The rainy season crept in softly, not with thunder, but with a quiet drizzle that turned paths to clay and made bamboo leaves drip like silver threads.
Yi Rong woke to the scent of damp earth and wet ashes. Her mother was already up, stirring rice congee over the fire. Her father stood near the doorway tying his worn cloak. He had another job near the riverbanks rebuilding a broken dam before the water rose too high.
"Don't forget the slope's slick," her mother said without looking up.
He didn't answer only nodded once and left. Rain dripped from the thatch above him as he disappeared down the path.
Yi Rong finished her breakfast in silence, listening to the fire crackle. She liked the quiet of rainy days. The kind that made you sit still and think.
By mid-morning, the rain lightened. Her mother handed her a bundle of strips for drying and gather the reed near the river bend,"You'll have to be careful. Too close to the river and the ground won't hold."
Yi Rong wrapped herself in her old cloak too short for her growing frame and slipped out with her woven basket. The village was hazy with mist, the mountains nearly invisible behind the veil. But there was beauty in the stillness.
She passed the Liu family's house, where chickens huddled under raised carts, and where someone had tied a broken jug with twine to keep it from rolling off the steps. Every house held its own small battle against weather and time.
Near the bend, where wild mint thrived in muddy hollows, Yi Rong crouched low, careful not to dirty the drying strips. Her fingers found the soft leaves easily, despite the mud,she worked quietly, lost in thought, until a voice called from above the slope.
"I thought I'd find you here."
Yi Rong looked up. Lianhua, holding a crooked umbrella, her sandals caked in red mud, stood grinning like she hadn't just slipped twice climbing down.
"I brought something!" she added, waving a cloth-wrapped bundle "It's not food, I promise."
"What is it, then?"
"A gift or something like it."
She plopped beside Yi Rong and unwrapped the bundle revealing a small wooden charm. Clumsily carved, uneven in shape, with two loops for threading string through.
"It's ugly," Lianhua admitted "But I made it."
Yi Rong turned it over in her palm. The charm wasn't much just a crooked turtle with a missing leg but it was warm from Lianhua's pocket and smelled faintly of pine sap.
"I've never gotten a charm before," Yi Rong said.
"You have one now. Protection against… well, slipping into rivers and breaking your face."
"Very specific."
"I'm thorough."
Yi Rong smiled, tucking it into her pouch.
Together they gathered the rest of the herbs and watched the rain return, soft as mist.
Later, they sat in the half-shed near Yi Rong's home, sharing roasted chestnuts and watching her mother sort rush leaves by length and color. Her hands moved fast, but her eyes kept drifting toward the window, watching the weather.
"Will the floods come?" Lianhua asked, chewing noisily.
"Not if the gate hold it,"her mother answered.
Yi Rong didn't miss the flicker of worry in her mother's eyes. Father was out there,she turned her face toward the door, half-expecting to see his silhouette return, soaked but whole.
He didn't return that night.
But they kept the porridge warm on the stove and the lamp burning longer than usual. Lianhua had gone home hours ago, leaving behind muddy footprints and the echo of laughter in the rafters. Her charm still sat in Yi Rong's hand, warm despite the cold.
Mother moved slowly that evening. She didn't speak much. Instead, she lit the incense sticks meant for safety and set them by the door.
When Yi Rong asked if she should go look, she only shook her head, "He'll come back when the work's done. That river won't drag him away so easy."
But her eyes didn't leave the door.
Yi Rong sat beside her and for a long time neither said anything.
Outside, the drizzle had become steady rain again.
Mother brought out an old cloth pouch and began patching a worn seam,"When you're done drying those mint leaves, I'll teach you how to boil them without turning them bitter."
Yi Rong glanced over,"I thought I was improving."
"You're improving at hiding how bad it is."
That earned a grin.
She finished sorting the leaves and placed the herbs in neat bundles near the stove. Then, not wanting to break the calm, she quietly asked, "When did you start weaving baskets?"
"When I was nine. Your grandmother taught me. It was either learn or miss winter bread."
"And you liked it?"
"No but it kept me busy and it kept us warm. That was enough."
Yi Rong nodded she didn't know why but the answer felt familiar. Like something she might have said once in another life.
When mother finally rose to lay out the sleeping mats, Yi Rong stepped outside for a moment. The rain had stopped. The air smelled clean. She looked up at the cloudy sky, then down the muddy path.
A figure was approaching, steady but slow.
Father..
He looked soaked through a limp in his step, but when he saw her standing there, he raised a hand.
Mother came to the door then just in time to see him. She didn't cry out didn't run. She only let out a long breath then turned back inside.
That night, Yi Rong couldn't sleep.
She lay awake, listening to the faint creaks of the roof, the soft murmur of her parents speaking in low voices.
And though the house was quiet, and the rain had passed, something inside her stirred. A gentle reminder of who she was and who she had once been.
But there was no need to rush. No need to name it aloud.
For now, she was Yi Rong. Daughter of a weaver and a builder. A girl with muddy feet and a crooked charm in her pocket.
And she was home.