The three exchanged glances—none of them knew who could be visiting at this hour.
“Who is it?” Song Yuanxiang called out, her guard up. Before she fully understood this new world she’d entered, she wasn’t keen on meeting people just yet.
She walked slowly to the door and peered through the crack, but darkness had fallen completely, and she could see nothing outside. She called out again.
With a stranger lying inside their hut, her mind raced with how to explain him if anyone saw.
“Yuanxiang, it’s me—Arong,” a familiar, timid female voice replied.
“It’s Sister Arong!” Sanxi whispered excitedly.
Arong? Song Arong, the daughter of her uncle Song Lianggui?
Song Lianggui had two children: his eldest daughter Song Arong, also sixteen this year, and his younger son Song Zhuangshi.
Since Arong and Yuanxiang were the same age, they’d played together since childhood and were close friends. During their flight from the flood, when Yuanxiang and her siblings were starving, Arong had secretly shared her own rations with them, helping them survive all the way to Xu Village. When her mother found out, she’d slapped Arong in front of everyone.
Grateful for Arong’s kindness, Yuanxiang opened the door as soon as she recognized her voice.
Standing outside was a girl of similar height to Yuanxiang, thin and timid-looking, with narrow, slanted eyes. What stood out most was a dark brown scar stretching from the corner of her eye to her cheek—about half the length of a finger.
The scar had been left by a hot fire poker when Arong was young, helping in the kitchen. Because of it, many villagers had teased her in the past, so she’d rarely wanted to play with others; Yuanxiang had been her only close friend in the village.
“Yuanxiang, take this,” Arong said the moment the door opened, pressing a small cloth bag into Yuanxiang’s hands. She looked very nervous, her eyes not meeting Yuanxiang’s as she spoke but constantly glancing back the way she’d come.
“My parents don’t know I’m here—I have to hurry back.”
“Wait, what is this? Are you leaving already?” Before Yuanxiang could say more, Arong turned and hurried away.
Yuanxiang was left confused—Arong’s expression had been so complex, she couldn’t make sense of it. She weighed the burlap bag in her hand; it wasn’t heavy, but when she opened it, she found it was filled with husked brown rice.
Meanwhile, Arong hurried home, her mind full of worry. Earlier that day, she’d watched Yuanxiang leave with Erguo and Sanxi in anger to move into this hut, and she’d been helpless to help. She’d thought Yuanxiang was just saying angry words and would return eventually, but when no one came back, she’d decided to check on them.
The rice was what she’d saved bit by bit from her own rations while cooking at home, hoping her parents wouldn’t notice. She didn’t dare tell Yuanxiang how she’d managed to get it, though.
Holding the small amount of rice that felt heavy as lead in her hands, Yuanxiang was touched. She closed the door and turned to her siblings: “Next time we see Sister Arong, we must thank her properly.”
In these times, food was more precious than life itself. She had no idea how Arong had managed to sneak the grain out from under her difficult uncle and aunt’s noses.
Erguo and Sanxi nodded—they knew Sister Arong was good to them. When they’d lived with their uncle, she’d been the only one who never bullied them.
Back inside, Yuanxiang poured all the rice into the cleaned clay basin, added water to rinse it, and carefully sifted out the bits of chaff mixed in.
Erguo watched with a pained expression: “A-Jie, should we save some rice for tomorrow? We can eat wild vegetables today.”
The rice Arong had brought was barely enough to fill one clay bowl—split three ways, each of them would get only a small half-bowl.
“Let’s have a good meal today; we’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes,” Yuanxiang replied without looking up.
Only then did it hit her—she missed her grandparents. If she’d known she’d travel through time, she would have gone back to the village to care for them while she could. After years of studying away from home, the time she’d spent with them had been few and far between. She’d always thought she’d have more time—once she had a job, she’d work hard to bring them to the city to live with her…
But now, there would be no chance. She couldn’t bear to think how heartbroken they’d be to learn she was gone. The thought filled her with sadness.
Erguo could tell his sister’s mood had suddenly dropped and said nothing more.
Sanxi was crouching on the ground sorting the wild vegetables they’d gathered. When she heard they’d be cooking all the rice, she grinned and worked even faster.
Erguo brought in firewood, and Yuanxiang set up the clay basin with water inside, then placed three bamboo tubes filled with rice into it to steam.
Thanks to the short knife they’d found with the man—on the way back, she’d tested it on some bamboo and found it cut through easily, sharp enough to slice through metal as if it were mud. With it, they’d made bowls and chopsticks from bamboo.
While waiting, Yuanxiang thought about how they’d need to build a proper stove, then glanced around the hut—they were missing so many things: an iron pot, kitchen knife, spatula, wooden basin, broom…
And most importantly of all—food! She didn’t know where to start, and she’d also overlooked another critical problem: she had no money!
Her mind wandered as she listened to the crackle of the fire in the cold night. After what felt like both a long time and no time at all, gurgling sounds came from the clay basin.
Yuanxiang had made rice porridge—knowing their bodies had been starved, soft porridge would be better for their stomachs than dry rice.
She stirred the porridge gently in the bamboo tubes with her bamboo chopsticks, and Erguo and Sanxi copied her movements, laughing happily as they did so.
The glutinous white grains had absorbed the water and swollen open, blooming from the bottom to the edges of the tubes—plump and full of life. The steam rising from the bamboo carried the warm scent of rice, filling the hut with a sense of peace and comfort.
Erguo and Sanxi stirred their portions, their stomachs growling as they inhaled the aroma. They kept peeking at the porridge with almost reverent eyes—white rice porridge! Even back in their old village, they’d rarely had the chance to eat it.
Sanxi wiped at her drooling mouth repeatedly, asking: “A-Jie, when can we eat? I’m so hungry!”
When it was ready, Yuanxiang added a handful of chopped shepherd’s purse leaves, stirred well, and said: “Alright, it’s done—be careful, it’s hot!”
Sanxi had been waiting eagerly and immediately picked up her clay bowl, holding on tight even though it burned her hands. She leaned in slowly and took a small sip, letting the warm porridge fill her mouth before swallowing it down. Her eyes crinkled with joy as she looked at Yuanxiang:
“It’s so sweet! So fragrant!”
Yuanxiang laughed, amused by the little girl’s innocent delight. She took a sip herself—the top layer was thick with rice oil, creamy white and rich, holding all the essence of the grains. The tender shepherd’s purse leaves added a fresh, clean flavor. As the hot porridge slid down her throat, it felt like a warm current spreading through her body, chasing away the cold and exhaustion, soothing every part of her.
For the first time since the series of unexpected events, Yuanxiang felt truly at ease—food in her stomach made her feel grounded and alive. Despite how hard things were, at least she was here, living and breathing.
Erguo and Sanxi still felt like they were dreaming. As they savored each bite of porridge, too happy to speak, Sanxi suddenly asked in a small voice:
“A-Jie… after we eat this meal, will there be no more food tomorrow?”
Erguo’s face fell at her words.
Yuanxiang didn’t know for sure if she could keep them alive here, but she knew she needed to give them hope. Smiling, she said: “As long as we work hard, our lives will get better and better.”
Erguo nodded firmly: “Tomorrow we’ll go dig more wild vegetables!”
Sanxi chimed in: “Yeah! I’ll go too!”
After the meal, Erguo and Sanxi washed the bowls and basin as they always did.
A small bowl of thick rice oil was still warming by the fire—Yuanxiang had saved it specially. She sat beside the unconscious man and carefully fed him with her chopsticks, letting the liquid slide slowly into his mouth. He swallowed instinctively.
Elderly people often said rice oil was the most nourishing food of all, capable of restoring vitality. She hoped it would help him recover soon.
The night was cold, so she’d lit a small fire beside his bed and covered him with a layer of straw for warmth. Still, he lay there motionless and silent.
Late at night, Yuanxiang woke up shivering—the roof was drafty, and the fire beside her bed had gone out. Seeing her siblings huddled together under the straw, she got up to relight the fire and add more wood.
She also checked on the man, and found he’d developed a high fever in the night. His brows were furrowed tightly, his forehead covered in sweat—he looked to be in great pain, yet he bit his lip so hard not a single sound escaped him.
He can really endure, Yuanxiang thought. If she hadn’t gotten up to check on him, he would have burned with fever all night long.
She first wiped the sweat from his face and body, then soaked a cloth in cold water to place on his forehead to bring down the temperature.
The man had felt as if every inch of his skin was burning, tormented by restlessness and agony. The sudden cool touch was like water to a thirsty traveler—his brow relaxed, his body eased, and his breathing grew calm and steady.
Looking at him, Yuanxiang picked up the short knife again to examine it. In this era, weapons were strictly controlled—ordinary people were only allowed tools like kitchen knives or woodcutters for daily use.
The short knife was about ten cun* long, its blade dark gray, looking both sturdy and sharp. Close inspection revealed a character carved into the handle: Yun.
Did this character relate to him? What was his identity? A soldier from this time? Why was he here? Had he been pursued by enemies?
Yuanxiang’s mind raced with possibilities—she couldn’t shake the feeling that this man would bring nothing but trouble to them. She only hoped he’d wake up soon and leave as quickly as possible.
After tending to him for half the night, she finally wore herself out and fell asleep.
Note: A “cun” is a traditional Chinese unit of length, approximately 3.3 centimeters (1.3 inches).