small courtyard, and the sound came from the direction of the construction site near the university library. A multimedia teaching building donated by a Hong Kong philanthropist and named after him is being built there, which is usually very noisy, but maybe because of the heavy snow, it didn't start work today.

  How is this possible? How can there be such a password?

  I walked quickly over. First, I saw a group of migrant workers squatting under the eaves, laughing and pointing at something as if they were watching a Western movie; then I saw several female college students coming out of the library, not even giving it a glance as they walked by with an air of elegance.

  What else did I see?

  A lonely figure.

  A solitary log.

  A lonely face.

  He wore a faded camouflage uniform, a pair of tattered and worn-out camouflage military boots, with his head bare. Snowflakes fell on his head and melted into a white mist that rose into the sky. Unlike other migrant workers' camouflage uniforms, his was tucked into his pants, secured with a wide green nylon belt and a black metal buckle; the pattern was not quite the same, the fabric was thick, with several patches sewn on, embroidered with dense needlework; the pant legs were neatly tucked into those tattered high-top canvas boots, the shoelaces tied neatly...

  He shouted slogans while moving an original log.

  He first lifted one end of the log, shouldered it and stood it upright on the ground, then pushed it forward with a jerk, and lifted it again...and so he advanced.

  The migrant workers around were watching jokes.

  His face, a typical southern face, dark and small-eyed, with wide lips and a flat nose, if you throw him into a pile of migrant workers, it's hard to pick him out again, but his eyes.

  Dazzling, murderous aura.

  He let out a loud roar, and a fierce killing intent burst forth in his eyes: "One... two..."

  I stood there in a daze, my lips trembling, and something called tears flowing inside my eye sockets. I shouted hoarsely:

  "Class Monitor"

  "Check your own weapons, listen to my command. This is the first time for a small-scale live ammunition shooting training, pay attention to safety! Whoever doesn't listen to my command and releases the safety catch first, I'll send him back!"

  Under the roar of the Mi-171 helicopter, cold sweat seeped from my nose tip, holding that 95 automatic rifle, the gun body was wet. My heart followed the helicopter's ups and downs. The squad leader's camouflage face turned to me, small eyes shining with spirit: "Are you okay?"

  "Good."

  The class monitor looked into my eyes.

  I looked into his eyes.

  The class monitor smiled, his white teeth gleaming as he reached out to wipe the sweat from my face: "Turtle son, give your old man a good fight! I'm counting on you to bring honor to our family!"

  His eyes were woven with pride and confidence.

  I saw those eyes again. In the instant he turned around, that murderous aura disappeared and he became a different person. How to put it? A sly migrant worker.

  "Monitor." I shouted again, my voice drifting away.

  Those eyes smiled. "Turtle son, you little boy, why is your hair now grown like a woman's."

  We all stood still, looking at each other. The class monitor looked at me with a hint of sadness in his eyes. I ran over and hugged him: "Class Monitor..."

  Tears streamed down onto his shoulders. Shoulders without epaulets.

  The class monitor hugged me and slowly started sobbing: "Turtle son thought you had forgotten about me..."

  Snowflakes fell on our heads. In the winter of this city, the falling snow covered up all the ugliness. In the winter of this city, I met my classmate again. I am a cultural drifter known as a freelancer, and my classmate is a migrant worker.

  He is different from other migrant workers in that he carries logs by himself when thinking of his troops.