That afternoon, she planned to make crispy fried pork strips. The whole afternoon slipped away in a flurry of work.
When evening came, she cooked up a variety of vegetable dishes: sour-and-spicy shredded potatoes, braised eggplant, tomato-and-egg stir-fry, dry-pot cauliflower, winter melon with pork, and shiitake mushrooms with Chinese cabbage, among others. She also boiled a large pot of water, let it cool to lukewarm, and stored it in her space for later use. And so another evening passed.
She had intended to start boiling eggs and baking biscuits the next day—but she never got the chance. When she closed her eyes to sleep and opened them again, she had awakened in a different world.
Lu Xiaxia was roused by a blast of cold wind. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed at her forehead. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at a muddy dirt road.
Dawn was just breaking. The ground stretched unevenly before her, rutted and rough. In the distance stood rows of houses—simple dwellings made of mud bricks and tiled roofs. Not a single modern high-rise building was in sight.
Lu Xiaxia thought to herself: The day has finally come. Thankfully, she had prepared nearly everything she could think of. Arriving in this unfamiliar place, she was not entirely helpless or unprepared.
But her forehead throbbed in sharp, recurring waves. She could tell there was an injury there, though she dared not touch it. She glanced around—no one was nearby. She took a mirror from her space and held it up.
Sure enough, there was a nasty gash across her forehead, dusted with traces of ash and charcoal. Otherwise, there was nothing more to be seen.
The face in the mirror was exactly the same as the one she’d had in her previous life—save for this fresh wound. Fortunately, it had stopped bleeding. Still, leaving it exposed like this was risky; it could easily become infected.
From her space, she ladled warm water into a bowl. Taking soft cotton wipes and swabs, she gently wiped away the ash and debris around the wound, then carefully cleaned the wound itself with water-dampened swabs. She dabbed it with iodine to disinfect it, spread Yunnan Baiyao powder over the injury, and finally wrapped a strip of gauze around her head to secure the dressing. Only then was the wound properly tended.
As she treated herself, her stomach gave a loud rumble, and her head swam with faintness. She took two anti-inflammatory pills and swallowed them.
This body was clearly malnourished—gaunt, emaciated, little more than skin stretched over bone.
She glanced down at her clothes: a thin, single-layer tunic covered in patch upon patch—large patches stitched over smaller ones, and smaller ones over large. Her hair hung in unkempt tangles, making her look like a beggar. On her feet were straw sandals, frayed so badly her toes poked through. No wonder she felt so bitterly cold.
Her stomach rumbled again. Lu Xiaxia pulled a small stool from her space, sat down, and ladled out a bowl of warm congee. She ate it slowly, then took a steamed bun and a serving of three-vegetable stir-fry, eating gently and steadily.
This body was starved of nourishment and rich food. She knew better than to eat anything heavy or oily right away—her stomach would not tolerate it, and she would likely fall ill. Better to start with light, simple fare and let her system adjust slowly.
When she had finished the meal, she ate no more. Even though her stomach clamored for more—Eat! More!—she held herself back.
As she ate, she began to sort through the original owner’s memories. She thought back to the strange dream she’d had in the modern world. She wondered: was she truly herself, or had she somehow taken over another person’s body? Whatever the truth, she was here now. There was no changing it.
She retrieved clothing from her space, then took scissors and cut pieces from the coarse cotton cloth she had bought—larger pieces carefully trimmed down to size. She stitched these patches neatly onto her tunic until she had a serviceable set of patched clothing that matched the local style. She put this on, then pulled the original owner’s ragged garments over the top. She would not stand out now.
Sitting quietly on the stool as warmth slowly returned to her limbs, Lu Xiaxia began to sort through the jumble of memories flooding her mind. The more she read, the heavier and tighter her chest felt—until even the wound on her forehead throbbed in sympathy.
The girl she had become was only fourteen years old. Yet hardship had long since scoured every trace of childhood softness from her frame.
At the age of two, she had been sent away by her birth parents to the home of her paternal aunt, to be raised as their own daughter. From that day on, she called her aunt and uncle “Father” and “Mother.”
Years earlier, the couple had been married without children. Folklore said that adopting a daughter would help bring a son into the family. But reluctant to take a stranger’s child, they had chosen to take the daughter of the husband’s own brother—blood kin, and one that would give rise to no gossip or suspicion.
In those first few years, her aunt and uncle had treated her passably well. Childless, they had welcomed her as a comfort. But then her aunt had fallen pregnant and given birth to a baby girl. Though not the longed-for son, the child was their own flesh and blood—and life for the adopted girl began to change.
The best food went to the younger sister. New clothes were never hers. Chores, one by one, were shifted onto her slender shoulders. She was too young to understand why—only that obedience and endless toil meant fewer scoldings and less hunger.
Matters grew far worse five years ago, when her aunt finally gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The family’s dream of an heir was fulfilled.
From that moment on, the girl became nothing more than a burden in her own home. Her uncle and grandmother complained daily that she ate food she had not earned. To be fed, she must work.
Before dawn every day, she rose to light the fire, cook the meals, feed the pigs, and sweep the yard. She labored in the fields, earning meager work points alongside grown adults. The filthiest, hardest labor fell to her. The food she ate was scraps and leftovers. The clothes she wore were castoffs, mended until nothing remained of the original fabric. She had wasted away to nearly nothing.
As for schooling?
Her aunt and uncle had never once intended to send her. To their way of thinking, educating a girl was a waste—what use was reading and writing for someone who would only labor in the fields and manage a household? Books cost money, and lessons took time away from earning work points. It was a losing proposition.
She had gained entry to the schoolhouse only because of her younger cousin. Before the boy was born, the couple had doted on their daughter alone. When the girl reached school age, of course she was sent to learn.
So there they were: one sister neatly dressed, carefree, and educated; the other skeletal, ragged, and worked to the bone. The contrast was impossible to ignore. Most villagers already knew she was adopted. Whispers had circulated for some time, though never within earshot of her aunt. But sending one girl to school while keeping the other at her chores—and the visible difference in their treatment—stirred the talk into a roar.
Other children their age walked together to school each morning. The villagers began to say openly that the couple abused and starved their adopted daughter. Her uncle, a proud man who could not bear being shamed before his neighbors, finally relented.
He allowed her to attend school—but not a single copper for tuition, books, ink, brushes, or paper would come from his purse. She must find every penny herself. Nor might she shirk a single chore. Before sunrise, she must clean the entire house and yard, then run all the way to school. The moment the bell rang to dismiss classes, while other children played together, she must race home—back to the fields, back to the endless toil.