Life, after all, was a process of accumulation—slowly improving, bit by bit. Things couldn’t stay bad forever.
“Aman… you went out to work for others again?” Zhao Ye asked.
Aman nodded. “I met a kind person. They let me do laundry, cook, and clean at their house. They pay me by the day—thirty wen a day!”
She held up three fingers, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement.
“Your hair?” Zhao Ye asked.
Her long, black, beautiful hair… gone? How could it have gotten shorter just from one trip out?
Aman touched it and chuckled. “I thought it was in the way—hard to work with and hard to clean—so I cut it.”
“…Zhao Ye didn’t believe that tiny lie.
A person’s body and hair are gifts from their parents. How could she just chop it off on a whim?
But Aman didn’t care much. As a modern person, she wasn’t bound by traditional taboos.
Her hair was beautiful, cultivated during her time at the Crown Prince’s residence. Selling that long, black, glossy hair earned her a full mace of silver—about 100 wen.
Ordinary families rarely sold hair; cutting it was usually seen as unfilial. Only the desperate, the poor, would cut hair to survive, exchanging it for food.
Zhao Ye looked at Aman’s short hair, now tied in a boyish style, and felt an indescribable heaviness in his chest. His throat tightened, emotions prickling.
He knew Aman must have sold her hair out of necessity.
“Aman, you don’t have to do this,” he said softly.
Aman, busy with chores, didn’t hear him clearly. When she turned to look, Zhao Ye lay there, gazing up at the bright summer sky.
“Are you hot?” she asked, fanning him. Ningzhou summers were sweltering; even sitting still, one would sweat profusely.
Aman, once a little plump, was now thin, almost gaunt.
“Aman.” Zhao Ye turned his head toward her. Her black, shining eyes met his. Aman had washed his face but hadn’t shaved yet.
Slowly, he moved his hand, trying to lift it.
Aman noticed her sleeve twitching and looked down. Zhao Ye’s hand was clutching the edge of her clothing.
“Zhao Ye, your hand can move?” Aman exclaimed, overjoyed.
“Yes,” he replied.
He couldn’t speak; he had spent the entire previous night trying, and today, while Aman was out, he had kept at it. He couldn’t always let Aman go out—dangerous, exhausting work.
“That’s wonderful! Your hand can move!” Aman was ecstatic. A good omen!
She grabbed his hand, nearly at a loss for words.
“Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll bring the old doctor to give you acupuncture!” she said.
Aman was thrilled. The old doctor had said that if Zhao Ye’s fingers could move, and eventually his arm could lift on its own, a full recovery was possible.
She was amazed Zhao Ye was so determined, almost believing the doctor was a modern-day miracle worker who had revived his hand with a single treatment.
Zhao Ye never imagined Aman could be so happy over such a small improvement.
After all, his hand moving wasn’t that miraculous—he could still do little to help Aman.
“Aman, don’t be hasty,” Zhao Ye said. “You don’t have enough money yet, and I… I can’t do anything.”
He desperately wanted to recover quickly. Before, he had thought his life was over—thrown to Ningzhou by his father, left to die, forgotten by the world.
But now, he wanted to get better.
Then Aman wouldn’t have to work so hard.
“And I only have this one hand for now. You’ll have to wait a bit longer,” he added.
“Yes, yes, you’re right!” Aman slapped her forehead. “I was too happy and got ahead of myself. It’s just the beginning.”
“Still, this is truly good news, Zhao Ye.” She asked, eyes sparkling, “Do you still want to die?”
Zhao Ye sighed. With Aman like this, he dared not. “Since you want me to live, then I’ll live.”
He feared that if he died, Aman might follow him.
Because of him, the entire Crown Prince’s residence had suffered. Innocent servants had died, and Aman was the only one left alive.
Not only did she harbor no resentment about being exiled with him to this poor place, she cared for him diligently.
Even the hardest heart would soften at this.
“That’s wonderful!” Aman said. “Now you want to live, and I’ve found work to earn money. Zhao Ye, we’ll make our life better from now on!”
To live well—her wish was so simple.
“Wait here, I’ll cook now. It’ll be ready soon!”
Aman dashed out. Zhao Ye watched her thin back disappear into the kitchen. Soon, the clattering of utensils signaled she was hard at work.
If he could move, he could help her cook.
The aroma of rice wafted over, faintly sweet. Aman had indulged a little—buying four meat buns and spending two wen on five or six sweet potatoes from an old farmer.
She peeled and cut the sweet potatoes, mixing them with the rice. Sweet potato rice was ready.
She also quickly stir-fried some wild greens, though sparingly, since there was little oil. Compared to the previous few days of dry, cold vegetables, this was much better.
The sweet potato rice included some coarse rice. Aman cooked a large pot and served herself and Zhao Ye each a generous bowl, pressing the rice down firmly.
She hadn’t eaten a full meal in four months!
This bowl of rice was a rare luxury.
“Zhao Ye, can you hold chopsticks now?”
Before, Aman had fashioned makeshift chopsticks from thin branches, trimming splinters. Later, she cut bamboo from the forest and made proper bamboo chopsticks, smoothed for ease of use.
“I’ll try,” he said.
Zhao Ye’s fingers trembled, spasming as his atrophied muscles struggled against weakness.
Aman watched, hopeful for a small miracle.