The rain passed after three long days, leaving behind earth softened to mud and skies the color of faded ink. Yi Rong stood near the cabbage patch with her hands on her hips, watching droplets cling to green leaves.
The scent of wet soil and smoke drifted through the village. Chickens strutted cautiously across the yard, shaking off the damp.Far away someone was chopping firewood. It was as if the whole world had wrung itself out and now sat quietly, breathing again.
Their fortunes hadn't changed overnight. The thatched roof still leaked when the rain hit hard and their pantry still echoed more than it should but their clothes were warmer and their soups were richer her quiet medicine trades were growing steadier never flashy, never too frequent but enough to make a difference.
She ground herbs for Old Wen and helped her mother dry strips of wild radish over the stove. Her hands remembered more than they should but no one questioned it too much. If anything they were just grateful she worked hard and didn't cause trouble.
Yi Rong had gone to the riverside that morning to fetch more feverfew when she noticed a girl of her age standing knee-deep in water, tugging at tall green reeds that refused to come free.
"Stubborn roots," the girl muttered, giving the stalk another yank,"You'd think they were guarding treasure down there."
Yi Rong watched for a moment before approaching.
"You're pulling too high up," she said softly, "Try closer to the base."
The girl looked up surprised, "Oh. You sound like my mother."
"I've studied roots for a while," Yi Rong said with a shrug, "May I?"
She stepped into the water, rolled up her sleeves and showed her. With a practiced grip and a sharp twist, the reed came loose, clean and intact. The girl blinked.
"By the ancestors... that actually worked!"
Yi Rong gave a small smile, "It usually does."
They gathered in silence for a few minutes before the girl spoke again.
"I'm Lianhua," she offered slinging a bundle of reeds over her shoulder,"My mother weaves bamboo baskets i fetch reeds for her. I also make terrible mint tea but I keep trying."
Yi Rong smiled at that "Yi Rong. I make ointments that sometimes smell too strong."
Lianhua chuckled and said, "Better than tea that tastes like boiled weeds. Do you always talk like this? Like you know what you're doing?"
Yi Rong paused, then gave a light nod. "Only when I do."
That made Lianhua laugh harder. It felt odd good to speak without measuring each word. Yi Rong hadn't realized how much of her days were spent in caution in half-truths and veiled suggestions. Lianhua didn't press or pry. She simply offered her company and shared the bundle of reeds.
They walked home together, chatting about trivial things the size of the frogs by the riverbank, the neighbor's cat that kept stealing dried fish, the silly boy who tripped into the well last summer and became a local legend.
At the crossroads, Lianhua stopped.
"My house is that way," she pointed,"But if you want to come by sometime... my mother always makes too much soup."
Yi Rong hesitated. Then nodded, "I'll visit someday later."
That was how it began.
A friend.
She wasn't her patient nor someone needing help or hiding a question in their eyes. Just someone who saw her and smiled without expectation.
In the days that followed, they met often. Sometimes by the river, sometimes in the market when Lianhua ran errands in Lianhua's company, she could pretend, if only for a while, that she was simply a girl learning to live in her village.
Still, her work continued.
A neighbor's child broke out in strange red rashes. Yi Rong recognized the signs an allergic reaction to smoke oil used for lanterns. She suggested a tea of chrysanthemum and soaked cloth compresses. The child's skin calmed in a day.
Ruolan raised her eyebrows when the mother came by with a jar of millet as thanks.
"You've been helping more people lately," she said.
"Only when I can," Yi Rong said careful not to give too much away.
"Old Wen doesn't say much about your visits anymore either."
"He talks with his hands now," Yi Rong replied lightly, "Mostly in grumbles."
Ruolan chuckled and said no more. But the pride in her eyes flickered like the lantern flame.
Zeyu too had changed. He still grumbled about being the only boy in the family, still kicked the doorframe when he thought no one was watching but when Yi Rong reminded him to wear the herb pouch near the fields to keep away ticks, he didn't argue.
One evening, as they shared a bowl of rice and yam soup, Ruolan sighed.
"I heard from the market vendor," she said, stirring her spoon slowly, "They said someone from the southern village is asking about dried herbs thought you might know."
"I'll look into it soon," Yi Rong replied.
There was opportunity there if she could send the right herbs through discreet hands, the barter chain might lengthen.
But she'd tread carefully. Always carefully.
Later that week, Lianhua appeared with a cut on her palm from splitting a bamboo stalk. Yi Rong didn't ask questions. She cleaned the wound, applied ointment and bandaged it tightly.
"You always know what to do," Lianhua murmured, watching her.
"Not always," Yi Rong said softly,"Just enough."
When she walked home that night the sky had begun to clear. Rain droplets clung to the leaves like little mirrors. The mountain trail squelched underfoot but she didn't mind.
She was still poor. Her home still had holes in the roof but there was laughter now Friends. Trade. Warm soup. Whispers of trust.
Small changes.
Like the way a basket starts with a single reed.
And if she had her way, she would keep weaving her life quietly, wisely until no one remembered it had once been broken.