The year was 1910, in a small village of northern Jiangsu province. The Zhang family, a well-to-do landlord family, lived in a compound surrounded by lush greenery. Their youngest daughter, Yuqin, was a bright and lively girl , cherished by all family members for her quick wit and endearing personality. Her days were filled with the gentle rustling of wind through the willow trees by the courtyard and the comforting scent of osmanthus flowers that lingered in the air.
One sunny summer afternoon, the sound of a cart approaching broke the afternoon tranquility. Yuqin's mother's cousin, Aunt Li, was visiting with her six-year-old son, Zhan Yan. As the cart stopped at the gate, Yuqin peeked from behind her mother's skirts, her large eyes filled with curiosity. There stood a boy slightly taller than her, with a mop of unruly hair and a pair of cautious yet inquisitive eyes. His clothes, though clean, showed faint patches, a stark contrast to Yuqin's neatly tailored red dress with intricate embroidery of plum blossoms.
"Yuqin, come meet your cousin Zhan Yan," her mother said gently, pushing her forward. Yuqin hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward, her hands clutching the edge of her dress. "Hello," she said softly, her voice like a delicate bird's chirp. Zhan Yan, who had been hiding behind his mother's leg, slowly emerged, his face flushed. "H-hello," he stammered, his eyes darting around the unfamiliar courtyard.
Aunt Li smiled warmly. "Don't be shy, children. You'll be good friends, I'm sure." The adults soon retired to the main hall for tea, leaving the two children alone in the courtyard. Yuqin looked at Zhan Yan, noticing the way he kept glancing at the stone lion statues by the gate. "Do you want to see my garden?" she asked suddenly, her shyness giving way to her natural enthusiasm. "I have a swing under the big jujube tree, and there are fireflies at night!"
Zhan Yan's eyes lit up at the mention of fireflies. "I've never seen fireflies before," he admitted, his voice a little bolder now. Yuqin grabbed his hand without hesitation, her small fingers wrapping around his. "Come on, I'll show you!" she exclaimed, pulling him towards the back garden. Zhan Yan stumbled slightly but followed, a faint smile forming on his lips.
The garden was a paradise for a child. Rows of chrysanthemums in various shades of yellow and white lined the stone path, and a small pond at the center was filled with blooming lotus flowers. Yuqin led Zhan Yan to the jujube tree, where a rope swing hung from a thick branch. "You can swing first," she said, gesturing to the swing. Zhan Yan looked at it nervously. "I... I've never swung before," he said, his cheeks turning pink again.
Yuqin giggled. "It's easy! I'll push you." She helped him climb onto the swing, her small hands steadying his back. As she gave him a gentle push, Zhan Yan let out a startled laugh, his eyes widening with delight. "Higher! Higher!" he cried, his initial shyness completely forgotten. Yuqin laughed too, her face glowing with happiness at seeing him enjoy himself.
After swinging, they sat by the pond, watching the fish dart through the water. Yuqin picked a lotus leaf and placed it on Zhan Yan's head, giggling at how it looked like a big green hat. Zhan Yan retaliated by picking a water lily and giving it to her, bowing formally like a little gentleman. "For the pretty lady," he said, mimicking the way he had seen adults greet each other. Yuqin blushed but took the flower, tucking it into her braid with the red ribbon her mother had tied that morning.
As the afternoon wore on, they explored every corner of the garden, chasing butterflies and collecting colorful stones. Yuqin showed Zhan Yan her favorite hiding spot behind a cluster of bamboo, and he shared with her a small wooden whistle he had carved himself. "My father made me a bigger one," he said proudly, "but I carved this one for my little sister. But she's too young to play with it yet."
Yuqin listened attentively, realizing that Zhan Yan's life was very different from hers. He talked about helping his mother in the fields, feeding the chickens, and the long walks he took to the village school. She, in turn, told him about her lessons with the family tutor, how she loved listening to her grandmother's stories, and how she would sometimes sneak sweets from the kitchen when no one was looking.
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a gong signaling dinner. As they walked back to the house, Zhan Yan suddenly stopped, looking down at his feet. "What's wrong?" Yuqin asked, concerned. "Your family is so nice," he said softly, "and your house is so big. I feel... I feel like a country bumpkin here."
Yuqin frowned, not fully understanding the term but sensing his sadness. "Don't say that," she said firmly, taking his hand again. "You're my cousin, and I like you very much. Besides," she added with a mischievous grin, "you can carve whistles, and I can't do that. That's really cool!"
Zhan Yan looked up, surprised by her earnestness. A warm feeling spread through his chest, a feeling of being accepted and valued, something he hadn't expected in this grand household. He squeezed her hand gently, a silent thank you.
Dinner was a lively affair, with the adults chatting about family matters and the children stealing glances at each other across the table. Yuqin noticed that Zhan Yan was polite and well-mannered, always waiting for his mother to take food first and eating quietly. She, on the other hand, was more outspoken, excitedly telling her father about the day's adventures.
As the evening drew to a close, Aunt Li announced that they would be leaving early the next morning. Yuqin's heart sank. She had grown so fond of Zhan Yan in just a few hours, and the thought of him leaving made her eyes sting with tears. After dinner, she pulled Zhan Yan aside to the courtyard where the fireflies were starting to glow.
"Look," she whispered, pointing to the dancing lights. "They're like little stars come down to earth." Zhan Yan nodded, mesmerized. "I wish you didn't have to go," Yuqin said, her voice trembling. Zhan Yan looked at her, seeing the sadness in her eyes. He reached into his pocket and took out the small wooden whistle he had shown her earlier. "Here," he said, placing it in her hand, "you can keep this. When you blow it, it's like I'm saying hello from far away."
Yuqin took the whistle, clutching it tightly. "I'll give you something too," she said, untying the red ribbon from her braid. Her long black hair fell down her shoulders, but she didn't care. She placed the ribbon in Zhan Yan's hand. "This is my favorite ribbon. It will keep you safe on your journey home."
Zhan Yan looked at the ribbon, then at Yuqin's tear-streaked face. He wanted to say something comforting, but words failed him. Instead, he did the only thing he could think of: he hugged her, a quick, awkward hug that made both of them blush. "Don't cry," he said softly, "we'll see each other again. My mother said we can visit again next year."
Yuqin smiled through her tears. "Promise?" she asked, holding up her pinky finger. Zhan Yan linked his pinky with hers. "Promise," he said solemnly.
The next morning, as the cart prepared to leave, Yuqin stood by the gate, waving until it was just a small dot on the horizon. She held the wooden whistle close to her chest, already missing her new friend. In her heart, she knew that this first encounter had marked the beginning of a special bond, one that would endure through the changing seasons and the challenges of the years to come.
Years later, whenever she heard the soft trill of a wooden whistle or saw a red ribbon fluttering in the wind, Yuqin would be transported back to that summer afternoon, to the sound of laughter in the garden, the glow of fireflies, and the warm hand of a boy who had become more than just a cousin—he had become a part of her childhood, a memory etched in her heart like the first stroke of a brush on a blank canvas, vibrant and full of promise.
Chapter 2
In the 1910s, in a small, traditional Chinese village, the practice of foot-binding was still prevalent, especially among the more conservative families. Five-year-old Yuqin was from one such family. Her mother, a strict yet well-meaning woman, believed that small feet were a necessary part of a proper lady's upbringing. And so, when Yuqin turned five, the painful process of foot-binding began.
Yuqin's days now were filled with a mix of fear and agony. Every morning, her mother would carefully prepare the long, white cotton bandages, soaking them in a warm herbal solution that was said to help with the healing and perhaps ease some of the pain. But no amount of herbs could truly dull the sharp, throbbing ache that came with each wrapping. The mother would gently but firmly bend Yuqin's tiny toes under her foot, forcing them to curl tightly against the sole. Yuqin would bite her lip, trying her best not to cry out, but sometimes the pain was too much, and tears would stream down her face. "It's for your own good, my dear," her mother would say softly, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "When you grow up, you'll have beautiful lotus feet, and you'll be respected and married well." Yuqin didn't understand much of that yet. All she knew was that her feet hurt, and she longed to run and play like she used to, before the bandages confined her.
Wang Zhanyan was from a family with strict family education. He studied in a private school at home, where he was taught classical Chinese texts, calligraphy, and the ways of proper conduct. His days were structured and disciplined, with little room for frivolous activities. But when he heard that his cousin Yuqin was having her feet bound, something inside him stirred. He remembered how lively and cheerful Yuqin had been the last time he saw her, chasing butterflies in the garden and laughing brightly. The thought of her suffering made his heart ache, and despite the strict rules of his family, he decided to sneak out to visit her.
One afternoon, when his tutor was taking a nap and his parents were occupied with household matters, Zhanyan quietly slipped out of the house. His heart was pounding with both excitement and fear of being caught, but his concern for Yuqin gave him the courage to proceed. He had even managed to steal some sweets from the kitchen - small, sugary pastries that he thought might bring a smile to Yuqin's face and perhaps ease her pain a little.
As he approached Yuqin's house, he noticed that the front door was slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, he knocked gently and called out softly, "Auntie? It's Zhanyan." Yuqin's mother, who was in the middle of preparing the bandages for the day's wrapping, came to the door. She was surprised to see him, for visits between young boys and girls of their age were not typically encouraged, especially without proper supervision. But she also knew that Zhanyan was a well-behaved boy from a good family, and she could see the genuine concern in his eyes. "Come in, Zhanyan," she said, opening the door wider. "Yuqin is in her room."
Zhanyan entered the house, feeling a bit nervous. The room was dim, with the only light coming from a small window covered by delicate paper screens. There, on a low wooden bed, he saw Yuqin. Her feet were wrapped tightly in the white bandages, and she was sitting very still, staring down at her lap. Her face was pale, and there were faint dark circles under her eyes, a sign of the sleepless nights filled with pain.
"Yuqin," Zhanyan said softly, approaching the bed. Yuqin looked up, and for a moment, a flicker of surprise and then happiness crossed her face. "Zhanyan gege (big brother Zhanyan)," she whispered, her voice weak. Zhanyan sat down beside her, careful not to jostle the bed. He took out the sweets from his pocket and held them out to her. "I brought these for you," he said, a small smile on his face. Yuqin's eyes lit up at the sight of the sweets. She loved sweets, and in this time of pain, they seemed like a small piece of heaven. She reached out a tiny hand to take one, and as she bit into it, the sweet flavor filled her mouth, momentarily distracting her from the ache in her feet.
"Thank you," she said, a faint smile on her lips. Zhanyan noticed that her smile didn't reach her eyes, though. He looked down at her wrapped feet, and a sense of sadness and anger welled up inside him. He couldn't understand why such a painful practice was necessary. To him, Yuqin was perfect just the way she was, with her bright eyes and cheerful nature. Why did she have to suffer like this?
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. Yuqin shrugged slightly. "It hurts," she said simply. "But Mama says it's necessary." Zhanyan nodded, not knowing what to say. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't right, that she shouldn't have to go through this, but he knew that his words wouldn't change anything. Instead, he reached out and gently took her hand in his. It was small and delicate, just like the rest of her, and he held it softly, hoping to convey some comfort through the simple gesture.
Yuqin's mother had been watching from the doorway, touched by the young boy's kindness. She knew that Zhanyan's family was strict, and she appreciated that he had taken the risk to come and visit Yuqin. It showed that he cared deeply for his cousin, which was a good sign of his character. She decided to give them some time alone, so she quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Alone together, Zhanyan and Yuqin began to talk more freely. Zhanyan told her about his studies, making funny faces as he described his strict tutor and the long hours he spent practicing calligraphy. Yuqin laughed at his stories, her spirits lifting a little as she forgot about her pain for a while. In turn, she told him about the herbs her mother used for the bandages and how she tried to imagine herself in a beautiful garden whenever the pain got too bad. "I pretend I'm chasing butterflies again," she said, her eyes distant as she visualized the scene. "And the butterflies are so big and colorful, and they lead me to a place where my feet don't hurt anymore."
Zhanyan listened attentively, impressed by Yuqin's ability to find such a peaceful escape in her mind. He wished he could take her to that garden for real, to a place where she could be free from the pain and the restrictions of their traditional world. But he knew that for now, all he could do was be there for her, to listen to her and bring her small joys like the sweets he had stolen.
As the afternoon wore on, Zhanyan knew he couldn't stay too long. He was afraid that his absence would be noticed at home, and he didn't want to get into trouble, which might prevent him from visiting again. Reluctantly, he stood up to leave. "I'll come back to see you again, Yuqin," he said firmly. "And I'll bring more sweets. Maybe next time, I can bring some of my picture books too, so you can imagine more beautiful places."
Yuqin nodded, a look of hope in her eyes. "I'll look forward to that," she said. "Thank you for coming, gege. It made me feel better." Zhanyan smiled at her, then turned and left the room. As he walked back home, he couldn't help but think about the difference between their lives. He was lucky to be a boy, free from the pain of foot-binding, able to run and play and study without such physical suffering. But he also felt a deep sense of responsibility towards Yuqin. He wanted to protect her, to make her happy, even if he was just a young boy himself.
Back at Yuqin's house, the evening was approaching, and it was time for the daily unwrapping and rewrapping of her feet. Yuqin's mother came back into the room, carrying a basin of warm water to clean the feet before reapplying the bandages. Yuqin tensed up, knowing what was to come, but she also remembered the visit from Zhanyan and the sweets he had brought. It gave her a small source of strength to endure the pain once more.
As her mother gently unwrapped the bandages, Yuqin couldn't help but think about Zhanyan's promise to visit again. She wondered what stories he would tell next, what new sweets he would bring, and if he would really bring his picture books. The thought of his next visit gave her something to look forward to, a bright spot in the otherwise painful and monotonous days of her foot-binding process.
In the days and weeks that followed, Zhanyan would indeed sneak out to visit Yuqin whenever he could. Each time, he would bring small gifts - sweets, a colorful ribbon for her hair, a simple drawing he had made of a garden with butterflies. And each time, Yuqin's face would light up, and for a little while, the pain would fade into the background as she enjoyed the company of her cousin and the small pleasures he brought.
Their relationship grew stronger through these visits. Zhanyan became more than just a cousin to Yuqin; he was a source of comfort and happiness in a difficult time. And for Zhanyan, visiting Yuqin taught him about empathy and the importance of caring for others, even when it meant going against the strict rules of his family.
The process of foot-binding was a long and painful one, lasting for several years until Yuqin's feet were permanently shaped into the desired "lotus feet." But through it all, Zhanyan's visits remained a constant, a symbol of hope and companionship that helped Yuqin endure the suffering.
As they grew older, their relationship would change and evolve, influenced by the traditions and expectations of their society. But in these early years, during the painful days of Yuqin's foot-binding, their bond was formed, based on kindness, concern, and a shared innocence that allowed them to find joy and comfort in each other's company, even in the midst of hardship.
The small moments they spent together - the whispered conversations, the shared sweets, the simple act of holding hands - became precious memories that both would carry with them for the rest of their lives. For Zhanyan, it was a reminder of the importance of standing by those he cared about, even when it wasn't easy. For Yuqin, it was a reminder that even in the darkest times, there could be light and warmth in the form of a loved one's concern and affection.
And so, in the quiet corners of their traditional world, two young souls found a connection that would shape their lives, proving that even in the midst of pain and tradition, human kindness and compassion could flourish, bringing hope and comfort to those who needed it most.
Chapter 3
At the age of eighteen, Yuqin married Wang Zhanyan, and their married life was as harmonious as the melody of a qin and a se, two ancient Chinese musical instruments that complement each other perfectly.
The wedding took place in a small, charming village where both Yuqin and Wang Zhanyan had grown up. The day was filled with warm sunlight and the gentle breeze that carried the scent of blooming flowers. Yuqin, dressed in a traditional red wedding gown, looked like a delicate flower herself, her eyes shining with a mix of excitement and a touch of nervousness. Wang Zhanyan, tall and handsome in his formal attire, had a reassuring smile on his face that put Yuqin's heart at ease.
As they stood under the ancient tree in the village square, exchanging their vows, Yuqin couldn't help but think about how her life was about to change. She had known Wang Zhanyan for several years; his family was well-respected in the village, and he was known for his kindness, intelligence, and hard work. She had always admired him from a distance, and now, she was about to spend the rest of her life with him. The thought made her heart flutter with happiness.
After the wedding ceremony, they moved into their new home, a cozy little house on the edge of the village. It was a simple place, but it was filled with love and the promise of a bright future. Yuqin quickly settled into her new role as a wife, eager to create a warm and comfortable home for her husband.
One of the first things Yuqin noticed about married life was the small, everyday moments that brought them closer together. Every morning, she would wake up early to prepare breakfast for Wang Zhanyan. She would carefully select the freshest ingredients from the local market, cooking his favorite dishes with love and attention. Wang Zhanyan, in turn, would always thank her sincerely, his eyes filled with gratitude and affection.
One particular morning, as Yuqin was preparing a simple meal of congee and pickled vegetables, Wang Zhanyan came up behind her and gently wrapped his arms around her waist. "You know," he said softly, "I never realized how much a home could feel like a haven until I started living here with you." Yuqin felt a warm flush spread across her cheeks, and she leaned back into his embrace, feeling safe and loved. "I'm glad you feel that way," she replied, "because this is exactly what I want – a home filled with love and happiness, where we can grow old together."
Their conversations were not just about the mundane aspects of life but also about their dreams and aspirations. Wang Zhanyan had always wanted to start his own business, and Yuqin was fully supportive of him. She would listen attentively as he talked about his plans, offering her own insights and ideas. One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, Wang Zhanyan shared his latest idea for a trading business that would connect the village with nearby towns. "It won't be easy," he said, his eyes shining with determination, "but I believe we can make it work, together." Yuqin nodded firmly, "I have faith in you," she said, "and I'll be by your side every step of the way."
Yuqin's gentle and supportive nature was not only evident in her words but also in her actions. When Wang Zhanyan was feeling stressed or tired from his work, she would quietly prepare a warm bath for him or massage his shoulders, helping him relax. She understood that marriage was about supporting each other through both the good times and the bad, and she was determined to be a pillar of strength for her husband.
Wang Zhanyan, on the other hand, was very attentive to Yuqin's needs and feelings. He noticed when she was feeling a little down or overwhelmed and would always find a way to cheer her up. One day, Yuqin was feeling a bit homesick for her family, who lived in a neighboring village. Although she tried to hide her feelings, Wang Zhanyan could see the sadness in her eyes. That evening, he surprised her by taking her to visit her family, even though it meant a long walk after a tiring day of work. Yuqin was touched by his thoughtfulness, and her heart swelled with love for him.
Their relationship was also filled with moments of playful affection. They would often laugh and joke with each other, creating a light-hearted and joyful atmosphere in their home. One day, while Yuqin was hanging the laundry outside, Wang Zhanyan came over and playfully tried to steal a piece of clothing from her. A gentle chase ensued, with both of them laughing loudly as they ran around the yard. In that moment, they were not just husband and wife but also best friends, enjoying each other's company and the simple pleasures of life.
As the months passed, Yuqin and Wang Zhanyan's love for each other deepened. They faced challenges together, such as the occasional difficulties in Wang Zhanyan's business or the small disagreements that are inevitable in any relationship, but they always managed to work through them with patience, understanding, and respect for each other.
One of the most memorable moments in their early married life was when they decided to plant a garden together in front of their house. They spent weeks preparing the soil, selecting the seeds, and carefully planting each one. Yuqin had a green thumb and loved flowers, while Wang Zhanyan was more interested in growing vegetables. They compromised by creating a garden that had both – a beautiful array of colorful flowers and a practical vegetable patch.
As they worked side by side in the garden, they talked about their hopes for the future. They dreamed of having children, of expanding their business, and of seeing their little garden grow and thrive. "Just like our love," Yuqin said, as she gently watered the newly planted flowers, "this garden will need care and attention to grow strong and beautiful." Wang Zhanyan smiled and nodded, "And we will be here to nurture it, together," he said, taking her hand in his.
The garden became a symbol of their marriage – a place where they could work together, create something beautiful, and watch it grow over time. It was also a place where they could find peace and tranquility, away from the hustle and bustle of daily life. They would often sit in the garden in the evenings, watching the sunset and talking about their day, feeling grateful for each other and the life they had built together.
In their interactions with the villagers, Yuqin and Wang Zhanyan were known as a model couple. They were kind and generous, always willing to help others in need. Yuqin would often visit the elderly villagers, bringing them food or helping them with their chores, while Wang Zhanyan would use his skills and resources to assist those who were less fortunate. Their example of love, unity, and community spirit inspired others, and they were highly regarded by everyone in the village.
As Yuqin looked back on her first year of marriage, she felt a deep sense of contentment and happiness. She had married a man who loved and respected her, and together, they were building a life that was filled with love, purpose, and meaning. The early days of their marriage had been a journey of discovery, as they learned to understand and support each other, and she was excited to see what the future would hold for them.
In the quiet moments when she would sit by the window, watching the world go by, Yuqin would often think about the vow they had made on their wedding day – to love and cherish each other for better or for worse. She knew that life would not always be easy, but with Wang Zhanyan by her side, she felt confident that they could overcome any obstacle. Their marriage was a partnership, a union of two hearts and minds, and she was grateful every day for the gift of being his wife.
And so, their life together continued, each day bringing new experiences, new challenges, and new moments of joy. They grew closer with each passing day, their love for each other deepening and strengthening, just like the roots of the ancient tree under which they had pledged their love to each other. In the small, cozy house on the edge of the village, Yuqin and Wang Zhanyan were creating a life that was truly harmonious, a life that was a beautiful symphony of love, trust, and mutual respect.
Chapter 4
The second year of marriage bloomed with the sweetest promise—a daughter, born on a soft spring day when the magnolia trees dripped with fragrant white blossoms. Yuqin lay in their wooden bed, exhausted yet radiant, cradling the swaddled infant whose tiny cries had just split the morning silence. "Look at her, Zhanyan," she murmured, her voice a tender melody as she traced the baby's delicate eyelid with her fingertip. "Her lips are like rose petals dipped in dew."
Wang Zhanyan knelt beside the bed, his usually steady hands trembling as he gazed at the miracle in his wife's arms. The first time he touched the baby's palm—so small it could barely wrap around his thumb—tears spilled over his cheeks, surprising even himself. "She has your courage in those eyes," he whispered, pressing a kiss to Yuqin's sweat-dampened forehead. In that moment, the world seemed perfectly whole: his beautiful wife, their healthy child, the future stretching ahead like a sunlit path. He vowed then to build a life so secure, so warm, that their daughter would never know a shadow.
Autumn brought the first whispers of discord. Zhanyan began returning home after dark, his jacket smelling not of earth or timber, but of something sharp and foreign—a smoky, bitter scent that clung to his clothes like a malevolent spirit. Yuqin first noticed it when she folded his shirt one evening, the fabric stiff with unfamiliar stains. "The new traders in town," he explained too quickly, avoiding her gaze as he bounced the now six-month-old baby on his knee. "They smoke imported tobacco to stay awake on the road." His smile was strained, his eyes darting to the door as if fearing pursuit.
But Yuqin's intuition, honed by years of tending to others, sensed deeper trouble. She observed how he trembled when pouring tea, how he snapped at trivial matters, then retreated into sullen silence. One night, she woke to find his side of the bed cold. Following the faint glow of a lantern, she discovered him hunched in the courtyard, a small pipe clenched in his fist, smoke curling from its bowl like a serpent. The moonlight carved hollows under his eyes, his once-strong shoulders now hunched like an old man's.
"Zhanyan..." Her voice broke the silence, gentle but firm. He started, the pipe falling to the ground with a hollow clatter. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
He scrambled to his feet, hands shaking as he reached for her. "It's just... a way to cope with the pressure, Yuqin. The business isn't doing as well as I hoped, and the baby—"
"Don't blame our daughter," she interrupted, stepping back from his outstretched hands, which reeked of opium. The words hung heavy between them, the first real lie in their marriage. She saw then the truth in his dilated pupils, the desperate pleading that masked addiction's grip. Her heart, which had swelled with love for him, now ached with a cold, sharp fear.
Winter arrived with a vengeance, and with it, Zhanyan's rapid decline. He stopped helping in the garden, neglecting the vegetable patch they had planted together. His appetite vanished; he grew gaunt, his once-robust frame shrinking within his clothes like a sail without wind. Yuqin would find him staring blankly at the wall for hours, only rousing when the baby cried, and even then, his touch lacked the former tenderness—his fingers clumsy, his gaze distant.
One freezing morning, she found him slumped by the hearth, the pipe beside him still warm. The baby wailed in her arms, but he didn't stir. Fear curdling her blood, Yuqin ran to fetch his parents, who arrived pale and stern, having heard whispers in the village. His father, a stoic man who rarely showed emotion, took one look at his son and slammed his fist into the wall. "Fool!" he roared, though his voice trembled. "You've ruined everything!"
His mother, softer but no less determined, clasped Yuqin's hand. "We must lock him away until the poison leaves his body," she said, tears in her eyes. "It will be painful, but it's the only way."
Yuqin hesitated, staring at the man who had once been her rock. Could she bear to see him suffer? But when he stirred, muttering incoherently about "friends who understand," she nodded, jaw set. For their daughter—for the family they had built—she would endure anything.
They converted the storage shed into a makeshift cell, reinforcing the door with wooden bars. Zhanyan raged at first, pounding on the door, screaming curses that made Yuqin flinch. "You think you can cage me?" he roared, his voice unrecognizable. "I'll never be free of it! You hear me? NEVER!"
But Yuqin stayed by the door, even as his mother urged her to rest. She brought him rice porridge, cooling it with a spoon as she had when he was ill. "Zhanyan, please," she pleaded through the bars, the baby strapped to her back. "Eat something. Your body is starving."
He turned away, curling into a corner like a wounded animal. "Get away from me," he snarled, though she saw the tremors wracking his body, the beads of sweat despite the cold. "You don't understand. It's not just a habit—it's a hunger that eats you alive from the inside."
Days passed, each one a trial. Yuqin alternated between tending to the baby and sitting by the shed, listening to Zhanyan's tortured moans as withdrawal wracked his body. Sometimes he begged; sometimes he wept; once, he even pleaded with her to bring him "just a little," promising he'd stop afterward. But she remembered the empty promises, the stolen coins from their savings jar, and held firm, though her heart shattered with each cry.
His parents visited too, his father's anger now replaced by sorrow, his mother weeping silently as she pressed her forehead against the door. "My son," she murmured, "come back to us."
But Zhanyan had become a stranger. His skin took on a grayish hue, his bones protruding through stretched skin. He refused all food, even when Yuqin tried feeding him broth with a cloth dipped in the liquid, dabbing it on his lips. "What's the point?" he mumbled one evening, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I'm already dead inside."
On the seventh night, the screaming stopped. Yuqin, dozing in a chair by the door, woke to an eerie stillness. Her heart pounding, she lit a lantern and peered through the bars. Zhanyan lay motionless on the cot, his face turned to the wall. "Zhanyan?" she called, her voice trembling. No response.
She fumbled with the latch, hands shaking, and rushed inside. The cot was 冰冷的 (icy cold) beneath her touch. His body was stiff, his lips blue, eyes half-closed but unseeing. A single tear had frozen on his cheek, as if even grief had abandoned him in the end.
The baby chose that moment to cry, a plaintive wail that cut through the silence. Yuqin didn't move, couldn't move, staring at the man who had vowed to protect them, now gone—lost not just to opium, but to the weakness that had allowed it to consume him. She wanted to scream, to rage, to beg the gods for mercy, but all that came was a silent, hollow ache, as if her soul had been torn in two.
His parents arrived soon after, their cries joining the baby's. But Yuqin remained still, cradling Zhanyan's hand in hers, noting how cold it was—so unlike the warm, calloused grip that had once held her through storms. In that frozen moment, she understood the cruel twist of fate: the man who had built their home with such care had destroyed it from within, leaving her to pick up the pieces in a world suddenly drained of color.
The funeral was a bleak affair, held under leaden skies. Yuqin stood at the graveside, her daughter wrapped tightly in her arms, as the first flakes of snow began to fall. The villagers murmured condolences, but their words felt distant, irrelevant. What did they know of the man who had laughed as he chased her through the garden, who had wept at their daughter's birth? Who had become a shadow of himself, defeated by a vice he couldn't conquer?
That night, she sat by the hearth, the baby asleep in the cradle Zhanyan had carved. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the wall, but the room felt emptier than the grave. She picked up the half-finished shoe she had been knitting for the baby, her fingers tracing the uneven stitches—Zhanyan had tried to help once, his large hands awkward but earnest. Now, the needle slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor.
Tears finally came, hot and relentless, as she buried her face in the blanket he had last used. It still smelled faintly of him—underneath the opium, there was the ghost of sandalwood, the scent of home. "How could you?" she whispered to the silence, though she knew there would be no answer. "How could you leave us like this?"
In the weeks that followed, Yuqin moved through life like a wraith, her days a blur of feeding the baby, tending the garden, avoiding the empty chair by the hearth. Villagers spoke of Zhanyan's "weakness," of how opium destroyed even the strongest, but Yuqin heard only the echo of his last coherent words: "It's a hunger that eats you alive." She wondered if the real tragedy was not his death, but the man he had been before the hunger took hold—the man she had loved, who had loved her, who had promised a future now reduced to ashes.
For her daughter, she forced herself to eat, to smile, to sing lullabies in a voice that trembled but didn't break. She would be both mother and father now, she decided, her resolve hardening like frost on a window. The garden would grow, the baby would thrive, but in her heart, a part of her had been buried with Zhanyan—a part that had trusted in forever, in the harmony they had built, unaware that destiny could be so cruel.
As spring returned, bringing new blossoms to the magnolia trees, Yuqin stood at the garden fence, her daughter on her hip. The vegetable patch, once neglected, was thriving again under her care. She touched the scar on her palm, earned from a trowel slip the day after the funeral. Pain, she had learned, was a constant companion now—but so was resilience.
Somewhere in the distance, a man laughed, and for a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, hopeful and raw. Then the baby squirmed, demanding attention, and Yuqin turned, pressing a kiss to the child's forehead. "We'll be alright," she murmured, though the words were as much for herself as for the baby. "We'll grow, just like the garden. Strong, despite the frost."
But in the quiet of night, when the fire died low, she would trace the wedding bracelet on her wrist, feeling the indentations where Zhanyan had once kissed her hand. The melody of their love, once so harmonious, had been silenced by a single, tragic note. Yet in the silence, Yuqin found a new strength—a resolve to live, not just for herself, but for the daughter who deserved to know the man her father had been before the shadows took him, and for the love that, though broken, had once been real, and bright, and worth every moment.
Chapter 5
The first frost had just nipped the chrysanthemums when Yuqin's mother arrived at the village gate, a donkey cart laden with winter quilts and her own anxious frown. "It's been six months since Zhan Yan's passing away," she said softly, pressing Yuqin's cold hand between her own as they sat by the hearth. "Your father and I have prepared a room for you and the baby. Come home—where you belong."
Yuqin's daughter, now toddling unsteadily, chose that moment to pull at her skirt, babbling in the half-words of infancy. Yuqin looked down at the child's round face, so like Zhan Yan's in the shape of her nose, the curve of her chin. Home—did that word still mean the village where she'd grown up, or the cottage where she'd built a life with him? Since his death, the walls here had seemed to close in, each corner holding a ghost: the shelf where he'd carved the baby's first rattle, the stool where he'd sat to polish his shoes. But her parents' offer stirred a flicker of warmth—a return to the familiar, to the embrace of her mother's kitchen, the sound of her father's loom in the next room.
She agreed tentatively, promising to leave in three days' time. Mrs. Wang, Zhan Yan's mother, smiled widely when told the news, clasping Yuqin's hands with bony fingers. "Of course, my dear, we understand," she said, though her eyes flickered to the sleeping baby in the cradle. "But let us send you off properly. Your mother must be weary from the journey—stay one more night, and we'll prepare dried persimmons for the road."
That night, Yuqin packed her daughter's clothes into a linen bundle, her fingers lingering over a tiny blue jacket Zhan Yan had bought in town. She hadn't noticed the soft footsteps outside her door, the low whispers between Mr. and Mrs. Wang as they counted the men gathered in the courtyard—ten strong laborers, hired from the next village, their faces shadowed by wide-brimmed hats.
The morning of departure dawned misty, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth. Yuqin's mother fussed over the baby, tucking a warm blanket around her legs, while her father argued quietly with Mr. Wang about the best route through the hills. "The shortcut is quicker, but slippery after rain," he said, gesturing to the winding path that cut through the maple forest.
They set out at mid-morning, the donkey cart creaking under the weight of their belongings. Yuqin sat beside her mother, the baby on her lap, watching the familiar fields slip by—fields where she and Zhan Yan had planted their first garden, where he'd taught her to tell the difference between rice shoots and weeds. She was so lost in memory she didn't hear the rustle of leaves until the men emerged from the trees, their faces masked with strips of cloth, only their eyes gleaming like wolves'.
Her mother screamed first, clutching the baby as the donkey shied. Yuqin felt strong hands seize her arms, dragging her from the cart. "Let go!" she cried, struggling as the baby's wails pierced the air. "What are you doing?!"
A voice muffled by cloth answered, "Mrs. Wang sends her regards, mistress. She says the child should stay with her father's family."
The world spun as she was lifted onto a horse, her mother's protests fading into the distance. She kicked and clawed, but the man's grip was iron. "You can't do this!" she shouted, though her voice trembled. "I have a right—"
"Rights are for those who can pay," the man grunted, urging the horse into a gallop. Below, the cart grew smaller, her mother's figure a blur of waving arms, the baby's cry a distant, heart-wrenching keen.
She was deposited in the courtyard like a sack of grain, her knees scraping the cobblestones. Mrs. Wang hurried forward, shooing the men away with a wave of her hand. "Oh, my poor Yuqin," she cooed, kneeling to brush dirt from Yuqin's sleeve. "They were too rough, weren't they? But it's for your own good, my dear—for the baby's good. You can't raise her alone in a strange village."
Yuqin stared up at her mother-in-law, her chest heaving with rage and confusion. "You... you had me kidnapped?" she gasped. "Like a common thief?"
Mr. Wang emerged from the shadows, his voice low but firm. "We saved you from a life of disgrace, girl. A young widow returning to her father's house—what would the villagers say? That we couldn't care for our own daughter-in-law? Zhan Yan's name would be dishonored."
Dishonor—of course. The word hung in the air like incense, heavy with expectation. Yuqin knew the truth: in their eyes, she was more than a daughter-in-law; she was a link to their dead son, a keeper of his memory, and above all, a guardian of the Wang family bloodline in their granddaughter.
Mrs. Wang took her hand, leading her inside like a child. "Come, let's wash your face. I've prepared your favorite osmanthus tea. You'll see—here, you'll want for nothing. We'll protect you, just as Zhan Yan would have wanted."
The mention of her husband stilled Yuqin's tongue. Zhan Yan—what would he have wanted? Would he have approved of this imprisonment, this theft of her freedom? She thought of his laughter, his promise to build her a life of peace, and felt a sharp ache in her chest. Perhaps his parents were right, in their own way; without him, where did she belong? Her 娘家 (natal home) would welcome her, but as a guest, a burden. Here, at least, she was family—tied by blood, by the baby who bore the Wang surname.
In the days that followed, the Wangs set about softening the bars of her cage. Mrs. Wang began each morning by placing a bowl of jujube porridge by her bed, chatting amiably about the baby's progress as if nothing had happened. "Little Lan is teething," she'd say, wiping the child's chin with a silk cloth. "Zhan Yan teethed late too—do you remember how he'd gnaw on the edge of the rice bowl?"
Mr. Wang, less effusive, would nod at her in the courtyard, as if her presence were a natural, expected thing. The villagers, informed that Yuqin had "chosen to stay for the baby's sake," smiled and praised her filial piety, unaware of the truth.
But the real weapon in the Wangs' arsenal was the small shrine they built in the east chamber. Carved from polished mahogany, it held a seated Buddha, his smile serene, flanked by incense burners and a vase of fresh chrysanthemums. "Prayer brings peace to the troubled heart," Mrs. Wang said one morning, guiding Yuqin to kneel before it. "Zhan Yan's spirit lingers here—he wants you to find comfort in faith."
At first, Yuqin resisted, staring at the Buddha's gilded face without seeing it. But as the weeks dragged on, the routine of 焚香 (burning incense), kneeling, and reciting sutras became a strange anchor. When Lan cried at night, when the memory of Zhan Yan's death threatened to overwhelm her, she would slip into the shrine, letting the scent of sandalwood fill her nostrils, the rhythmic chanting numb her mind.
"You see?" Mrs. Wang would say, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "The Buddha softens the pain. Your husband's soul is at peace now, knowing you're safe."
Yuqin wanted to believe it. She wanted the ache in her chest to subside, the guilt that she hadn't saved him to fade. Perhaps this was the path meant for her—devotion, duty, surrender. She had never been one to question authority: as a daughter, she'd obeyed her parents; as a wife, her husband; now, as a widow, wasn't it natural to follow her in-laws, who had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go?
Gradually, her world shrank to the walls of the Wang compound. She was allowed to walk in the garden, but never beyond the gate without a servant trailing behind. Her letters to her parents were "sent by messenger," though she never received a reply—Mrs. Wang explained gently that "country post is unreliable."
One evening, as she folded Lan's tiny clothes, she noticed a new silk scarf in her dresser—a gift from Mrs. Wang, embroidered with cranes. "For the cold days ahead," her mother-in-law had said, smiling. The gesture was kind, but Yuqin couldn't shake the feeling that every offering came with an unspoken demand: stay, be grateful, forget the world outside.
She began to mirror Mrs. Wang's habits, rising at dawn to sweep the shrine, preparing herbal teas according to ancient recipes, even adopting the older woman's slight tilt of the head when speaking. It was easier, somehow, to let her identity blur into the role of devoted daughter-in-law, than to confront the truth of her captivity.
Only once did she dare to mention returning to her parents. It was a quiet afternoon, Lan napping in her arms, Mrs. Wang sorting medicinal herbs at the table. "Mother," she said, voice tentative, "my mother must be worried. Perhaps I could—"
Mrs. Wang looked up, her gaze sharp as a blade, though her smile remained gentle. "Worried? Or does she wish to see her granddaughter married off as soon as she's of age, to some stranger in her village?" She clucked her tongue. "No, no, Yuqin. Here, Lan will grow up among her father's people, with the best tutors, the finest prospects. Is that not what Zhan Yan would have wanted?"
The name again—always the name, a shield, a chain. Yuqin looked down at her daughter's peaceful face, feeling the weight of expectation settle like a stone on her chest. Zhan Yan had wanted his child to be safe, to have a good life. Did that life include a mother who was little more than a prisoner in her own home?
Winter deepened, and with it, Yuqin's acceptance. She no longer asked about her parents, no longer stared longingly at the gate when it creaked open for deliveries. The shrine became her sanctuary; the Buddha, her confidant. She told herself she was content—after all, she wanted for nothing: warm clothes, good food, a roof over her head, and the illusion of family.
One snowy evening, Mrs. Wang took her hand, leading her to the ancestral hall where Zhan Yan's portrait hung. The oil painting showed him at twenty, before the opium had hollowed his cheeks, his eyes bright with promise. "He watches over us," Mrs. Wang murmured. "He sees how you honor him by staying, by raising his daughter in the ways of his family."
Yuqin stared at the portrait, at the familiar curve of his lips, the strong line of his jaw. For a moment, she was eighteen again, standing under the ancient tree, promising to love him forever. Now, that promise felt less like a vow than a trap, but she couldn't bring herself to resent it. Resentment would mean acknowledging the theft of her freedom, the quiet destruction of her hopes. Better to believe, as Mrs. Wang said, that this was all part of a greater plan—her duty, her penance, her path to reunion with Zhan Yan in the next life.
Lan, now walking steadily, began to mimic her mother's rituals, kneeling clumsily before the shrine, blowing at the incense smoke with chubby fingers. Yuqin would laugh softly, correcting her posture, but a part of her grieved—would her daughter grow up never knowing the taste of her grandparents' home, the feel of wild wind on her face beyond the compound walls?
Yet she pushed the thought aside. What did freedom mean, really, when the alternative was loneliness, judgment, uncertainty? Here, she had a role, a place, a purpose—even if that purpose was written by others. She was no longer Yuqin, the young woman who had dreamed of a garden and a future; she was Mrs. Wang's virtuous widow, Lan's mother, a vessel for duty and devotion.
Spring came, but the magnolia trees in the compound did not bloom as they had in her cottage. Their flowers were paler, the scent less sweet, hemmed in by high walls. Yuqin hardly noticed. She knelt before the shrine each morning, reciting the Heart Sutra, her voice steady, her mind empty of all but the rhythm of the words.
Mrs. Wang nodded approvingly, placing a plate of steamed buns beside the incense burner. "Good girl," she said, as if praising a well-trained servant. "The Buddha smiles on you."
And Yuqin smiled back, a smile that didn't reach her eyes, a smile she had learned to wear like a mask. Inside, a small fire still smoldered—a memory of her mother's scream on the mountain path, the feel of the donkey cart's rough wood under her palms, the taste of freedom she had almost touched. But she smothered it with incense, with prayer, with the gentle lies that made captivity bearable.
For in this world, she had learned, the kindest chains were those wrapped in silk—chains that pretended to be protection, duty, love. And so she stayed, humming a lullaby to Lan, watching the seasons turn through the compound's lattice windows, her heart a silent prisoner, waiting for a freedom she no longer had the courage to name.
The Buddha, ever-smiling, saw it all. But he did not speak.
Chapter 6
The second spring after Zhan Yan's death dawned with an uneasy calm, as if the earth itself held its breath in anticipation of storm. Yuqin had settled into a rote existence within the Wang compound—morning prayers at the shrine, tending to Lan's needs, and embroidering altar cloths for Mrs. Wang—but the air carried a tension she couldn't ignore. Villagers spoke in whispers of "government men" marching through neighboring towns, conscripting able-bodied men into something called the "Nationalist Army."
It came on a muggy afternoon when the wheat was still green. A truck rattled into the village square, its bed crowded with soldiers in tattered uniforms. Yuqin stood at the compound gate, Lan perched on her hip, watching as every man over fifteen was herded into the square like cattle. Old Mr. Li, who limped from a childhood fall, was shoved aside; young Guo, whose arms bulged from years of hauling stone, was grabbed by the collar.
"Show your hands!" a sergeant barked, brandishing a whip. One by one, men held out their palms—calloused, cracked, proof of labor. Those with thick, leathery palms were shoved onto the truck; those with soft hands or trembling limbs were left staggering in the dust.
Yuqin saw her brother-in-law, Dechun, hesitate at the edge of the crowd. Zhan Yan's older brother was no stranger to hard work, his fingers rough from repairing fishing nets, but he had a chronic cough that left him gasping at dawn. Mrs. Wang clutched Yuqin's arm, her nails digging in as Dechun stepped forward, shoulders squared.
"Wait!" she cried, but it was too late. The sergeant grabbed Dechun's hand, inspected the calluses, and nodded to his men. "Another one for the labor corps," he sneered, ignoring Dechun's protests as he was dragged away.
Yuqin felt Lan flinch at the shouting, burying her face in the crook of her neck. The truck roared to life, spewing black smoke over the horrified villagers. By evening, the square was empty, the air thick with grief—mothers wept, wives stared at empty doorways, and children wandered aimlessly, calling for fathers who might never return.
The Japanese soldiers arrived three weeks later, on a moonless night when the first cicadas began their mournful song. Yuqin had just put Lan to bed when the dogs started barking—sharp, terrified yelps that cut through the compound's walls. She heard shouting in a language she didn't understand, the crash of breaking pottery, and then, the scream.
It came from Dechun's quarters, where his wife, Meiling, was due to give birth any day. Yuqin ran barefoot down the corridor, candle in hand, just as three soldiers kicked in the door. Meiling lay on the cot, her face pale, hands clutching her swollen belly, as one soldier laughed, pointing a bayonet at her trembling form.
"Get out!" Yuqin shouted, surprising even herself. She stepped forward, holding the candle higher, but a soldier shoved her roughly to the ground. Lan's cry echoed from the nursery, but Yuqin couldn't look away from Meiling, whose eyes had gone wide with terror, tears streaming down her face.
The soldiers ransacked the room, overturning chests, stealing Meiling's jade hairpin—her only dowry—before leaving with mocking jeers. Meiling didn't stop screaming. She clawed at her own face, babbling incoherently, as contractions wracked her body. Yuqin scrambled to her side, trying to soothe her, but Meiling pushed her away, screaming, "They're coming back! They'll take the baby!"
The labor was brutal and unnatural. By dawn, Meiling had birthed a stillborn son, a tiny blue bundle that never drew breath. She cradled him in her arms, rocking back and forth, whispering, "Shh, my love, shh," even as the blood pooled beneath her. Yuqin tried to take the baby, to clean Meiling up, but the older woman hissed like a cornered animal, refusing to let go.
Mrs. Wang arrived later, took one look at the scene, and turned away, muttering, "This is what happens when women lose their minds." Yuqin stayed, wiping Meiling's brow, feeding her sips of rice water, but it was useless. The light had gone out of Meiling's eyes; she lingered for three days, then slipped away in silence, still clutching the empty swaddles.
The funeral was a hurried affair, attended only by the women of the compound. Mr. Wang scowled at the empty spot beside Dechun at the dinner table, now returned from the labor corps but hollow-eyed and coughing worse than before. "A man needs a wife," he declared at supper, banging his chopsticks on the bowl. "Dechun, we'll find you a new bride by autumn."
Yuqin nearly dropped her spoon. A new bride—so soon after Meiling's death? But Mrs. Wang nodded approvingly, dabbing Lan's chin with a napkin. "And the child," she said, glancing at Meiling's three-year-old son, Ming, who sat listless in the corner, "he cannot be raised by a stranger. Yuqin, you have a mother's heart. Take him as your own."
Yuqin froze, her gaze falling on Ming. The boy had hardly spoken since his mother's death, his large eyes shadowed with grief, his small hands twisting the edge of his shirt. She thought of Zhan Yan, of the garden they'd planted, of the daughter they shared. Could she love another child as her own?
"You see how he clings to you?" Mrs. Wang pressed, placing a hand on Yuqin's shoulder. "Meiling's spirit will rest easier knowing Ming is cared for by family. And Lan needs a brother—children should grow up with siblings, not alone in this chaotic world."
Dechun said nothing, staring into his bowl as if it held the answers. Yuqin knew the truth: the Wangs saw Ming as a burden, a reminder of Meiling's madness and the son they'd lost. But to her, he was a broken little soul, a mirror of her own grief. She remembered the night Zhan Yan died, the coldness of his hand, the way her world had shattered. Ming had no one—just as she'd had no one after Zhan Yan's death, except for the Wangs' gilded cage.
"Alright," she said softly, rising from the table. She crossed to Ming, knelt before him, and held out her hand. "Come, Ming. Let's see if the kittens in the barn have woken up."
The boy didn't smile, but he placed his tiny hand in hers, letting her lead him away. Behind her, she heard Mrs. Wang sigh in relief, and Mr. Wang grunt, "Good girl—this is how families survive."
Taking Ming into her care was like tending a wilted seedling. At first, he flinched at any sudden movement, waking from nightmares screaming for "Niang." Yuqin began each night by sitting beside his cot, humming the same lullaby she sang to Lan, until his tense shoulders relaxed. She taught him to feed the chickens, letting him scatter grain from his palm, and showed him where Zhan Yan had carved Lan's name into the doorframe, explaining, "Your uncle loved children—he would have wanted you to be strong."
Slowly, color returned to Ming's cheeks. He started calling her "Ayi" (Aunt), then, one rainy afternoon, whispered "Mama" as she bandaged a scrape on his knee. Yuqin froze, her heart pounding. It was the first time anyone had called her that since Lan's birth—a title she hadn't dared claim for him, fearing it would dishonor Meiling's memory. But Ming looked up at her, trusting, hopeful, and she knew it was a gift, not a betrayal.
"Yes, my love," she said, kissing his forehead. "Mama is here."
Lan, now two, took to her "gege" (big brother) with toddler enthusiasm, sharing her toys and demanding he play "horse" with her. Ming, at first awkward, soon began carrying her on his shoulders, laughing for the first time since the soldiers came. Yuqin watched them from the kitchen window, a bittersweet smile on her lips—two motherless children, healing each other in ways she never could alone.
Dechun's new wife, a quiet girl named Xiu from the next village, arrived in autumn. She was young, barely sixteen, and terrified of her new role as stepmother to a child who wasn't hers. Yuqin took her under her wing, showing her how to prepare Ming's favorite mung bean soup, how to braid Lan's stubborn curls. "Don't force him to call you Niang," she advised gently. "Let him come to you in time."
Xiu nodded, grateful for the guidance. In her, Yuqin saw a reflection of her own younger self—unsure, vulnerable, thrown into a world of expectations. They formed a quiet alliance, sharing the chores, watching over the children together, while Dechun retreated further into his cough-racked silence, a shadow of the man who had once teased Zhan Yan about his "silly romantic notions."
Life in the compound became a delicate balance between grief and gratitude. Yuqin still knelt before the shrine each morning, but now Ming knelt beside her, mimicking her prayers with solemn focus. She no longer believed the incense could heal her wounds, but she found comfort in the routine—the act of lighting a candle, bowing her head, asking for strength to raise two children in a world gone mad.
The war dragged on. News trickled in of battles lost, villages burned, but the Wang compound remained a fragile oasis, protected by its relative insignificance and the fact that Mr. Wang paid the occupiers' "tribute" promptly—silk, rice, even the last of Zhan Yan's savings. "Better to bend than break," he would say, stroking his beard, though Yuqin noticed how his hands shook when the soldiers came.
One evening, as she mended Ming's coat by lamplight, Xiu hesitated at the door. "Sister," she said, using the respectful term, "do you ever think of... leaving? Going somewhere far, where the fighting can't find us?"
Yuqin paused, her needle hovering over the fabric. Leave—could she? The thought had not dared to take root since that mountain path ambush. But now, with two children depending on her, the idea felt both impossible and irresistible. "And go where?" she asked softly. "My parents' village may have been burned; the roads are infested with bandits. Here, at least, we have roofs over our heads, food on the table."
Xiu nodded, but her eyes lingered on the children asleep in the corner. "I just... I don't want Ming and Lan to grow up thinking fear is normal."
Yuqin didn't reply. She knew fear was already their constant companion—the way Ming flinched at the sound of a car engine, the way Lan cried whenever a soldier's shadow passed the gate. But she also knew resilience: the way Ming had started collecting fallen chrysanthemums to "make Mama happy," the way Lan insisted on kissing both her and Ming goodnight, as if memorizing their safety.
As winter approached, Yuqin made a silent vow: these children would not be defined by loss. She taught Ming to read using Zhan Yan's old textbooks, tracing characters in the dirt with a stick, and told Lan stories of her father as a kind, strong man who loved to laugh—omitting the shadows of opium and death. For Ming, she created a scrapbook of Meiling's memory, stitching a small portrait of the woman from her fading recollection, so he would never forget the mother who had loved him first.
One crisp morning, as they planted garlic in the garden—Ming carefully spacing the cloves, Lan "helping" by burying stones—Yuqin felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Mrs. Wang, looking uncharacteristically weary, her hair streaked with more gray.
"You've done well with them," she said, nodding at the children. "Zhan Yan would be proud."
Yuqin paused, wiping dirt from Ming's cheek. "I do it for them, not for pride," she said, more firmly than she intended. Mrs. Wang stiffened, but Yuqin continued, "They deserve a childhood, Mother. Even in times like these."
For a moment, Mrs. Wang looked as if she might snap back, but instead, she sighed. "Yes, they do." She turned to leave, then added over her shoulder, "You're stronger than I thought, Yuqin. Stronger than Zhan Yan ever was."
It was the closest thing to an apology she would ever receive. Yuqin watched her go, then turned back to the garden, where Ming was showing Lan how to water the newly planted cloves. The sun broke through the clouds, casting long shadows on the earth—shadows that stretched toward the future, uncertain but unbroken.
In the end, it was not the shrine or the prayers that sustained her, but the small, stubborn acts of love: a scraped knee kissed better, a nightmare soothed with a story, a garden nurtured even as bombs fell distant. Yuqin had lost her husband, her freedom, her illusions of safety, but in their place, she had gained something unbreakable—a purpose that transcended grief, a motherhood that embraced not just blood, but the raw, fierce love that binds the broken