The feather duster bit into Su Qing’s back just as she was leaning over the table to sign her name.
Pain.
It exploded from the base of her spine all the way to her scalp.
“Sign!” her stepmother Zhao Jinhua stood behind her, hands planted on her hips, lifting the feather duster high again. “You’re the only one of age eligible to be sent down from this family. If you don’t go, who will?”
“Exactly!”
Her stepsister Su Zhirou peeked out from behind the doorframe, revealing half a carefully tended face, her voice sweet and soft. “Sister, just sign it. Mom and Dad are doing this for your own good—you’ll get plenty of training out in the countryside—”
She trailed off, ducking her head to dab at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief.
What a perfect white lotus.
Su Qing’s pen hovered over the paper; a single drop of ink fell, spreading into a dark splotch.
She remembered.
Everything.
In her past life, she had signed this very same paper at this very same table.
She had signed, then gone quietly to the countryside, spending three years breaking her back at the dusty sent-down youth station, coming away with nothing but illness and scars.
And Su Zhirou?
She wore new dresses made from cloth tickets Su Qing had saved, took the university spot Su Qing had yielded, and married into an officer’s household that everyone envied.
In the end—
Su Qing died on the road back to the city.
An “accidental” traffic collision.
The car had been sent by Su Zhirou’s husband, meant to silence her forever, to bury every ugly truth beneath the dirt.
She was twenty-three when she died, skin and bones, not a single fen in her pocket.
But now—she was back.
Su Qing lifted her head slowly.
Zhao Jinhua noticed the change in her gaze—those once timid, watery fox eyes now seemed coated in a thin layer of ice.
Chillingly so.
“Mom,” Su Qing spoke softly, her tone still sounding as gentle as ever.
Zhao Jinhua instinctively took half a step back.
For some reason, she felt suddenly afraid of this usually meek stepdaughter.
The feeling lasted only a second.
Then Su Qing smiled—sweet, harmless. “I’ll sign.”
Zhao Jinhua blinked in surprise.
“But on one condition,” Su Qing set down her pen, lifting those glistening eyes and enunciating clearly. “A severance of kinship.”
Silence stretched through the room for three long seconds.
“From today onward, I have no ties to the Su family whatsoever.”
“You are not my parents. And she—” Su Qing glanced at Su Zhirou by the door “—is not my sister.”
“Cut it clean. Black and white, fingerprints and official stamps.”
“From now on, whether I live or die is none of your business.”
Zhao Jinhua’s first thought was—the girl had lost her mind.
Her second thought was—this was perfect.
Sever ties, and this burden would never be their problem again, whether she married well or dropped dead.
No dowry to pay, no worries to tend to—offloaded completely.
She glanced at Su Qing’s father Su Jianguo, who sat in the corner puffing on a pipe, saying nothing.
At the words “severance of kinship,” the pipe in his hand trembled.
He looked at Su Qing with a complicated expression, his lips moving as if to speak.
But in the end he said nothing.
He simply nodded.
Su Qing caught the look.
Interesting.
She had paid it no mind in her past life, but now she saw it clearly—there was fear in Su Jianguo’s eyes.
Not reluctance.
Fear.
What was he so afraid of?
She tucked the question away, her face betraying nothing.
The document was drawn up quickly.
Afraid Su Qing would change her mind, Zhao Jinhua wrote every word herself, filling an entire page—stating that Su Qing voluntarily severed all ties with the Su family, that her welfare, marriage, and death would henceforth have no connection to them, and that the Su family would bear no further responsibility toward her.
Signatures.
Fingerprints.
As Su Qing pressed her thumb to her name, the corner of her mouth curled upward.
It was so light.
Compared to the three years of blood and tears she had given in her past life, this paper weighed nothing at all.
But that was fine.
She would collect what was owed.
With interest.
“Alright, alright—go pack your things now,” Zhao Jinhua fanned the ink dry, unable to hide her glee. “Your father got his bonus today. We’re going to the state-run restaurant for a feast to celebrate.”
Celebrate what?
Celebrate finally getting rid of the dead weight.
Su Zhirou stepped out from behind the door and slipped her arm through Zhao Jinhua’s, whispering, “Mom, I want braised pork.”
“You’ll have it! Eat whatever you want today!”
The three of them left in high spirits.
Not one of them looked back at Su Qing.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Su Qing stood alone in the empty living room, listening to their footsteps and laughter fade down the hallway, the gentle smile dropping from her face.
Her eyes turned cold.
“Celebrate?” she murmured, a sharp smile tugging at her lips.
“Then I’ll give you a celebration you’ll never forget.”
Su Qing closed her eyes.
Her consciousness sank inward, finding what had always lain dormant—a warm jade pendant resting just beneath her collarbone, glowing faintly.
She had never known what it was in her past life.
Now she did.
With a thought—
The space around her vision shuddered.
A vast, endless realm unfolded in her mind, piled high with supplies.
Rice. Flour. Oil. Salt. Sugar.
Sacks of fine white flour stacked in perfect rows—thousands of jin at least.
Cases of canned goods—braised pork, luncheon meat, yellow peaches, pineapples—labels crisp as if they had just rolled off the factory line.
Bolts of fabric folded like neat blocks—cotton, silk, wool—bright and vivid.
Medicine too—boxes of penicillin, erythromycin, aspirin, each worth more than gold in this era.
In the corner stood an old well, its water clear and shimmering with faint light.
The spiritual spring.
Su Qing drew a deep breath.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
She opened her eyes and scanned the room.
Time to get to work.
Another thought—
The redwood square table at the center of the living room vanished.
Its four matching armchairs vanished.
The redwood sideboard against the wall vanished.
The mantel clock, enamel vase, and pair of brass candlesticks on top—all gone.
She walked into the kitchen.
The rice jar—full to the brim, about fifty jin—gone.
The flour jar—thirty jin of white flour—gone.
Two cured meats hanging on the wall—gone.
Half a bucket of soybean oil hidden beneath the stove—gone.
The full set of dishes, iron wok, and aluminum kettle in the cabinet—gone.
Next, her parents’ bedroom.
Every piece of clothing in the wardrobe—gone.
The camphor chest under the bed—holding Zhao Jinhua’s dowry jewelry and private savings—chest and all—gone.
Thirty-two yuan and a stack of grain, meat, and cloth tickets tucked under the pillow—gone.
Then Su Zhirou’s room.
Reaching into her pillow, Su Qing found what she expected—a neatly folded brand-new polyester shirt, hidden away from prying eyes.
Gone.
The diary and passbook tucked under the mattress—holding eighteen yuan Su Zhirou had saved secretly—gone.
Face cream, lip balm, and the carved wooden comb on the dresser—gone.
Back in the living room, she knelt by the wall and pried loose a loose floor tile.
Beneath lay an oilcloth packet.
Inside—two small gold bars, glowing heavy and bright in the light.
Su Jianguo’s life savings, hidden even from his wife.
Su Qing had never known it existed in her past life.
But now, every scrap of overheard conversation from her final days was crystal clear.
Gone.
Su Qing stood and brushed the dust from her hands.
She glanced around once more, her gaze settling on the corner.
A mouse hole.
She tilted her head.
With one sweep of her mind—the seven or eight peanuts stored inside—gone too.
“Not a single hair left behind,” she whispered.
The Su family home was now truly bare.
Only a single nail remained where the painting once hung.
The kitchen was spotless, not a grain of salt left behind.
Bedrooms held nothing but bare bed frames—every blanket gone.
Su Qing picked up her old cloth bag, patched three times, holding only the severance paper and her household registration transfer. She stepped out.
Down the stairs.
At the building entrance, she ran into Aunt Wang next door.
“Well, Xiao Qing—heading out?”
“Just a long trip,” Su Qing smiled politely. “Bye, Aunt Wang.”
Aunt Wang watched her slender figure walk away, muttering to herself. “Poor thing, skin and bones… the Su family really are something…”
Su Qing walked straight to the bus stop without looking back.
The apartment building fell quiet, no one knowing that the second flat on the third floor had been stripped down to nothing but four walls.
At the state-run restaurant, Zhao Jinhua bit into a piece of braised pork, grinning through grease-stained lips. “Old Su, finally—we’ve got that good-for-nothing out of our hair.”
Su Zhirou sipped her egg drop soup slowly, her voice soft and gentle. “Mom, don’t say that about Sister. It must be so hard for her out there all alone.”
Her lips said one thing, but her smile said another.
Su Jianguo ate in silence, saying nothing.
Something felt wrong—but he couldn’t say what.
After their meal, the three headed home full and cheerful.
Zhao Jinhua unlocked the door.
She stepped inside—and froze.
The living room was empty.
She stepped back to check the house number—no mistake, this was home.
She went back in.
The kitchen was empty.
The bedrooms were empty.
Su Zhirou’s room—empty.
No clothes, no jewelry, no passbook, not even that new shirt she had hidden for weeks.
Zhao Jinhua’s mind went blank.
She rushed into the master bedroom and flipped the bed—no camphor chest.
She dropped to the floor, tearing at the loose tile—
Nothing.
“My gold bars—!” Su Jianguo’s voice cracked from behind her.
Zhao Jinhua spun around. “What gold bars?!”
They stared at each other, and in their eyes, they saw the same thing—the world had fallen apart.
Su Zhirou stood in her empty doorway, trembling—then screamed.
The whole building heard her.
Aunt Wang poked her head out. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Zhao Jinhua grabbed the wall, her eyes rolling back, and fainted dead away.
Meanwhile, on the bus heading for the train station, Su Qing leaned against the window, eyes closed, a faint smile playing on her lips.
The severance paper pressed warm against her chest.
From today onward, the name Su Qing no longer belonged to the Su family.
From today onward, she belonged only to herself.
The bus rumbled through the gray northern city, plane trees shedding their leaves outside.
She opened her eyes, watching the train station grow closer.
Her new life.
Had truly begun.