Under the moonlight, Li Miaomiao walked behind the stove, selecting two pieces of thick, sturdy firewood.
She carried them outside and moved the small wooden stool that Xiao Xian had been sitting on to the doorway.
Stepping onto it, she measured against the round hole, already having a clear plan in her mind.
She shaved the firewood down to the thickness she needed—roughly the diameter of the hole in the wooden plank, which she had slightly enlarged earlier.
This meant that the end connecting to the latch needed to be a little smaller.
She inserted the wooden stick into the hole, picked up another piece of firewood as a makeshift hammer, and struck.
“Thud.”
“Thud.”
The heavy, resonant sound of wood against wood grated on Xiao Xian’s ears, reminding him of the crowd’s jeers at the execution ground—suffocating.
He lay on the bed, watching the woman outside through the broken window. Her warm, peach-blossom eyes were filled with a chill he couldn’t shake.
On the way here, his former subordinates had investigated the village.
She was supposed to be a lazy good-for-nothing. How could she be so adept at repairing a door?
Li Miaomiao jumped down from the stool, pushed the door back and forth, and, seeing it no longer wobbled, wiped the sweat from her forehead and exhaled.
“Finally done.”
For her, closing the door meant privacy.
Without it, she felt exposed and uncomfortable.
She slid the latch in, wiped the stool clean with her sleeve, put it back, and picked up the scattered wood and shavings, heading toward the kitchen.
She paused at the steps, lowered her gaze for a moment, then changed direction.
Xiao Xian saw her coming and hid the cold in his eyes.
“Knock, knock, knock.”
The door wasn’t closed, and Li Miaomiao habitually knocked before peeking inside.
The room was pitch black. Only the moonlight on the bed allowed her to faintly see the side of the man’s face. Everything else was hidden.
Clearing her throat, she asked, “What do you want to eat tonight?”
“Anything.”
His voice was cold and distant, clearly still irritated at her boldness.
“Then I’ll just cook whatever I want.”
Silence answered her.
Li Miaomiao puffed out her cheeks, pursed her lips, and gave up arguing. She turned back into the kitchen.
On the stove sat a tung oil lamp. Typically, a clay stove would have a small recess between the two burners for kindling. She tossed the firewood into the pile and probed the recess.
A small smile appeared on her lips.
Sure enough, it was there.
She lit the lamp and could finally see the full kitchen.
A square table held the cutting board. Against the wall was a long table stacked with bowls, chopsticks, and jars. In the left corner and center of the room were two large pots.
She walked closer, inspecting each.
The left corner held rice; the center, water.
She moved to the wall and opened the jars on the table: one large jar of flour, three small jars of salt, soy sauce, and lard.
Hanging on the wall were a piece of cured meat, fresh scallions, and dried garlic.
Li Miaomiao raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
The house was falling apart, yet the kitchen ingredients were decent?
Never mind—she’d deal with nourishment first.
She looked around the kitchen again, her eyes brightening.
“Now I know what to eat.”
She took off her crimson outer robe, hung it on the wall, rolled up her sleeves, exposing her scarred wrists. She glanced at them briefly before looking away.
She scooped water into a large iron pot, lit the stove, and once the fire caught, began washing several scallions, chopping them into segments, and setting them aside. She also measured two bowls of flour, added water, and began kneading.
Though she had many flaws, she loved to eat, and her grandfather had never sent her to learn cooking.
She taught herself during her free time—not as skilled as a professional chef, but sufficient for home cooking.
Outside, the night was quiet. Moonlight streamed in, cold and lonely.
Only the sounds of kneading and the occasional crackle of firewood brought life to the kitchen.
“Gurgle~”
Li Miaomiao looked down at her growling stomach. She feared she might faint before the dough even finished.
Ignoring the pain in her hands, she kneaded hard, rolled it with a pin, folded it, and cut it into half-inch strips.
Once the water boiled, she cooked the noodles, then cooled them in cold water. She emptied the pot, cleaned it, and heated it again, keeping only a low flame.
She added half a spoonful of lard, let it melt, and fried the scallions.
Soon, the aroma of lard and scallions spread through the kitchen.
Using chopsticks, she scooped out the golden-brown scallions, poured soy sauce into a bowl, and mixed the scallion oil in. She tasted a bit:
“A bit light on salt, but perfect for the noodles.”
She placed the noodles into two porcelain bowls, topped them with scallion oil and fried scallions.
The scallion noodles were ready.
Carefully carrying the bowls, she walked to Xiao Xian’s room.
Stepping over the threshold, her gentle voice rang out:
“Dinner’s ready.”
His room was simple: a bed, a low table, and a worn cabinet. Though old, everything was clean and tidy.
Remembering he couldn’t get out of bed easily, she placed his bowl by the bed.
“Here.”
Xiao Xian glanced at the dark noodles, brow furrowed.
Long lashes hid his deep eyes, making it impossible for Li Miaomiao to read his expression. Assuming he was still angry about the dowry, she pressed the bowl into his hand and picked up her own, leaving the room.
The bowl retained the warmth of a woman’s touch.
Xiao Xian’s gaze drifted to the oil lamp on the low table, then outward.
Li Miaomiao sat on the threshold of the main hall.
Moonlight fell on her, but rather than appearing forlorn, she seemed cheerful, slurping the black noodles with a sense of indulgent delight.
He lowered his gaze to the sauce-colored noodles. Could they really taste that good?
He paused, then picked up his chopsticks.
Li Miaomiao had long finished eating. She sat on the threshold, watching the crescent moon for a while before walking into a small adjacent room.
Inside were eight large boxes.
The original owner had whimsically chosen Xiao Xian, claiming the boxes contained her entire dowry. The village chief, wanting to end the farce, collaborated with other elders to convince Xiao Xian to marry her.
When the original owner returned that day, she laughed wildly, revealing that the boxes contained eight stones left by her father. Her stepmother and stepsister had no idea, and she mocked Xiao Xian mercilessly.
In the original owner’s memory, Xiao Xian’s expression had been grave, unreadable.
All of this made it hard for Li Miaomiao to act with confidence toward him.
After all, she had been the one to provoke him first.
Though this era lacked modern conveniences and had many flaws, she finally had a chance to live again.
She wanted to live fully.