"You've had them before, dear. I'm surprised you don't remember."
Hearing that, I could only smile, tight-lipped, bitter.
Oh, Mother… I've had many things shoved down my throat in the name of medicine. Things that steamed, boiled, smoked, and frankly, smelled suspiciously like despair.
But truth be told, I wasn't exactly a pharmacist in my past life… or a herbalist… or anything remotely close to someone who could identify herbs beyond 'this one smells like socks, must be good for fevers.'
No one had ever bothered to tell me the names of the herbs I'd inhaled, drank, or been forcibly marinated in.
Not the doctor, who probably thought a name was irrelevant to a child, and certainly not my parents, who weren't exactly in the habit of asking.
Frankly, I doubt they would've understood even if they had asked.
Literacy wasn't exactly an affordable luxury. Asking would've been a waste of breath, and coins.
Imagine paying a copper just to be told, "Oh yes, this is Wild Curly Root of the Eastern Ridge, excellent for phlegm." Useless information if you can't even read the label.
"Is it… a herb?" I asked, fingers tracing lazily on the rim of my empty bowl. "I've had plenty of herbs before, you know."
Mother paused, gently mulling over the question like she was trying to find the right words, or at least words simple enough.
"Well…" she started, brow furrowing slightly, "I heard in the big cities, yes, it's considered a herb. Proper apothecaries sell them as medicine. Fancy ones too." She lifted her cup, sipping.
"But here? In our little patch of the world? It's more like… a supplement. Something to chase the cold out of your bones, warm you up when winter tries to sneak into your chest, and soothe a sore throat if you've been hollering too much."
I took in the information, curiosity lighting up my thoughts like a torch in a dusty attic.
No need to even call out to Green, just the idea of planting this "fingerroot" had my mind already racing through possible benefits.
Even the apple tree that I planted bore some out of this world fruits, what more would happen if I planted a herb that has properties that my mother had explained.
From the description itself it sounded like ginger. But I could be entirely wrong about that.
"Do you think you can spare me some if Father brings back a few extra?" I asked, as casually as one might request another ladle of soup.
Mother didn't even bat an eye, just a simple nod, like I'd asked for another stick of firewood.
"Alright."
That was it. Approval granted. Mission unlocked. Resource secured. Now all that's left… is for Father to not come home empty-handed.
We lingered in the room for a while, the quiet only broken by the occasional creak of the wooden floor or the soft clinking of bowls. Then, as if suddenly remembering, my mother turned to my brothers with a casual wave of her hand.
"Go help me fetch the laundry," she said, referring to the clothes that had been piling up like a neglected mountain in the corner of the house. "The ones we haven't washed in over a month."
Over a month.
Now, in this time period, and in this family, that wasn't shocking. We weren't the kind of people who washed clothes regularly, not out of laziness, but out of sheer necessity and habit.
Water was precious. Firewood was limited. And soap? Basically nonexistent. The clothes were only scrubbed when they reached the point of no return, when the grime made the fabric stiff and the stench could no longer be ignored.
That usually meant once a month. Maybe twice, if the weather cooperated.
And for my family, this was normal. Entirely reasonable, even.
But for me, someone whose past life revolved around hot showers, detergent pods, and color-coded laundry baskets, it was nothing short of a psychological assault. A hard pill to swallow.
I watched my brothers rise without protest, already used to the chore. To them, it was just another part of the routine, like feeding the chickens or fetching water from the well.
To me, it was another reminder that no matter how much I adapted, there were still parts of this life that rubbed against the grain of who I used to be.
But I couldn't complain. Not out loud, at least.
As much as I hated it, I understood. Washing clothes in this world wasn't just a matter of tossing them into a machine and pressing a button.
There were no fragrant detergents, no gentle spin cycles, no stain-removing miracles in brightly colored bottles.
If I had the knowledge to make some soap, or bring over the unlimited soap that was in the system's built in house then I would've used it.
For my mother, doing the laundry meant hauling buckets of cold water, scrubbing each garment by hand until her knuckles ached and the skin of her fingers went raw.
With no proper cleaning agents, she had to rely on coarse soap, or sometimes none at all, rubbing the fabric against rough stones or old wooden washboards just to lift the dirt.
Now that the air was turning colder with each passing day, the work was even harder. The water stung like needles, biting at the skin until her hands turned red and stiff from the cold. Just the thought of it made me wince.
So no, I didn't complain. How could I?
My discomfort was nothing compared to the work my mother endured just to keep us clothed.
She bore it all quietly, never once expecting praise, as if it were simply part of being a mother in this time and place. And maybe it was.
But for me, watching her from this borrowed body with the memories of another life still clinging to me like a second skin, it was hard not to feel a dull ache settle somewhere behind my ribs. Guilt, maybe. Or helplessness.
Probably both.