At his words, Yuanxiang’s hands froze momentarily, and she fell silent.
Erguo had actually wanted to ask this question for a while now. Ever since his sister had woken up after nearly drowning, he’d felt she was somehow different. Sometimes she seemed just like the sister he’d always known; other times, she felt distant, like looking through a thin mist. Could she have been possessed by something? The thought made his skin prickle.
The old Yuanxiang had been timid and quiet, never speaking so much at once, let alone saying things he barely understood. The way she’d held her own against their aunt the other day had left him completely stunned—was that really his sister? If it weren’t for her face, the same one he’d seen every day since he could remember, he’d have suspected someone was pretending to be her.
Yuanxiang was well aware of the doubt in Erguo’s eyes. At nine years old, he wasn’t like Sanxi, still too young to question things—he couldn’t be fobbed off so easily. She knew that if she kept being vague, the seeds of suspicion would take root and grow, making things far harder to handle later.
But she could never tell them the truth. If word got out, superstitious villagers might burn her as some kind of demon or monster. She couldn’t take that risk—so she’d have to lie to Erguo and Sanxi just this once more.
Looking up at him, her tone softened but carried certainty: “I learned these things from your father—you were just too young to remember back then.”
The original Yuanxiang’s father had farmed their land, but in his spare time, he’d taken odd jobs in town. For casual laborers, knowing more skills meant more ways to earn a living. He’d tried his hand at carpentry, bricklaying, repairing river embankments, and hauling goods. So it made perfect sense to attribute pottery-making to him.
Did he actually know how to fire bowls? Yuanxiang had no idea—but putting it down to their father was the best excuse she could think of.
“Really? Father could do this too?” Erguo’s face lit up with excitement. So his father had been so capable! He’d never heard him mention pottery before, let alone seen him make anything like this.
Seeming to anticipate his question, Yuanxiang paused, her eyes dropping and her voice growing quieter as her expression darkened slightly: “When our parents were still here, they handled most things, and I just helped out where I could. But now it’s different—they’re gone, and no one will shield us from hardship anymore… Now I have to hold this family together, and it’s only right that I learn to do more.”
As she spoke, she resumed her work, reaching out to ruffle Erguo’s hair, as if using the gesture to smooth away his doubts.
Erguo stared down at his wavering reflection in the water, silent for a long moment. The wariness and suspicion in his eyes seemed to melt away, touched by her words, and they grew slightly moist. In the end, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he only let out a quiet “hm.”
Watching him, Yuanxiang felt a small wave of relief, her movements growing gentler without realizing it.
Bringing up their parents had naturally touched the softest part of their hearts. Sanxi’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “A-Jie,” she cried, throwing herself into Yuanxiang’s arms and burrowing against her with quiet sobs.
Standing beside them, Erguo felt a pang of sadness seeing his sister and cousin with red-rimmed eyes, mixed with a sense of guilt. So these skills really had come from their father?
He barely remembered, but he did recall how his father had always been busy—working the fields, going to town, always on the move. The tables and stools in their old home had all been made by him, even the wooden cabinet in the corner.
Thinking this over, he suddenly found his sister’s changes much easier to understand. How could anyone stay the same after losing their parents? Just look at Brother Dashan from Granny Zhao’s family—once the most capable man in the village, but after his accident left him lame, he’d grown quiet and withdrawn, like a different person entirely.
And his sister… her changes were for them. Once so timid, she’d steeled herself to stand up for him and Sanxi, putting herself between them and trouble.
He was supposed to be the man of the family, yet because he was still young, he couldn’t help with anything—and he’d even doubted her. It was truly inexcusable.
The cloud of suspicion that had hung over his heart for so long dissipated like mist before a warm breeze. The answer left him feeling both warm and aching, guilt slowly rising in his chest.
After a moment of silence, he looked up, his eyes carrying a seriousness beyond his years as he spoke clearly and firmly: “A-Jie, from now on, I’ll help you take care of the family and look after Sanxi.”
Yuanxiang paused, looking at his earnest, determined eyes. A warm feeling rose in her chest, and an appreciative smile spread across her face. That should settle things, she thought, letting out a quiet breath of relief.
By this time, the branches and firewood in the hearth had crackled down to embers, the flames fading until only dull red glows remained.
Yuanxiang waited until the heat was no longer scorching, then squatted down and used a smooth, trimmed branch to carefully lift each of the six clay bowls out of the ash.
Heat mixed with the smell of burnt wood rose up, and ash clung to the bowls, carrying the distinctive scent of fired earth.
Of the six bowls, three cracked into pieces the moment she lifted them, their edges jagged, revealing the fine grain of the clay inside. The remaining three looked intact—their original earthy color had been fired into a warm gray-red, with patches of dark char where the flames had kissed them.
She poured some water into one to test it. A bright bead of water soon seeped through the bottom—a small hole had formed during firing, rendering it useless. But the other two held up well, holding water without a single leak.
She tapped her knuckle against the side of one bowl. Clink, clink—the clear sound echoed through the quiet courtyard, carrying a simple, solid weight. The hardness seemed more than sufficient.
Looking down at the palm-sized bowl in her hand—its rim a little rough, its shape not perfectly even—the substantial feel of it made her lips curve upward.
The success rate was painfully low—only two out of six, barely thirty percent. But the cost was almost nothing; all they needed was mud and firewood. Most importantly, this first batch proved that the local clay was indeed suitable for pottery-making.
Clink, clink—Erguo and Sanxi copied her, tapping the bowls with their fingers, their eyes bright with joy as they grinned widely.
“It sounds so nice!” Sanxi whispered. “Almost like the ones you buy in town—only not as shiny.”
Erguo couldn’t help running his hand along the bowl’s rim, finding the rough surface oddly comforting.
“So can we make lots and lots?” Sanxi hugged her bowl tightly, her eyes wide with excitement. “We just need to dig mud from the river, right?”
Yuanxiang smiled and nodded. “We sure can! Besides these small bowls for eating, we can make bigger ones for serving food, or even jars and basins for boiling water and soup. Once we practice a few more times and get the temperature just right, we’ll be able to make them even nicer and sturdier.”
The two children listened with bright, hopeful faces, as if they could already see the courtyard filled with warm red pottery gleaming softly in the sunlight.