Two weeks had passed.
In that time, Jia Lan had quietly checked in fourteen times. Some days, she received a handful of coins. Other days, sweets wrapped in delicate foil, a silk ribbon, a charmingly embroidered handkerchief. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. But her treasure box of "ordinary blessings" now exceeded a thousand yuan in value—not that she flaunted it.
Her skin glowed like a watercolor under sunlight, her posture was graceful enough to draw stares, and her presence had become almost ethereal. Subtle changes stacked together until the once-bored girl now seemed like a daughter from a painting, stepped into reality.
Of course, her family noticed.
And the city? The city couldn't help but notice too.
---
It was a summer evening when she came home early, the sky outside painted in warm apricot and muted lilac. A gentle breeze played with the curtains, stirring the delicate bells that hung by the garden corridor.
Jia Lan stepped out of the family car and entered the courtyard barefoot, her pale blue home dress fluttering as if she'd stepped right out of a dream. A soft fragrance of white camellias floated in the air, and the carved stone path still held the warmth of sunlight.
"Lan Lan," her mother, Lin Shunhua, called from inside, standing by the open doorway with a silk fan in her hand. "It's getting cooler. Come in, baobei. Your father's waiting."
She smiled, brushing her hair back. "I just wanted to watch the sunset for a moment. The air feels sweet tonight."
Inside, her father, Jia Chenghai, looked up from the newspaper, placing his reading glasses aside.
"You've been glowing lately, you know that?" he said warmly. "Two weeks at the Youth Arts Bureau, and it's as if the Bureau's energy has followed you home."
"Maybe," Jia Lan replied with a smile. "Or maybe I've just decided to enjoy this life."
Her words hung lightly in the air, whimsical and vague. Neither of her parents knew about her transmigration—but they sensed, in their own way, that something deeper had changed in her.
Lin Shunhua sat beside her daughter and gently adjusted her silk sash. "Your grandmother said your eyes are different now. Like you've lived many lives."
"Well, I did dream of one," Jia Lan murmured. "Where teacups were plastic, not porcelain. And the city had smoke but no scent."
Her father chuckled. "Then we're glad you're in this world instead."
---
After a leisurely dinner—lotus root soup, seasonal greens, soft tofu with minced garlic—Jia Lan retired to her room, her silk sleeves trailing as she walked past the folding screen painted with cranes and pine trees.
There, she leaned against the open window, gazing at the starlit courtyard below.
Her drawers now held more than candies and ribbons. They held quiet power. Practical, beautiful, accumulated wealth from check-ins. More than that, they held peace. Comfort. Routine. Things she had never known in her past life.
And yet…
She was starting to get a little bored.
Everything in her world was perfect. Too perfect.
The Youth Arts Bureau adored her. Her colleagues respected her. Her family loved her unconditionally. Every day flowed like a watercolor painting—graceful, fragrant, slow.
She needed a little chaos.
---
Her thoughts drifted to them—the so-called "original main leads."
She had heard through a passing comment at the Bureau that a few rural transfers were arriving in the city's factory units. Jia Lan didn't need a newspaper to know who they were.
In the original plot, the rural girl and boy were the admired ones. Hardworking. Radiant in the village. They gained admiration, rose step by step, and eventually stood atop their world after many obstacles.
But this time?
She wouldn't help them.
No casual introductions to helpful connections. No sisterly kindness. No insightful tips about city survival.
They'd arrive, proud and eager.
And the city would greet them with cold walls, uncaring queues, and shoes that never fit quite right.
She smiled lazily, resting her chin on her palm.
"If they thought city life would welcome them just because they worked hard, they haven't seen real gatekeeping."
---
That night, as the cicadas buzzed softly and the lanterns flickered in the garden, Jia Lan sat across from her father and mother in the bamboo courtyard.
They chatted about small things—summer events, a cousin's engagement, the upcoming mid-year arts showcase. Everything felt rich and relaxed, like a well-aged tea.
"Do you miss the excitement?" Lin Shunhua asked her gently.
"I think…" Jia Lan twirled her teacup slowly, her lips curling into a faint smile, "I'm just waiting for the next act of the play to begin."
"What kind of play?" Jia Chenghai asked, amused.
"The kind where the actors have no script," she replied, sipping her tea. "And someone like me watches from the balcony."
Her parents exchanged a look, half-worried, half-entertained.
"Lan Lan, you've always had a dramatic streak," her father mused.
She gave a soft laugh. "I suppose I'm just ready for something less… predictable."
The bell on the outer gate chimed lightly in the breeze. Fireflies blinked near the lantern light. Lin Shunhua leaned back, fanning herself. "Your bureau is hosting a garden party soon, right?"
Jia Lan nodded. "Next week. They've asked me to help with the music selection."
Her father smiled proudly. "Already trusted with event planning, hm?"
"I think they just like my taste," Jia Lan said modestly.
"But taste is a form of power," her mother added.
"Then I'll wield it gently," she whispered.
---
Before sleep, she sat at her desk and jotted a note in her diary. The handwriting was delicate, yet firm:
> "This time, I won't intervene. Let the river flow on its own. If they drift to shore, so be it. If they sink—well, the city is vast, and not every story needs a rescue."
She tucked the diary away, turned off the lamp, and laid her head on her pillow.
In another part of the city, two tired villagers were arriving with hopeful eyes and calloused hands.
And she? She was ready.
Let the next act begin.