Autumn lingered in the village like an old friend reluctant to leave. The mornings were colder now, the earth slightly stiff beneath Yi Rong's shoes, dew freezing into delicate patterns on the wooden fence posts. The skies were brighter, clearer stripped of their summer haze but a certain stillness had settled, as though nature was holding its breath before the snow arrived.
Yi Rong noticed the changes more keenly than before. Perhaps it was because of the memories now anchored inside her, a life lived far away and long ago, or perhaps because in this second chance, she no longer took such things for granted. She had been too young to remember the last autumn with such clarity but now, with every crimson leaf and brittle breeze, she felt the world shifting.
Each morning, she rose before the sun, slipping into the garden with a basket slung across her back. Herbs needed to be gathered before the frost dulled their potency. She worked quickly, fingers nimble from practice, binding each stem with twine and setting them to dry in the shed Zeyu had helped patch up. Once indoors, she carefully cataloged them in her homemade journal, its pages slowly filling with sketches and notations. It was no sterile hospital chart but each stroke of her ink held the quiet certainty of someone who knew what they were doing.
Ruolan often watched her from the doorway, arms wrapped in her shawl, a gentle smile on her face,"You treat those leaves like treasures," she would say.
"They are," Yi Rong answered lightly but she meant it.
In her heart, she meant more than the herbs. It was this the soft flow of daily life, the steadiness of it, the trust she had earned that she treasured most.
The days passed like the steady dripping of a bamboo fountain subtle but always moving. Zeyu left early each morning, shouldering his axe and heading out to help neighbors prepare firewood or mend fences before the snow came. He was a man of few words but every night, he brought something back an armful of firewood, a bag of sweet potatoes, once even a few copper coins tucked into his coat pocket.
At the stove every evening, their small family would sit in the amber glow of firelight. Yi Rong mended clothes while Ruolan prepared soup and Zeyu whittled in silence, the soft scraping of wood under his blade like a lullaby.
But even in the safety of warmth and routine, Yi Rong felt the weight of questions pressing in.
One quiet afternoon, while Ruolan was folding laundry, Yi Rong approached and gently took her wrist.
"Let me check something, Mother," she said, her voice soft.
Ruolan blinked, curious but trusting, "Am I ill?"
"No," Yi Rong said quickly, "Just a routine reading. Like Old Wen used to do."
She pressed her fingers to the familiar pulse point, counting silently. Weak. Not in danger, but unbalanced in ways she recognized. A part of her modern mind ticked through possibilities cold womb, blood deficiency, years of hard work. In another life, Ruolan might have been easily helped by a few months of herbal tonics and balanced nutrition.
"Everything's fine," Yi Rong said finally, withdrawing her hand "But I'd like to start giving you a different soup, just for winter,some nourishing herbs. You won't taste the difference."
Ruolan raised an eyebrow, "You and your 'soups.' I hope they're more filling than bitter."
Yi Rong gave a small laugh and said "No promises."
That evening, she stayed up late, sitting by the dying firelight, poring through Old Wen's notebooks and cross-referencing them with what she remembered from her previous life. Some herbs weren't available here, but substitutes existed sometimes even better ones. She scribbled her findings into the margins of her own notes, determined to get the recipe just right.
As she worked, wind howled outside, rattling the shutters.
For a moment, Yi Rong's thoughts wandered beyond the quiet safety of the village. The dreams had returned flickers of fire, rushing footsteps and someone calling her name in desperation. Each time, she jolted awake, chest heaving, fingers curled tightly around the phoenix-shaped pendant hidden deep in her chest. She didn't know what the visions meant or why they felt so real, like memories instead of dreams. But something within her whispered that answers were drawing closer, creeping in like the morning mist. Still, there was time. Time to prepare, to grow stronger, to protect what mattered most. "Just wait," she whispered to herself without knowing what's that mean.
In the days that followed, Yi Rong set her intentions into motion, quietly and steadily, like seeds planted beneath the frost. She didn't speak of grand plans or changes just yet only watched and learned. She began by trading a few of her carefully prepared ointments to a traveling potter in exchange for leftover clay tiles. They were mismatched and slightly chipped but sturdy and the potter, impressed by her herbal knowledge, even threw in a few extras.
Curious about what it would take to expand their modest home, Yi Rong asked Zeyu questions while he chopped firewood, "How many logs to frame a small room? How deep do the posts go?" she asked casually, masking the seriousness behind her gaze. Zeyu, ever patient, answered each question with a chuckle and more detail than she'd hoped for.
When she walked through the village, she took her time to study how other houses were built. She watched neighbors reinforce thatched roofs, fix sagging beams, or mend cracked walls with mud and straw. In the evenings, she knelt by the fire and traced crude designs in the dirt with a stick measurements, angles, placements. Ideas were blooming like spring buds, quiet but determined.
Still, she kept it all to herself for now. There was no need to burden her parents with dreams not yet solid. Not until she had more resources more certainty. Not until she could say: "I can do this." Not until she was ready to build something real for them all.
Snow hadn't yet fallen but frost now laced the outer water jars. Chickens clucked restlessly in their coop and the dog had begun curling tighter into its bedding straw.
Yi Rong sat one morning beside the fire, holding a fresh cup of herbal tea for Ruolan. It smelled faintly sweet, with undertones of warming ginger and cinnamon.
"What's this one called?" Ruolan asked.
Yi Rong smiled, "Autumn Harmony."
Ruolan eyed her over the rim of the cup, a playful glint in her gaze,"You're up to something, aren't you? I can feel it."
Yi Rong only smiled, her expression calm but unreadable,"Maybe you'll find out soon enough."
Outside, wind rustled the bare branches, whispering of change.
And Yi Rong, with her memories and her herbs, sat steady in the quiet storm of seasons ready to shape the life she had chosen, one thread at a time.