Lu Minggui felt a surge of joy. Looking into the distance, the sun hadn’t risen yet, and she could still see Zhao Dazao’s figure moving away along the little path by the fields.
Everything felt both real and unreal—as if nothing had happened.
She had clearly been gone a long time, had drunk a cup of sugar water, and the sweetness still lingered on her tongue.
She had even sold the daylilies she had picked from the branch just now.
Yet Zhao Dazao was still only about ten meters away, as if she had just walked a few steps!
The memory of what had just happened sent shivers down her spine—fear, excitement, and a strange, inexplicable feeling left her flustered.
She called out loudly, “Zhao Dazao!”
Zhao Dazao turned around. “What is it?”
Lu Minggui, only wanting to test her own suspicion, quickly shook her head. “N-nothing.”
“Go on with your work. We’ll chat later when you have time.”
Zhao Dazao turned back toward the fields, murmuring to herself that the old lady was probably still troubled in her heart after losing her son.
Watching Zhao Dazao’s figure fade away, Lu Minggui confirmed her guess: though she had been gone for a long time, the time here had barely changed!
This meant she could leave and return without worrying about time passing.
She looked down at her basket and her heart began to race. Hastily, she went to the riverbank and covered the basket with pigweed.
Inside were five large meat buns and half a bag of sugar—she couldn’t let anyone see them.
Fortunately, it was early morning, and the Song family’s fields were secluded. No one was around.
After securing the basket, she hurried home.
On the way, she met several villagers carrying bamboo baskets, hoes, rakes, or wooden buckets, all heading to the fields.
The elders greeted her warmly, aware of Song Dahe’s death, offering words of comfort or reminding her to take care. The younger ones addressed her respectfully as “auntie.”
Most villagers were kind and easy to get along with. Lu Minggui nodded politely, reflecting silently:
It wasn’t yet the years of famine. People were still working diligently. But when famine came, many of these hardworking people would die, and others would flee.
First, days of heavy rain would destroy the crops. When the rain finally stopped, a long drought would follow. Wells would dry, fields would wither, riverbeds crack.
Families would stretch every bit of food, mixing wild vegetables into porridge, boiling tree bark, barely filling their stomachs. Eventually, even the bark would run out, leaving only soil.
People would betray or even sell their children just to survive. Many would die on the road, like she had once.
Thinking of all this, Lu Minggui felt a pang of sorrow. She vowed that now, having survived, she would live well—because only by living could she see hope.
When she reached the village, she saw Jinbao and Yinbao playing with other children. She ignored them and went straight home.
The courtyard was quiet. Erfen wasn’t home, probably off playing.
She moved the pigweed into the yard and carried the basket inside.
After locking the door, her heart finally calmed.
The buns were still warm, the meat juices soaking through the dough. The aroma made her mouth water.
She looked at the sugar bag, labeled “Mian White Sugar.” Her father had been a scholar, and though she had learned some characters from him, she didn’t recognize many.
For now, she just needed to know it was sugar—she didn’t need to be a scholar.
She opened the large wooden chest by her bed. It had once been her dowry, though one had been taken by Hu Cuihua.
The chest had a small copper lock. In the past, she had kept valuables inside. But being a peasant, there wasn’t much—coarse cloth, sewing needles, bedding, or animal pelts.
Years ago, the chest had held more: fine and coarse cloth, bedding, deer and fox pelts from her husband’s hunts.
After her husband, Song Chengye, had died from a bear attack while hunting, she had used these items to support her family—marrying off her eldest and second sons, and daughters.
She had hoped that when her youngest grew up, she could finally rest. But the second son had died on duty, and then famine came, revealing the harsh reality of life.
Sighing, Lu Minggui muttered, “Ah, it’s all fate.”
She shook off the melancholy, placed the sugar and eggs in the chest, and locked it. No more sneaky grandchildren stealing eggs!
Finally, she pulled out the crumpled hundred-yuan note. The red bill was still intact.
Determined, she clutched the money with one hand, touched her wooden hairpin with the other, and a white flash appeared.
Once again, she was in the white room.
The hairpin really was the key. She steadied her mind and walked forward, soon reaching the familiar door.
This time, she didn’t hesitate. But when she pushed—it wouldn’t budge.
“Hmm, how strange… why won’t it open now?”