The sky had not yet fully brightened; in the east, only a sliver of pale light marked the coming day.
The mountains and forest remained steeped in deep blue tranquility.
Li Lanxiang had already risen, moving quietly.
The dull ache at her temple had subsided considerably, leaving only a faint soreness that did not hinder her movements.
Her mind was restless with worries, so her sleep had been light.
The fire in the stove quickly flared up, driving away the early morning chill.
She added more water to the pot than yesterday, more white rice, and cut the mountain yams into larger chunks.
Thinking further, she took several more eggs from the basket, washing them along with the remaining ones from yesterday, and set them to cook in another small pot of water.
She also prepared plenty of coarse-grain flour, kneaded and rolled it out, frying each flatbread in the hot pan until both sides were golden and fragrant.
By the time Wang Dashan and Wang Tiezhu finished washing and entered the main room, the table was already laid with steaming yam rice porridge, a tall stack of coarse-grain flatbreads, and a small dish of pickled vegetables.
Each person also had a peeled boiled egg.
Wang Dashan paused briefly at the sight of the more abundant breakfast compared to yesterday.
He lifted his eyes to Li Lanxiang, who was focused on ladling porridge for Liu Xinghua. The soft glow of the stove highlighted her side profile, calm and intent.
The three of them sat down in silence to eat.
The porridge was thick; the yams tender. The flatbreads were crisp outside and soft within.
Wang Dashan ate quickly, but each bite was deliberate, as if he wanted to draw every calorie into his body to prepare for the long, potentially dangerous trek into the mountains.
Li Lanxiang ate sparingly herself. Once everyone was nearly finished, she stood and went to the kitchen.
She returned holding a small bundle wrapped in a clean piece of old cloth.
Approaching Wang Dashan, she handed it to him:
“Here are a few eggs and some flatbreads. Take them with you—if… if you can’t come back by noon, use them to stave off hunger in the mountains.”
Her voice was low but clear, carrying a note of command that left no room for debate.
Wang Dashan took the still-warm bundle.
It wasn’t large, but it had weight. The eggs were valuable household resources; the flatbreads were solid, reliable sustenance. She had wrapped them for him and Tiezhu herself, worried they might go hungry in the mountains.
His fingers tightened around the bundle, and he looked up, his gaze heavy as it settled on Li Lanxiang’s face.
It was a deep, fathomless look, like a mountain pool: calm on the surface, yet with turbulent currents beneath.
There was surprise, assessment, and… something else, subtle and unspoken.
His lips moved, as if to speak, but he only let his Adam’s apple bob and murmured a low, “Mm,” tucking the bundle carefully against his body.
Li Lanxiang read the meaning behind that look but did not flinch. She knew what she was doing.
The dangers of the mountains were real; she could not change the fact that they had to forage, but at least she could ensure they went with a little less hunger and a little more strength.
“Be careful,” she said softly, repeating the words from last night.
Wang Dashan looked at her once more, then said nothing, turning to Wang Tiezhu, who had already gathered the tools and waited by the door:
“Let’s go.”
Father and son quickly disappeared into the lingering morning mist and dense mountain shadows.
Li Lanxiang stood at the gate, watching until they were completely out of sight before turning back.
She spoke to Liu Xinghua, who stood at the doorway holding the child:
“Xinghua, Shizhu and I will go into the mountains to look for some things. If we’re late at noon, keep the fire going and make something to eat—don’t go hungry.”
Liu Xinghua was surprised but quickly nodded:
“Okay, mother. Be careful yourself—your head still hurts.”
“It’s fine,” Li Lanxiang waved her off.
She turned to Wang Shizhu, already excited and ready:
“Shizhu, bring the basket and the small hoe. We’re going.”
“All right!”
Shizhu eagerly lifted his tools and followed.
Li Lanxiang locked the courtyard gate and led Shizhu in a different direction from Wang Dashan and Tiezhu, entering the autumnal morning forest.
The mountain path was rugged, thick with fallen leaves that rustled beneath their feet.
The air was crisp, filled with the scent of soil and humus.
Sunlight filtered through the now-sparse branches, casting dappled shadows.
Li Lanxiang moved deliberately, scanning the surrounding plants.
The original owner’s memory contained much of the mountain’s survival wisdom—edible fruits, simple medicinal herbs for headaches or fevers, durable vines.
Her own memory added knowledge of seasoning, storage, and basic cultivation, a different era’s know-how.
The combination gave her a new understanding of the forest.
“Mother, what are we looking for?” Shizhu asked curiously from behind, expecting perhaps firewood or fallen fruits.
“Something… edible or useful,” she replied vaguely, her sharp eyes scanning a damp, shaded slope.
Suddenly, her eyes brightened, and she hurried forward.
The slope opened into a small clearing, where a plant grew with pinnate leaves, some already yellowing, but the rootstock remained full of life.
She squatted and carefully dug with her small hoe, revealing dark-brown, curving roots thicker than a thumb.
“Shizhu, come here and dig this. Be careful not to break it, try to dig deep,” she instructed.
“What is it? Bracken roots? They’re hard and bitter. People only ground them into flour in famines—it tastes awful,” Shizhu grumbled.
“Now is the right time. Take it back—I have a use for it,” she said, and began digging herself.
Though Shizhu was puzzled, he obeyed, and soon they had filled half a basket with bracken roots.
Li Lanxiang wiped the sweat from her brow and moved deeper into the forest, targeting a sunlit, rocky area.
After about half an hour, she found a familiar tree among the rocks.
Its bark was gray-brown with vertical fissures. She sniffed it and scraped a bit of the inner bark with her knife, revealing a reddish-brown inner layer with a warm, spicy scent.
Cinnamon.
Though not as thick and uniform as she remembered, the scent left no doubt—wild cinnamon trees grew here.
“Shizhu, peel some of the old bark from the base of this tree. Don’t be greedy, and don’t harm it,” she instructed.
“Mother, why peel the bark? You can’t even use it for fire,” Shizhu asked, puzzled.
“It’s useful—it’s for flavoring,” she said simply, and began peeling the best pieces herself.
As the sun climbed, the forest mist lifted.
The basket now contained bracken roots and cinnamon bark.
Not yet satisfied, Li Lanxiang continued searching, finding wild onions, garlic, and even a small cluster of broad-leafed, serrated plants—plantain, a cooling, diuretic herb that could be dried for tea.
By now, it was nearly noon, and the basket was almost full.
“Let’s go home,” Li Lanxiang said, stretching her slightly sore back.
Shizhu, carrying the heavy basket, was full of questions, but seeing his mother’s calm and resolute profile, he felt inexplicably reassured.
Since she had regained consciousness after hitting her head, mother seemed… different.
He liked this difference. Breakfast had been better than usual, and she even took him into the mountains to collect all these curious things.
The two of them retraced their path home. Behind them, the forest remained silent and profound, yet as if a small corner of it had quietly been revealed, showing new possibilities.