Late winter didn't announce itself with snow.
It came with coughs.
It started in the western row of houses—children first, then the elderly. Dry throats, fever at night, strength gone by morning. Nothing dramatic. Just enough sickness to tip families already stretched thin.
Medicine cost silver.
Most people chose endurance instead.
Lin Yan heard about it on the third day.
He didn't rush out with food or herbs. Not yet.
Illness spread along contact lines. Panic spread faster.
Instead, he adjusted quietly.
He boiled water longer.
Kept the coop cleaner than usual.
Stopped shared bowls, even during group meals.
Then he went to Shen Qinghe's house.
Her father was sitting by the stove, expression grim.
"Two houses down are sick," he said. "If it reaches the children…"
Lin Yan nodded. "I have soybeans. Fermented. Good for strength."
He didn't say medicine.
Words mattered.
That night, thick soybean porridge simmered in three households. Lin Yan didn't deliver it himself—others did. Hands that had hauled wood now carried bowls.
The network held.
Barely.
Two days later, the illness reached Lin Yan's door.
His mother developed a fever just after dusk.
Lin Yan stayed calm.
He adjusted the fire. Gave warm water. Soybean mash in small portions. No cold air.
The fever broke by morning.
Not a miracle.
Just care, applied early.
That same morning, Uncle Zhang made his move.
A notice was posted at the village hall.
Temporary Labor Requisition — County Order
Able-bodied villagers were to assist with snow-clearing on the main road. Three days. No pay. Food not guaranteed.
Exemptions existed.
Names were listed.
Lin Yan's wasn't.
Neither were several others who'd been part of the winter labor groups.
It was legal.
It was also cruel.
Road labor in late winter meant exhaustion—and exposure to sickness.
Uncle Zhang didn't attend the posting.
He didn't need to.
By afternoon, the village buzzed with unease.
Lin Yan read the notice once.
Then he folded it carefully and took it home.
That night, he didn't gather people.
He gathered information.
Who was sick.
Who had already worked extra.
Who couldn't afford three days without tending home.
By morning, he had a plan.
He went to Uncle Zhang.
Not alone.
Three men stood behind him—not confrontational, just present.
"We'll send workers," Lin Yan said calmly. "Rotated. Half-days. We'll cover food."
Uncle Zhang frowned. "That's not how orders work."
Lin Yan nodded. "But illness spreads faster when men collapse on the road."
A pause.
"You're overstepping."
"Maybe," Lin Yan replied. "But if people fall sick, the county loses labor anyway."
Uncle Zhang studied him for a long moment.
Then waved his hand. "Submit names by evening."
It wasn't approval.
It was concession.
That afternoon, Lin Yan adjusted the labor lists himself.
No one worked more than a half-day.
Sick households stayed home.
Food was simple but hot.
The road got cleared.
No one collapsed.
Uncle Zhang lost face quietly.
That night, Lin Yan finally allowed himself to plan beyond survival.
He sat by the lamp with a stick of charcoal and the packed earth floor.
He drew lines.
Plots.
Rotation cycles.
A small pond, maybe—if spring runoff allowed.
More soybeans. Fewer sweet potatoes early.
Chickens first. Pigs later.
He erased and redrew.
Spring wasn't about growth.
It was about control regained.
Shen Qinghe watched from the doorway.
"You're already there," she said softly.
"Where?"
"In spring."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "Winter's still here."
"Yes," she said. "But you're not waiting anymore."
Outside, the cold pressed on.
But beneath the frozen ground, the soil rested—fed, prepared, patient.
And so did Lin Yan.