Feng Qingxue’s attention was quickly drawn to the child in his arms.
It was a boy who looked about two years old, with a big head and a small body. He was thin and sickly and filthily covered in dirt, as if he had just rolled out of a mud pit. He was a spitting image of Feng Qingyun when Feng Qingxue first time-traveled.
He was another child living in extreme poverty and starvation.
The old man glanced around at everyone in the room and said embarrassedly, "My name is Song Laoshuan."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Song?" asked Feng Qingxue. Then she quickly added, "Please have a seat and feel free to talk."
Lu Tianjun promptly stood up and pulled out the chair under his butt for Song Laoshuan.
Song Laoshuan sat down awkwardly, not daring to look at the table. He stammered out, "I am here to find comrade Feng Qingxue. Are you the one who has been sending money and grain tickets to Song Dazhu’s family on behalf of our production brigade?"
"Song Dazhu?" Feng Qingxue echoed in confusion. But soon, she remembered who Song Dazhu was.
He was a martyr, a soldier who sacrificed himself at the southwestern border.
When Lu Jiang returned home to recover from his injuries, he sent money and tickets to his family. It wasn’t much, just ten dollars and ten jin of grain tickets.
Later, when Lu Jiang returned to the army, Feng Qingxue continued to send these to the address he had left, every month.
After Song Dazhu was killed in action, the state provided a certain amount of compensation to his family and ordered local authorities to look after them. She and Lu Jiang were only making an unnecessary move, but they still wanted to do what they could.
However, she never expected Song Dazhu’s family to find her.
Song Laoshuan was a Song, obviously related to Song Dazhu.
Thinking of this, Feng Qingxue straightforwardly said, "I am Feng Qingxue. I have indeed been sending money and tickets to Song Dazhu’s family for the past few months. Mr. Song, what can I do for you?"
Struggling to form words, Song Laoshuan eventually pushed the child forward towards Feng Qingxue.
Feng Qingxue looked into the innocent eyes of the child. "What do you mean by this?"
"I’ll tell you the truth!" Song Laoshuan gritted his teeth and stamped his foot. "This kid is Song Dazhu’s son. He’s four years old this year. He doesn’t have a proper name yet, just a nickname, Gangzi. His mother starved to death two years ago, and when his father’s death was confirmed, his grandfather couldn’t bear the news and passed away as well. By relying on his father’s compensation and the money and grain tickets you sent, his mother could have taken care of him. Our production brigade was ordered to provide him with food according to the standard of a strong laborer. Who would have guessed that his mother would fall ill in the fall, and not long into the winter, she passed away. Our production brigade is poor. A strong laborer only gets 200 jin of food a year. During the slack season, most of us have to go out to beg for food. No one can afford to raise Gangzi, and no one wants to adopt him."
Feng Qingxue furrowed her brows. "So, you sent him to me?"
Song Laoshuan’s face went red, "I had no other choice. I can’t just watch him starve to death, right? Many people are eyeing the money and tickets you sent, but not a single person wants to adopt him. I have seven sons and three daughters, and four of them have starved to death. I can’t even support my own family, let alone adding another mouth to feed. If this continues, the child will have only one way left - death. After thinking it over and discussing it with the secretary of our production brigade, we concluded that since you consistently send money and tickets every month, and are the only ones to do so for Gangzi’s family, you must be good people. Thus, I decided to bring Gangzi to you, begging you to save his life."
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