On the seventh day of the twelfth lunar month in 1975, Liaocheng.
Snowflakes that had begun drifting down in the evening had already piled up to over an inch thick by late night.
Most of the windows in Building Three of the machinery factory’s residential compound were dark, except for Room 202 on the second floor, where a dim yellow light still shone.
Su Wanqing stood pressed against the wall, outside her own home.
She wore only a faded old cotton-padded jacket, its collar frayed and its sleeves too short, exposing wrists reddened from the cold.
Her cotton shoes were soaked through, making a “squelch” sound with every step—water her stepmother Liu Meilan had “accidentally” splashed onto her feet while washing vegetables that evening.
Warm laughter drifted from inside the house.
“Jianguo, try this wine—my younger brother brought it back from Heihe. Proper sorghum liquor!” Liu Meilan’s voice carried a deliberately softened intimacy.
“Mm, not bad,” her father Su Jianguo replied vaguely. “Meilan, about Director Wang… are we really meeting next Wednesday?”
“As if it’s fake? I went out of my way to ask around—Director Wang likes girls with looks like Wanqing’s, quiet and gentle.” Liu Meilan paused, lowering her voice further.
“Sure, his leg was crippled from a workplace injury, but the factory compensated him eight hundred yuan! Eight hundred, Jianguo—that’s two years of your salary. If Wanqing marries him, she’ll be living in comfort, with white steamed buns every meal!”
Su Wanqing bit her lip, the taste of blood spreading in her mouth.
The room fell silent for a moment before Su Jianguo sighed. “That child is stubborn, just like her mother.”
“What stubborn? Starve her for two days and she’ll behave.”
Liu Meilan spoke dismissively. “Besides, her mother’s been dead five years and you’re still thinking about her? Su Jianguo, I gave you a son! Xiaobao is about to start school—aren’t you going to save something for him?”
“I know… I just…”
“Just what!” Liu Meilan’s voice rose sharply. “If I hadn’t married you, would you have become deputy director? Who in the workshop doesn’t know about you and me—”
“That’s enough!”
Su Jianguo cut her off, slamming his cup onto the table. “Next Wednesday, I’ll take leave and bring her.”
“That’s more like it.”
Liu Meilan laughed again. “Oh right, I found that iron box her mother left behind, hidden in the kang hole. She really knew how to hide things. There are enough grain coupons in it for us to eat for three months, and more than ten feet of cloth coupons—just in time to make Xiaobao new clothes in spring…”
Su Wanqing trembled all over.
The iron box.
Before her mother died, she had gripped Su Wanqing’s hand tightly, whispering with her last breath, “Wanqing… deepest part of the kang hole… the iron box… don’t let your father…”
She had always thought those were delirious ramblings.
But they were real.
Footsteps sounded inside. Su Wanqing hurriedly stepped back, her foot sinking into the snow.
The door creaked open a crack. Su Jianguo stuck his head out, looked around, muttered “The snow’s really heavy,” and withdrew.
The light went out.
Standing in the darkness, snow fell on Su Wanqing’s lashes, quickly melting into icy water.
She knew she wouldn’t be getting in tonight—Liu Meilan always bolted the door before bed. It was routine.
Turning around, she dragged her stiff legs toward the woodshed at the corner of the stairs.
The shed was shared, piled with discarded junk from various households.
The door wasn’t locked; it opened with a push, letting in a gust of wind and snow.
Feeling her way in the dark, Su Wanqing found the pile of dry hay in the corner—that had been her “bed” in summer. After winter came, Liu Meilan claimed “no one dies from a cold woodshed” and took away her old quilt.
She curled into the hay, her teeth beginning to chatter.
Her forehead burned, yet her body shivered with cold.
It was from that basin of vegetable-washing water poured over her that afternoon—she had stood outside for four hours before Liu Meilan “remembered” she hadn’t come in.
As her consciousness blurred, she reached for her neck.
A jade pendant hung there on a red cord, resting against her chest.
Her mother had pressed it into her hand before dying, saying, “Wanqing… wear it… never take it off…”
The jade felt warm to the touch, even in the freezing cold.
In her haze, Su Wanqing thought—if only her mother were still alive…
If her mother were alive, she wouldn’t be sleeping in a woodshed, freezing with a fever, nor would she be treated like a commodity, sold off by her father and stepmother to a crippled old man for eight hundred yuan and a promotion.
A tear slid from the corner of her eye, mixing with the cold sweat on her forehead, dripping onto the jade pendant.
Then her nose warmed.
A nosebleed from the fever trickled down, staining her clothes and dyeing the milky-white jade pendant red.
She tried to raise her hand to wipe it, but her arm felt too heavy.
At the moment the blood soaked into the pendant—
It suddenly grew hot!
Not scalding, but a gentle warmth, like her mother’s palm, spreading from her chest throughout her entire body.
Her frozen fingers regained sensation, and the dizziness from the fever miraculously faded.
Su Wanqing’s eyes widened in shock.
In the darkness, the jade emitted a soft glow, its crescent shape becoming clearer.
She could even make out two tiny engraved characters inside—“Su Wan,” her mother’s name.
The light grew brighter, turning into a warm current that enveloped her whole body.
The next second, the world spun.
When she opened her eyes again, Su Wanqing found herself standing on unfamiliar land.
Beneath her feet was soft, moist black soil, like stepping on a thick carpet.
The sky was a gentle milky white, with no sun, yet everything was brightly lit.
The air was impossibly fresh, carrying the scent of earth and grass. One deep breath seemed to cleanse even the coal-smoke residue in her lungs.
In front of her stood a well.
Its rim was built of green stone, covered in damp moss.
The water inside was crystal clear, shimmering faintly with golden light, like scattered flecks of gold.
Beside the well stood a wooden sign engraved with simple characters:
“Spirit Spring”
Three scoops a day to strengthen the body.
Nourish all things, endlessly renewing.
Su Wanqing stared blankly, when she suddenly heard a faint bubbling sound.
Turning her head, she saw a small wooden house to the left.
It wasn’t large. A plaque hung above the door with three elegant characters: “Ning’an Residence.” Her mother Su Wan’s nickname had included the character “Ning.”
Pushing the door open, she found a simple interior: a bamboo bed with a blue cloth sheet, a desk with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, and a display shelf—completely empty.
On the table were three eye-catching items—
A yellowed Basic Herbal Compendium.
An old Hero fountain pen.
And a rusty tin biscuit box.
With trembling hands, Su Wanqing opened the box.
Inside were no biscuits, only a stack of letters. The top one bore her mother’s handwriting:
“Wanqing, my child:
If you are reading this, it means the jade pendant has acknowledged you as its master.
This space is a secret passed down through the Su family. In my lifetime, I only scratched the surface. The Spirit Spring heals injuries and illness, the black soil nurtures all things, and the storage area halts time.
Remember three things:
First, the Spirit Spring is limited to three scoops per day—more is ineffective.
Second, ten hours in the space equals one hour outside.
Third, this must never be revealed to a second person—not even to close kin.
My time is short. I only wish for your safety in this life.
If you ever reach a desperate situation, go to the eastern Fujian islands and find the Lu family. You were betrothed to Chen Zhou at birth.
—Mother, Su Wan
Final letter, winter of 1970”
The letter slipped from her fingers as Su Wanqing collapsed onto the bamboo chair, tears pouring down.
Five years.
Five years since her mother passed, and only now did she see this letter.
For five years, she had struggled under her stepmother, eating leftovers, wearing old clothes, sleeping in the woodshed, ignored by her father and pitied by outsiders.
So her mother had left her a way out.
She didn’t have to accept her fate.
Wiping her tears, Su Wanqing picked up the letter again, reading it three times, committing every word to memory.
Then she stood and stepped outside.
The black soil stretched endlessly, its boundaries obscured by mist.
She took a few tentative steps. The ground felt soft and fertile—top-quality soil farmers would call “rich enough to squeeze oil from.”
She crouched, scooping up a handful, letting it slip through her fingers.
Fine. Even. Perfect for planting.
She thought of the clay jar at home holding cornmeal, how Liu Meilan rationed every scoop like cutting flesh.
She thought of the five-cent white steamed buns in the cafeteria, something she rarely tasted.
She thought of her father’s words: “Next Wednesday…”
She suddenly stood, her gaze changing.
No longer the submissive girl crying in the woodshed.
She returned to the Spirit Spring and scooped up a handful of water.
It tasted sweet and full of vitality, like warmth flowing through her body, instantly dispelling the last traces of cold and illness.
Her fever was gone.
Strength filled her limbs.
She scooped another handful and poured it over an old scar on her hand.
The scar faded visibly, leaving only a faint white mark.
It was real.
Everything was real.
Looking around this miraculous space, her heart pounded.
Hundreds of acres of fertile soil, a healing spring, time dilation, storage stasis—this was a treasure in chaos, a lifeline in despair.
And her weapon of resistance.
Su Wanqing took a deep breath and walked to the shelf. She placed half a piece of hardened cornbread from her pocket into it.
It floated in place, motionless.
After waiting, she took it out—it hadn’t changed at all.
Storage confirmed.
She sat down again, thinking.
First, retrieve the iron box.
Second, ruin the marriage.
Third, leave this home.
But not yet.
With no money and no coupons, she’d starve within days.
She needed a plan.
Her gaze fell on the Basic Herbal Compendium.
Flipping through, she saw her mother’s handwritten notes:
“Bupleurum—grows on the shaded slope behind the hill, good for fever.”
“Mugwort—by the compound wall, repels mosquitoes and stops bleeding.”
“Honeysuckle—near the factory waste pile, clears heat and toxins.”
Her mother had been a textile worker—how did she know so much?
Perhaps it was tied to this space.
Closing the book, Su Wanqing formed a plan.
Retrieve the iron box.
Gather supplies.
Then—report them.
Her father wanted promotion?
Her stepmother wanted profit?
She’d show them the cost.
As for where to go…
She touched the jade pendant.
Eastern Fujian. An island. The Lu family. A childhood betrothal.
A stranger.
She smiled bitterly.
The road ahead was uncertain—but better than staying in hell.
At least now, she had the space, the Spirit Spring, and her mother’s secret.
Standing by the spring, she soaked a handkerchief and pressed it to her bruised forehead.
The pain faded quickly.
Looking at her reflection, she saw a pale, thin face—but her eyes burned bright.
“Mom,” she whispered, “I’ve seen it. I’ll live well.”
With a thought, the scene blurred.
When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the woodshed.
The hay was still cold. The wind still howled.
But everything had changed.
Her body was warm. Her mind was clear. The fever was gone.
Su Wanqing clenched the jade pendant to her chest.
The night was long, and the snow still fell.
But her winter… was about to end.