"Oh dear, it seems like we might need to fetch some more water," I heard my mother mutter to herself as she leaned over the large water jar. Her brows were lightly furrowed as she swirled the ladle, confirming what she had just felt, nearly empty.
My father, who had been reaching to pour himself another cup, peered around her shoulder. His hand stilled mid-air. "You're right. There's barely enough for even a sip."
"I didn't mean to drink so much," my mother said with a sheepish chuckle. "It just tasted so... good. Fresh, like spring water straight from the mountain." She rubbed her stomach absently. "I kept sipping it while I was cooking and before I knew it, the jar was halfway gone."
"No wonder I felt like I could walk another mile," my father said, smiling. "Maybe it's a good sign."
I sat quietly on the straw mat, wrapped snugly in my father's coat, listening to them talk. Even as poor as we were, their banter felt light
I tried to sit up straighter, the coat's heavy warmth making me feel sluggish. "I can go and get more—" before I stilled myself at my slip up.
"No, you most certainly will not," my mother said quickly, giving me a stern look as she turned. "You're still recovering. What if you catch another chill? No heavy lifting, and definitely no walking to the well alone. You could barely walk." But it seems like she hadn't notice it.
"But—"
"No buts, Lan'er," she said, softer this time, walking over to tuck the coat tighter around my thin frame. "You've just barely opened your eyes again. Let your brothers handle it."
"Shanyuan, Yaoting," she called over her shoulder. "Take the bucket and go fetch some water from the well. And behave, no playing."
"Yes, Mother!" the boys echoed, springing to their feet with the unburdened enthusiasm of youth. They grabbed the bucket and ladle, the younger one hopping a little as he followed his older brother out the door.
I watched them go, their laughter quickly swallowed by the wind outside.
I stared at the nearly empty jar, my fingers curling slightly over the rim of the coat draped over me. A part of me itched to experiment. How far could I go? How fast could I help them all recover? How much could I give before it became dangerous? would it even become dangerous? Its just water.
But another part whispered caution. These were no longer NPCs in a farming game. They were my family now.
My thoughts were interrupted as Qin Chunhua busied herself with the stove again, stirring the thin congee, her back straight despite the fatigue in her movements. I saw how her shoulder trembled when she lifted the pot, how her fingers gripped the ladle too tightly.
"We got lucky today. Our son found the fish swimming in shallow waters, so there was no need to dive," my father said as he rolled up his sleeves and began cleaning the wild vegetables they had brought home. "Our eldest also found a new foraging spot. We ended up with more vegetables than we expected."
Qin Chunhua, my mother, set aside the cooking utensils. She paused when she heard this and glanced toward the baskets. "If we have extra," she said thoughtfully, "let's take them to town to sell. Lan'er still needs to replenish her tonics, and winter is fast approaching. The children will need thicker, coarser clothes soon."
"We can reuse the old ones to make winter clothes, can't we?" my father suggested, rinsing a root vegetable under a thin stream of water.
My mother shook her head and gave a tired sigh. "No. The old clothes are in tatters. I've patched them as much as I could, but they're at their limits. Mending them again would take too much thread and effort, it might end up costing more than buying new ones from the market."
Father frowned slightly, but didn't argue. I could see the crease forming between his brows, the subtle way his shoulders stiffened.
"I'll see if any of the neighbors want to trade goods instead," he finally said, setting aside the cleaned vegetables into a woven tray. "If not, we'll go to town in a day or two."
A heavy silence settled for a moment in quiet contemplation. The kind that came from parents carefully measuring every coin, to stretch across days still unknown.
I chose that moment to speak up, afraid that if I waited too long, they might really go and trade away what little we had for tonics that wouldn't help. The warmth of the hearth comforted me, but the heaviness in my chest made it hard to stay still.
"Mother, Father," I called softly, yet clearly, from where I sat, bundled in my father's coat beside the fire. "I have something important to tell you."
They both looked up at once. My mother paused mid-stir over the pot, and my father turned fully to face me, his hands still wet from washing the vegetables.
"What is it, Lan'er?" my mother asked gently, concern immediately washing over her expression.
I hesitated, my fingers gripping the cloth of the coat. My heart beats a little bit faster.
From the corner of my eye, I could still tell my brothers hadn't returned—the doorway remained empty, the rhythmic patter of footsteps on dirt conspicuously absent. They were likely still out, fetching water from the well. That gave me a moment more. A quiet space to speak without their young ears listening in.
I took a breath, letting the warmth of the hearth ground me before I began.
"Do you remember those stories Father used to tell me?" I asked, my eyes focused on the flickering flames. "About the benevolent immortals? The ones who descended from the heavens, cloaked in light, always powerful and wise..."
My mother tilted her head. Her eyes softened, the way they often did when nostalgia stirred in her chest. "Of course. You used to fall asleep to those tales every night."
I gave a small, wistful smile. "They always helped people. Whether it was giving clean water, curing a sickness, or bringing food to barren lands... they never asked for anything in return."