Liu Meilan spent the entire morning searching for the cloth coupons.
She turned the east room upside down, lifted the kang mat, shook the bedding, even poked the cracks in the walls with chopsticks—yet that ten-foot cloth coupon seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“This is impossible!” She sat on the edge of the kang, panting, sweat covering her forehead. “I clearly held it in my hand…”
Su Xiaobao was beside her, gnawing on a corn bun, crumbs covering his face. “Mom, my new cotton-padded jacket…”
“Jacket, jacket, always the jacket!” Liu Meilan snapped irritably and tapped him on the shoulder. “If the cloth coupon’s gone, what are we supposed to make [clothes] with?”
Su Xiaobao burst into tears.
Su Wanqing stood in the kitchen, stirring the vegetable soup slowly.
A few cabbage leaves floated on the surface—they were smuggled out from her space earlier that morning, chopped finely and mixed with the rotten leaves scavenged from the supply and marketing cooperative, completely undetectable.
She ladled the soup into a bowl and carried it into the east room.
“Mom, time to eat.” Her voice was soft, obedient as always.
Liu Meilan, already annoyed, saw her and flared up. “Eat, eat, eat! Always eating! Did you take the cloth coupon?”
Su Wanqing widened her eyes, feigning ignorance. “What cloth coupon? I didn’t see it…”
“Don’t pretend!” Liu Meilan stood up and grabbed her hair. “You’re the only one in this family who can’t keep your hands clean! Tell me, where did you hide it?”
A sharp pain shot through her scalp.
Su Wanqing gritted her teeth but didn’t make a sound, only shaking her head. “I really didn’t take it…”
“Search her!” Liu Meilan ordered Su Xiaobao. “Xiaobao, check her pockets!”
The five-year-old Su Xiaobao perked up, jumped off the kang, and started rummaging through Su Wanqing’s jacket pockets.
The pockets were empty, containing only two tattered handkerchiefs.
“Nothing here,” Su Xiaobao said, disappointed.
Liu Meilan wasn’t satisfied and searched again herself, even feeling the jacket lining—still nothing.
She released Su Wanqing, who staggered a step back and steadied herself against the door frame.
“Go eat!” Liu Meilan muttered angrily.
“Shovel the snow in the yard this afternoon and pile it in the corner.”
“Got it.” Su Wanqing lowered her head and left.
Back in the kitchen, she ladled a bowl of vegetable soup and sat on a small stool, sipping slowly.
The soup had the sweetness of the space cabbage, mixed with coarse cornmeal paste, and it tasted like the most decent meal she’d had in days.
As she ate, she replayed the earlier scene in her mind.
The remote retrieval had worked, but it had limitations.
A tiny cloth coupon was easy to retrieve—but what about a stack of grain tickets or a pile of cash?
If the object was too large or blocked by something, could she still get it?
She needed to experiment.
And she needed to be fast.
Next Wednesday was the matchmaking day—only six days away.
That afternoon, Su Wanqing shoveled snow in the yard.
The snow had stopped, but the sky was heavy and gray, pressing down.
She swung the iron shovel, piling snow in the corner. It was exhausting work; the iron shovel was heavy and blunt, and her arms ached after a while.
But today, after an hour, she only felt moderately tired.
The Spirit Spring water’s effect on her body was better than she had imagined.
When she reached the wood storage shed, she paused and looked around—Liu Meilan was inside mending shoe soles, Su Xiaobao was playing in the snow, and the neighbors were quiet.
She slipped into the wood shed and closed the door.
With a thought, the shovel vanished from her hands and appeared in the space storage area.
Another thought, and it returned to her hand.
Larger tools worked too.
She tried a broken basket, half a bag of coal slag, bundles of dried grass tied with rope—everything could be stored and retrieved.
But the wooden rack fixed to the wall didn’t move an inch.
It seemed as long as it wasn’t “fixed” and didn’t exceed a certain volume (about half a cubic meter), she could store it.
Su Wanqing made a mental note.
In the evening, Su Jianguo came home.
He looked upset, throwing his work clothes on a chair as he entered:
“Damn it, three barrels of lubricating oil are missing from the workshop inventory. The director blew up and said there will be a full investigation.”
Liu Meilan, cooking, paused mid-stir. “Missing how much?”
“Over a hundred kilos!” Su Jianguo lowered his voice. “It’s enough to press charges!”
“You… didn’t leave any evidence behind, right?” Liu Meilan asked nervously.
“What evidence would I leave?” Su Jianguo’s eyes flickered. “Everything was issued properly. Accounts… accounts all match up.”
Su Wanqing listened at the door, her mind racing.
Lubricating oil?
She remembered a night last month, getting up to use the bathroom, seeing Su Jianguo and Liu Meilan’s brother, Liu Tiezhu, sneaking things over the backyard wall.
She hadn’t paid attention then, but now she realized they were passing blue metal barrels.
Her father didn’t just sell his daughter—he was stealing state property too.
She walked inside calmly and began setting the table.
Dinner was cornmeal buns, pickled vegetables, and cabbage soup.
Only three buns—one for Su Jianguo, one for Liu Meilan, half for Su Xiaobao, and the remaining half for Su Wanqing.
She nibbled her half bun slowly.
She wasn’t really hungry—earlier in the wood shed, she had secretly taken a small piece of cabbage heart from her space, crisp and sweet, far better than the bun.
But she had to pretend to be hungry.
She couldn’t arouse Liu Meilan’s suspicion.
“Jianguo,” Liu Meilan mumbled through her bite.
“I asked Director Wang again,” Su Jianguo said. “He said the engagement gift can’t be less than two catties of sugar and a big front door.”
Su Jianguo frowned. “Sugar needs coupons, and cigarettes are more expensive.”
“Expensive or not, buy it!” Liu Meilan glared. “You can’t be stingy if you want a good deal. Director Wang promised that once the match is done, he’ll report you for promotion to workshop director.”
Su Jianguo was silent for a moment, then pulled out some wrinkled ration tickets.
“I still have half a catty of sugar tickets. Cigarette tickets… I’ll find someone to exchange them.”
Su Wanqing lowered her head, fingers clutching the bun.
Two catties of sugar, a big front door.
At market price, nearly ten yuan.
Her father’s monthly salary was only 38.5 yuan—almost half a month’s family expenses.
All just to sell her at a good price.
She spoke up suddenly, voice timid: “Dad… I don’t want to marry.”
The table went silent.
Su Jianguo looked up, Liu Meilan set down her chopsticks.
“What did you say?” Su Jianguo’s voice darkened.
“I heard… Director Wang’s leg is crippled from a work injury. Walking is difficult,” Su Wanqing’s voice dropped further.
“And he… he’s already forty-five…”
“Forty-five, so what?” Liu Meilan interjected.
“Older men take care of you! He’s an eighth-level worker, sixty-two yuan a month! You’ll have a comfortable life marrying him!”
“But…”
“But what ‘but’!” Su Jianguo slammed the table.
“This family doesn’t let you make decisions! Next Wednesday, you’ll go whether you want to or not!”
Su Wanqing shrank her neck, saying nothing more.
But inside, she sneered.
The act was over.
Time for the next step.
That night, Su Wanqing lay on the narrow bed in her small room, eyes open.
Waiting.
Waiting for everyone to fall asleep.
Waiting for the deep, silent night.
She held her mother’s Barefoot Doctor Manual, pretending to read, ears alert to every sound outside.
From the east room came Su Jianguo’s snores, Liu Meilan’s murmurs, Su Xiaobao grinding his teeth.
The clock struck eleven.
Su Wanqing lifted the blanket gently, barefoot on the cold floor.
She shivered, but didn’t stop moving.
She first went to the door and listened.
The snores were steady.
Good.
She turned to the only cabinet in the room—the wedding chest of Liu Meilan, made of camphor wood, heavy, usually locked, key on Liu Meilan’s ring.
Su Wanqing crouched before the chest.
Focused, she concentrated on it.
Nothing.
The chest didn’t move.
She touched the thick wood and the solid brass lock.
Fixed objects and locked objects couldn’t be stored.
Time for brute force.
She pulled a thin wire from her pocket—taken from a broom earlier.
Bent it into a hook, and slid it into the keyhole.
Her mother had taught her how to pick locks—not for stealing, but “in case you’re locked in a room, you can get out.”
Her mother’s hands had guided hers back then, feeling each pin in the lock.
“Wanqing, a girl should have some self-defense skills,” her mother had said gently. “Mom can’t protect you forever.”
Su Wanqing’s nose ached.
She held her breath and moved the wire gently.
A faint click from the lock.
It opened.
She lifted the lid softly.
The chest was full:
A few worn-but-not-old clothes, a red silk quilt, several tin boxes, and… a blue cloth bundle.
Su Wanqing’s heart raced.
She picked up the bundle—it was light.
Inside was a stack of letters.
Yellowed pages, fading ink from a fountain pen.
The opening read “My beloved Meilan,” signed “Jianguo.”
Date… Winter 1972.
Exactly when her mother had been seriously ill in the hospital.
Her fingers trembled.
She skimmed quickly—the letters full of sappy declarations, “Once divorced, I’ll marry you,” “That sickly woman won’t last long…”
Monsters.
She took a deep breath, placed the letters in her space storage.
Evidence one.
She rummaged further.
In a tin box, she found material requisition forms from the steel plant workshop, signed by Su Jianguo.
But the numbers didn’t match—twenty pairs of gloves requisitioned, only ten issued; the remaining ten had altered fields.
Evidence two.
A notebook held numbers and dates:
“73.8.15, 3 barrels lubricating oil, received by Liu.”
“74.3.22, 5 sets labor protection clothing, received by Zhang.”
“75.11.07, 12 pairs gloves, issued.”
All later entries listed money.
The account book.
Evidence three.
Su Wanqing stored everything in her space.
At the bottom of the chest, she felt something hard.
It was her mother’s tin biscuit box.
Inside were grain tickets, cloth tickets, cash.
And her mother’s diary—brown-red plastic cover, edges worn.
She opened it; the first page, her mother’s neat handwriting:
“March 12, 1965, Qing. Today my daughter is one month old. Named her Wanqing. May her life be clear skies after rain.”
Tears threatened to fall.
She stored the tin box in her space, then quietly closed and relocked the camphor chest.
Everything returned to normal.
Evidence complete.
Corrupt requisition forms, illicit letters, embezzled accounts.
Plus her mother’s tin box—the proof of Liu Meilan’s misappropriation of inheritance.
Enough to send Su Jianguo and Liu Meilan away.
But not enough.
Su Wanqing went to the window, staring into the pitch-black night.
She didn’t just want punishment.
She wanted to escape this home completely, to go to the island her mother had spoken of, to start a new life.
And that required money, grain tickets, everything for the journey.
Everything she could take, she would.
She returned to bed, closed her eyes, and sank her consciousness into the space.
She appeared in the small cabin.
On the table, her mother’s tin box lay open, grain tickets, cloth tickets, cash stacked together. She counted:
National grain tickets: 32 jin
Local grain tickets: 96 jin
Cloth tickets: 15 feet
Cotton tickets: 5 jin
Cash: 187 yuan 3 jiao, neatly bundled
A yellowed note read:
“Comrade Lu Changzheng:
If Su Wan and her daughter Wanqing come seeking refuge, please take them in.
This kindness will be remembered, to be repaid in the next life.
Winter 1969”
Her mother had already arranged a backup plan.
Su Wanqing carefully stored the note and began planning.
Tomorrow, start moving the grain cabinet.
Move a little each day, not all at once, or Liu Meilan would notice.
Clothes, bedding, pots, and pans—everything movable, everything to take.
And those barrels of lubricating oil—if she could find them, they would also serve as evidence.
She exited the space, lay back in bed.
From outside came distant dog barks, near and far.
Su Wanqing closed her eyes, imagining her mother: gentle eyes, always smiling, fingers lightly patting her back, humming lullabies.
“Mom,” she whispered in her heart, “I will be okay.”
“Those who bullied us… I will make them pay.”
“Watch from above.”
Night deepened.
Snow began falling again, fine and dense, covering the day’s traces in the yard and all the filth of the city.
But some traces couldn’t be covered by snow.
Like the hatred in people’s hearts.
Like the fire about to be ignited.