Two Weeks Later
Two weeks had passed.
In that time, Jia Lan had quietly checked in fourteen times, each day adding something small but precious to her growing collection of blessings. Some mornings it was only a handful of neat coins, their faint metallic clink comforting as she slipped them into a lacquered box. Other days, she found herself unwrapping sweets layered in delicate foil, their wrappers shimmering like tiny treasures, the taste melting on her tongue with unexpected luxury. A silk ribbon, soft as water; a handkerchief embroidered with blossoms so fine they seemed alive; trinkets that to others might have seemed ordinary, yet together carried a weight of care.
She never flaunted these things. They rested quietly in her treasure box, stacked and folded with patient hands, until the sum of them all coins, ribbons, tokens of refinement easily exceeded a thousand yuan in value. But what moved her more was not the amount, but the sense of being watched over by fortune itself.
Perhaps this is what contentment feels like, she thought one morning as she tied her braid with the new ribbon, its pale blue silk glowing in the sunlight. Not grandeur. Not splendor. Just small gifts that make life soft around the edges.
And yet, the changes in her were anything but small.
Her skin now carried a glow that seemed painted by the morning sun, a watercolor softness that even powder or rouge could not imitate. Her posture, once casual and careless, had become naturally elegant the kind of grace that was not rehearsed, but born of comfort in her own skin. Even the way she lifted her cup of tea or turned her head when someone spoke carried a quiet poise.
The family noticed first, of course. Lin Shunhua would pause while fastening her earrings in the mirror, watching her daughter in silence before saying with a faint smile, "Lanlan, you're looking more and more like your grandmother every day." Jia Chenghai would sometimes find his gaze lingering, pride hidden behind the sternness of a father's eyes. Even Ruiyu and the sisters-in-law, who loved teasing her, began to do so with an affectionate undertone, as though they knew she had already stepped into a different kind of presence.
It was a summer evening when Jia Lan came home early, the sky outside painted in warm apricot and muted lilac, as though the heavens themselves had brushed it with a gentle hand. A few swallows cut across the horizon in swift arcs, their wings flashing in the fading light.
A playful breeze drifted through the courtyard, carrying the scent of white camellias blooming by the stone wall. The delicate bells that hung along the garden corridor chimed faintly, stirred by the wind, their sound clear yet soft, like laughter in a dream.
Jia Lan, slipping off her sandals as soon as she reached the familiar carved stone path. The stones, still holding the day's warmth, pressed against her bare feet. Her pale-blue home dress fluttered around her ankles, light as mist, making her look as if she had stepped out of a scroll painting. Her fishtail braid swayed gently down her back, strands of dark hair escaping at the edges and catching the amber light.
She paused at the courtyard's edge, gazing at the sky. The sun had already dipped low, half-hidden beyond the roofline, its glow softening into twilight. The air tastes sweet tonight, she thought, closing her eyes briefly, letting the hush of the hour sink into her bones.
From the veranda came her mother's voice, clear and graceful.
"Lan Lan," Lin Shunhua called, standing by the open doorway with a folded silk fan resting against her palm. Her jade earrings swayed faintly as she leaned forward. "It's getting cooler. Come in, baobei. Your father's waiting."
Jia Lan turned with a smile, brushing back the loose strands of hair at her temple. "I just wanted to watch the sunset for a moment, Mother. The air feels different tonight… softer."
Lin Shunhua's lips curved in that way only mothers could manage, half amusement, half tenderness. "You and your feelings for the air. Come in before the mosquitoes discover how sweet you are."
Inside, the living room glowed in mellow lamplight. Polished camphorwood cabinets caught the shimmer of the evening, and the faint fragrance of sandalwood lingered in the corners.
Jia Chenghai sat upright in his chair, the evening paper folded neatly on the low table beside him. His reading glasses perched low on his nose, but when he looked up at his daughter, his expression softened into a warmth rarely seen outside these walls.
"You've been glowing lately, you know that?" he said, setting his glasses aside. His voice carried both pride and a hint of wonder. "Two weeks at the Youth Arts Bureau, and it's as if the Bureau's energy has followed you home."
Jia Lan tilted her head playfully, slipping onto the sofa opposite him. "Maybe. Or maybe I've just decided to enjoy this life."
Her words hovered in the air, light yet layered, carrying more weight than she let on. Neither of her parents knew about her transmigration but in their own way, they sensed a subtle shift, as though their daughter had returned with a soul that had wandered far.
Lin Shunhua crossed the room, her silk dress rustling faintly as she sat beside her daughter. She reached out, smoothing the sash of Jia Lan's dress, fussing the way mothers often did even when everything was already perfect.
"Your grandmother said your eyes are different now," she murmured. "Like you've lived many lives."
Jia Lan blinked, her lips curving faintly. "Well, I did dream of one. Where teacups were plastic, not porcelain. And the city had smoke but no scent."
Both parents exchanged a look half confusion, half indulgence.
Her father chuckled first, a deep rumble in his chest. "Then we're glad you're in this world instead. Plastic teacups sound tragic."
Lin Shunhua added softly, "And scentless smoke? Such a life cannot be healthy." She touched Jia Lan's hand, squeezing lightly. "No wonder you seem grateful for the little things here."
Her words hovered in the air, light yet layered, carrying more weight than she let on. Neither of her parents knew about her transmigration but in their own way, they sensed a subtle shift, as though their daughter had returned with a soul that had wandered far.
And that was where the guilt pressed in.
This life… this family… none of it was originally mine. Somewhere deep inside, Jia Lan felt the weight of the real Jia Lan the girl whose body she now occupied. That girl had grown up under these very eaves, had been cherished by these parents, had laughed and quarreled with these siblings. And me? I've stepped into her place, taken her smiles, her warmth, her future.
She lowered her gaze briefly, fingers brushing the hem of her dress, steadying herself. If I'm going to borrow her life, then I can't waste it. I have to live it well better than she did. I owe her that much.
When she lifted her eyes again, there was only quiet brightness in them, the kind that made her father's expression soften and her mother's hand squeeze hers more tightly, as if they too felt the subtle promise she carried.
Yes, she thought, gazing at the lilac-streaked sky through the window. I am grateful. Perhaps this is the life worth protecting, after all.
After a leisurely dinner lotus roots 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.
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:
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."
"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.