Silence hung heavy in the freezing censorship vault as General Tie Canghai’s raw, broken question echoed between the towering stacks of confiscated mail.
Lin Mo gently placed the old, faded envelope back onto the wooden crate.
“You don’t tell them with a speech, General,” Lin Mo said, turning toward the vault doorway. “Politicians give speeches when they want people to march into danger. Speeches are cheap, and words don’t put food on an empty table. We are not politicians. We tell them with a hot meal and a family reunion.”
Tie Canghai looked at Lin Mo, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“A family reunion?” Tie Canghai asked, his voice strained. “Chairman Lin, the Frost-Border worlds are light-years away across the outer perimeter. Traveling between star systems requires warp-gates and weeks of clearance.”
“Not when you have an unrestricted travel budget,” Lin Mo said calmly.
Lin Mo stepped out onto the open gantry overlooking the central docking bay.
Words don’t heal three thousand years of stolen letters, Lin Mo thought, looking at the distant stars. If you give a veteran a bronze medal and a patriotic poem, his dinner is still cold and his mother is still alone. What people actually need is a warm room, a hot bowl of soup, and the person they love sitting across the table.
