Termites have spent the past several seasons quietly eating through the wooden bones of 10 Zhangjiashan Road. This slow, organic decay is currently dismantling a house that has otherwise survived a century of intense ideological whiplash. Built in 1916 by an American missionary, Reverend Ke Peide, the structure was meant to project quiet permanence in the misty river valleys of Ya'an. Today, it stands emptied out, waiting for a government restoration crew to replace its rotting beams.

Ke Peide designed his residence as a diplomatic handshake in architectural form. He arranged the floor plan to mimic the Chinese character for mountain, bowing to local sensibilities while introducing Western brickwork and Quaker restraint. The house obeys the ancient rules of placement. Its back rests against the ridge, and its front looks out over the Qingyi River valley toward Zhougong Mountain. Century-old camphor, tallow, and eucalyptus trees cast long shadows over the two facing structures, wrapping the one-story and three-story blocks in a dense, evergreen canopy.

The missionary’s pursuit of spiritual conversion eventually yielded to hard political reality. Liu Wenhui, the formidable warlord and governor of the short-lived Xikang Province, later commandeered the house as his private mansion. The quiet courtyards, initially designed for contemplation by pools and small bridges, became the administrative nerve center of a frontier territory. Under Liu’s tenancy, the Quaker simplicity hosted military stratagems, absorbing the heavy footfalls of soldiers and power brokers. Visiting photographers like Sun Mingjing documented the region from this specific vantage point, capturing a borderland in transition.

The house continued to absorb the changing eras long after the warlord departed. In the early 1950s, the grand rooms were partitioned into a workers' dormitory, flattening the spatial hierarchy to accommodate the proletariat. Decades later, it became the headquarters for the Ya'an Federation of Literary and Art Circles, shielding writers and bureaucrats under its aging roof until late 2024. Now, the poets have moved out, leaving the property to the care of city developers.

The building waits quietly among the old trees, holding the ghosts of American preachers, Chinese warlords, factory workers, and local artists. The pending restoration will strip away the damaged wood and mend the leaky roof, preparing the site for modern students and tourists. The house will soon be stabilized and cleaned. Yet the core of the Ke Peide Residence remains lodged deeply in its walls—a heavy, century-long accumulation of human ambition settling into the Sichuan soil.