Li Lanxiang was awakened by the glaring sunlight streaming in through the window.
For a moment, as her consciousness returned, she was startled.
It wasn’t the usual awakening that carried a sense of loneliness and melancholy, nor was it like waking from the hazy, weak slumber of her later years in her previous life.
It was a…
a deep, lingering looseness in her bones, a satisfaction that seeped into her very marrow after sleeping for so long.
She blinked, staring at the crisscrossed shadows of thatched straw and beams overhead for a long while before realizing that the day had already brightened!
Judging by the sunlight, it was probably close to noon.
She had actually slept this long!
Her heart skipped. She almost immediately propped herself up into a sitting position.
The wound at her temple still throbbed slightly, but it was much better than yesterday.
The persistent dizzy heaviness had mostly subsided.
Her body felt strong again, no longer limp and floating like it had yesterday.
But what followed was a wave of belated embarrassment.
She had lived seventy-five years, plus thirty-five in this life—when had Li Lanxiang ever been so indulgent, so lazy?
In her previous life, even living alone with no one to urge her, she had been accustomed to rising at first light, sweeping the courtyard, and preparing a simple breakfast of porridge and vegetables. That discipline was ingrained in her bones.
The original Li Lanxiang was even more diligent: she would be up at the first crow of the rooster, feeding the chickens and pigs, sweeping, cooking—never a moment of idleness.
To sleep until the sun was high in the sky… well… her old face flushed.
She raised a hand to her cheek. Sure enough, it was warm to the touch.
If the village women knew about this, who knew what gossip would spread behind her back?
She composed herself and listened carefully.
The courtyard was quiet, save for the occasional cluck of a hen and a few birdsong calls from the distant forest.
Neither Wang Dashan nor his son were around.
She recalled mentioning at dinner last night that Wang Dashan should go to town today to sell wild chickens for fine grains.
Apparently, they had set out early in the morning.
She got dressed, tied her hair in a simple bun, and stepped out.
The autumn sunlight was just right, warmly bathing the courtyard and chasing away the morning chill.
The yard had been swept, firewood stacked neatly, water jars properly covered.
The chicken trough still had some leftover grains, and the pigpen was quiet—clearly, they had already been fed.
Her heart stirred slightly.
Had Wang Dashan gotten up early to do this? Or had he instructed Shizhu?
In her memory, before she had fallen ill, the original Li Lanxiang had handled most of these chores herself; Wang Dashan and his son only took care of the fields, forests, and heavy labor.
Now that she was injured, they had taken over. Their work wasn’t meticulous, but it was adequate.
At the kitchen door, a faint, slightly peculiar smell of oil and meat reached her—mild, with a hint of roast.
Inside, the stove was spotless, both iron pots gleaming.
In a cool corner by the wall, a small palm-sized coarse pottery jar appeared, its lid tightly sealed.
She lifted it—an even richer aroma of oil wafted out. The oil, a pale amber, was mostly solidified with a smooth surface.
Badger fat.
He had rendered it overnight.
Nearby was an old bamboo basket, covered with a damp cloth.
She lifted it—inside lay the remaining wild chicken, plucked clean, gutted neatly, with its gizzard and heart stored separately in a small bowl.
Every feather root was removed; the bird was immaculate.
Li Lanxiang stood there, staring at the badger fat and the prepared chicken, motionless for a long moment.
Wang Dashan was like a mountain stone—silent, solid, never one for fancy words.
Last night, she had urged him to wash after dealing with the blood and guts; he had looked puzzled.
She had directed where the prey should go; he had only grunted his agreement.
She had slept until the sun was high, yet he had already left with his son, saying nothing, leaving no message.
Yet he had quietly done so much—
Fed the chickens and pigs, swept the yard, rendered badger fat good for her and Xinghua’s wounds, even prepared the chicken for soup with such care.
No words, only action.
This was probably how men in the mountains expressed concern.
Her earlier embarrassment for sleeping late quietly faded, replaced by a calmer, steadier feeling.
Like the earth beneath her feet—rough, yet solid and dependable.
She replaced the lid on the badger fat and carefully set it back.
Then she rolled up her sleeves and began preparing lunch.
The wild chicken was cut into pieces and blanched.
She picked two cabbages from the backyard garden, keeping the outer leaves to feed the pigs and washing the tender inner hearts.
Two pieces of ginger were smashed and set aside.
There was no dedicated soup pot at home, so she used the largest clay pot, adding chicken pieces, ginger, and the few dried mushrooms soaked that morning, covering with enough water, and set it near the still-warm stove to simmer.
A slow-cooked soup over low heat was the most nourishing.
While waiting, she mixed some coarse flour with bran to prepare dough for flatbreads.
Lunch would be simple: chicken soup, flatbreads, and stir-fried cabbage.
Sunlight streamed through the small kitchen window, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air.
Li Lanxiang kneaded the dough, listening to the gentle bubbling of the soup, feeling the strength gradually returning to her body, and the warmth in her heart from this silent care.
This life was busy, humble, yet carried a tangible connection and warmth she had never known in her previous life.
She was no longer a drifting shadow, waiting for Godot—she was Li Lanxiang, feet on the earth, responsible for a jar of fat, a chicken, a pot of soup.