The next morning came with golden light, warm and crisp, slipping through the window before the rooster crowed. Yi Rong stirred under the thin quilt eyes half open. Outside, the soft clatter of footsteps and a rustle of reeds hinted that the day had begun before she rose.
The scent of steamed corn and something gently charred greeted her when she stepped into the main room.
Over the clay stove, a figure hunched,broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the curve of a scar visible just below the neck. Yi Rong stood for a moment, watching in silence.
Her father wasn't always home.
Most weeks, he was off helping with repair work sometimes in the next village, sometimes beyond the pass. Stone walls, waterwheels, broken gates anything he could fix with calloused hands and quiet eyes. But when he did return, the house felt heavier in the best way. Grounded. Whole.
"Woke late," he said without turning, his voice as gruff as ever.
"There was no sunlight ,that's hardly my fault," Yi Rong replied, slipping into the stool near the wall.
He grunted but the corners of his mouth twitched.
On the table were boiled sweet potatoes, pickled radish, and yesterday's leftover rice. Nothing fancy but warm she ate it heartily.
When her mother came in shaking out a bundle of washed rush leaves, Yi Rong stood to help her,together they laid them out near the stove, careful not to scorch the tips. The season was right for weaving the fibers soaked well in cold water and softened under fire.
Yi Rong fetched the reed bundle she'd gathered with Lianhua yesterday, her fingers still remembering the rhythm.
Her mother looked them over with a sharp eye, then gave a curt nod,"Decent."
Which meant in her own way: Good work.
While her mother wove, Yi Rong peeled bark from another bundle to dry for tea. Her father worked on the broken stool leg, testing the joints with light taps. For a while, no one spoke but there was some kind of peace and filled with the sounds of life rather than absence.
Later, Yi Rong took her basket and stepped outside, pretending to inspect the mint patch near the side fence.
Truthfully, she was waiting.
A few minutes passed before a familiar voice called from beyond the gate, "I brought dried pears! Don't ask where I got them!"
Yi Rong turned to see Lianhua balancing a cloth bundle, her braid lopsided and her sandals damp with dew.
"Were they stolen?" Yi Rong asked flatly.
Lianhua gave a mock gasp, "I'm not that desperate. My uncle's friend brought them from the market road. Slightly bruised but still sweet."
They sat under the jujube tree, sharing pears and stories. Yi Rong listened more than she spoke. Lianhua, in contrast spoke as if afraid silence might swallow her.
"I tried to weave a basket yesterday," she said, mouth full "Ended up with something that looked like a bird's nest. My mother said it was creative."
"That's generous of her."
"She burned it,"Lianhua said with sad smile.
Yi Rong laughed quiet and short but genuine.
Seeing her laughing like that Lianhua act like she was hurt from that.
Lianhua tilted her head, "Your father's back?"
Yi Rong nodded.
"He doesn't talk much."
"No. But he fixes things."
They both looked toward the house, where hammer taps drifted through the open window. Her father was reshaping the cracked doorframe. One of the hinges had rotted through.
"Is that where you learned to be good with your hands?" Lianhua asked.
Yi Rong thought for a moment. "Maybe, i think i learned by watching."
"Then I'll start watching you more," Lianhua said with a grin,"Maybe I'll stop cutting myself on bamboo."
"Don't count on it."
That afternoon, Yi Rong helped her mother sell two small woven trays at the edge of the market road. A passing traveler bought one after smelling the herbs Yi Rong had tucked in lavender and mint. The coin wasn't much but enough to buy two eggs and a handful of red dates.
They didn't speak about the money but the coin sat proudly in the corner jar, clinking softly against the other few they had. Her mother added a strip of cloth around the jar's neck that evening as if dressing it made the jar fuller.
Her father said nothing when she returned, only handed her a sharpened chisel to replace the old one that had dulled. A quiet approval.
By sunset, clouds gathered again on the horizon, casting the mountains in deep orange shadows. The rooftops shimmered with the last gold of day and the village dogs had begun their usual evening bark.
As Yi Rong washed her hands in the basin, she noticed the tiny cut on her finger from the rush leaves. Nothing serious but she wrap it out of habit anyway.
Her mother looked up from the basket she was finishing.
"Don't fuss over small wounds," she said.
Yi Rong smiled to herself,"I know."
But it wasn't about the wound.
It was about keeping small things from becoming bigger. Holding together what little they had. Weaving strength into corners no one noticed the way her father did with beams and joints. The way her mother did with rushes and rope.
And maybe in her own way the way she did with herbs, with words, with silence.
That night, Yi Rong lay on her back staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind brush against the roof's patched holes.
She didn't know where her journey would lead. The memories of her past life were quiet now, folded away like old fabric. She had no idea of the bloodline she carried or the truth buried deeper than the mountains.
But she knew this: tomorrow, she would wake again. Fetch reeds. Mix herbs. Laugh with a friend. Share soup. Learn.
And in this village, among worn tools and simple days, she would keep weaving.
Piece by piece.