And within a moment, I found myself lying once again on the familiar straw mat. The ceiling above me was cracked and faded, but the moment felt strange, like waking from a vivid dream and finding reality... altered.
I lifted my hand tentatively, expecting resistance, weakness, pain. But it moved, smoothly. Weakly, yet at the same time easily
I flexed my fingers. The ache that once gnawed at every joint had dulled, nearly vanished.
I swung my legs over the edge of the mat. Small, thin legs, my body was only eight years old, but it looked closer to five from malnourishment. Still, they responded. Shaky, yes, but no longer paralyzed by weakness.
Heart pounding, I slowly stood. My knees trembled, but they held. For the first time since entering this world, I could stand on my own. No more just watching life pass by from a sickbed. I was standing.
Step by unsteady step, I walked toward the door, the uneven, makeshift door pieced together from old nipa leaves and thin bamboo stripes. I pushed it open, the light spilling in gently, and stepped outside into the chilling, dry air.
As I stepped out, the morning sun barely warmed the ground, but the air felt lighter, fresher, than I remembered. The small courtyard was still quiet, save for the soft clatter of pots from the back.
I spotted my mother, Qin Chunhua, passing by with a worn basket in hand. She froze mid-step when her gaze landed on me, standing awkwardly by the door, my head peeking out.
"Lan'er!" she gasped, rushing to me.
Before I could say a word, her arms were already supporting me gently, guiding me to sit on the nearby stool. Her hands trembled slightly.
"Mother, I want to go to the kitchen," I said, reaching out to clutch her calloused hand.
She blinked down at me, stunned for a heartbeat before her lips curled into a relieved smile. "Is Lan'er hungry? Wait here, I'll get you some congee, alright?"
She tried to wiggle her hand free from mine, but I didn't let go right away.
I knew.
We barely had enough for one proper meal a day. And even that was usually shared among five people. What congee? There was no leftover rice, and whatever we had was saved for the others, for survival. If she made congee now, it would be from her own portion. She would go hungry without a word of complaint.
My throat tightened.
I slowly released her hand.
"Thank you, Mother," I whispered, even though I didn't mean just for the congee.
But before she could leave, I quickly shook my head.
"No, no! Lan'er isn't hungry—I just want to look around the kitchen for a bit. Mother won't mind, right?" I tilted my head and looked up at her with a small smile.
Qin Chunhua's stern expression immediately softened, a warmth returning to her tired eyes.
"Mother can't say no to Lan'er. Alright, let's go."
With careful steps, she took my hand again, guiding me toward the kitchen. Her pace was slow, measured, as if the very ground might betray me at any moment. She shielded me from the uneven dirt path, her free hand gently steadying my frail frame each time I stumbled.
The kitchen wasn't much, just a few old pots, a cracked clay stove, and a handful of herbs hanging by twine.
When we arrived at the kitchen, Mother gently helped me sit down beside a large clay jar. Its surface was worn and cool to the touch, and the faint smell of earth lingered around it. I leaned over, curious, and peeked inside, the jar was filled nearly to the brim with water.
"Does Master want me to replace the water with the well water?"
Green's voice suddenly echoed inside my head. I nearly jumped out of my skin. A chill ran down my back, and I had to fight the urge to look around in panic. I gave a slight nod instead, thankful that Qin Chunhua wasn't looking in my direction, she might've thought her daughter had finally gone mad.
Then, right before my eyes, the surface of the water rippled. No hands touched it, no ladle stirred it. An invisible current drew the old water out, and just as silently, it filled again—clearer, purer, almost glowing in the dim kitchen light.
I watched, stunned, heart pounding with quiet awe. That was the well water, the one filled with Qi. The realization settled in my chest like a seed waiting to sprout.
If this water could heal me... could it help my family too?
Who am I kidding, of course it would.
Mother..." I called softly. She turned to look at me, worry etched deep into her pale face, concern clinging to her like a second skin.
"I have something to tell you and Father," I said, lowering my voice, "but... I think my brothers shouldn't know. Not yet."
Her eyes widened with alarm as she stepped closer, kneeling beside me. The sheen in her gaze shimmered with unshed tears. She looked as if I'd just told her I was dying.
Panic sparked in my chest, an unfamiliar emotion that tightened my throat. I rushed to explain, stumbling over my words.
"Don't worry! It's not bad—really! It's something Lan'er thinks can help the family." I smiled, though it felt shaky. "I wouldn't say it if it wasn't important."
Her breath caught, and for a moment her hand hovered above mine before gently clasping it. Relief swept across her features like dawn chasing away night.
"I see," she murmured with a wobbly smile. "Mother was overreacting again, huh?"
I bit back the sarcastic retort forming on my tongue and settled for a faint smile. "A bit."
I glanced at her, this woman who had given everything she had just to see her sick child live—and then let my eyes wander to the jar of water beside us.
"How about... you have a drink of water, Mother?" I suggested gently, nodding toward the jar. "Just to soothe your heart a little."
She blinked at me, surprised, and then her expression softened. I kept my smile steady, even as my heart pounded. This was the first step.