Chen Ping'an was no stranger to that kind of gaze—it was the same look he had once cast upon Liu Xianyang when he was a child. Back then, Liu Xianyang reigned as the undisputed king of the neighborhood children in Xinghua Lane and Nipin Alley. Snake-catching, bird-hunting, and fishing—there seemed to be nothing under the heavens he couldn't do. In time, those who once trailed behind him as loyal followers either left to become apprentices at the Dragon Kiln, or scattered across the small town to work in various sundry shops as clerks, or helped relatives manage their accounts. As Song Jixin once said, only those with no prospects would end up toiling in the fields. In the end, the only one still tagging along with Liu Xianyang was Chen Ping'an himself.
He threaded the three slate fish meant for the girl with a few stalks of foxtail grass, handing the makeshift string over. She weighed the fish in her hand—too light, clearly not enough for a full dish of stir-fried fish with green peppers. Her head tilted slightly as she cast a hopeful glance toward the stream's shallow pool.
Chen Ping'an understood instantly and apologized with a gentle smile. "The fish I catch next, I'll need to make soup for a friend who's recovering. I can't give you any more."
The girl pointed to the open bundle nearby, suggesting a trade: fish for pastries. But Chen Ping'an shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Pastries are delicious, and they fill the belly—but they're no match for fish soup when it comes to nourishment."
She nodded, not pushing the matter, and quietly returned to her seat. With great care, she placed the fish beside her feet and resumed her grand endeavor of eating her way through the mountain of confections.
Though curious about her background, Chen Ping'an didn't ask. Her attire didn't mark her as a noble daughter from the likes of Fulu Street or Taoye Lane. If anything, she reminded him of the neighboring girl Zhi Gui—delicate in demeanor, and quiet.
A sudden worry crept in. Could she be a maid who'd snuck off with her household's food? He'd heard of the fearsome rules in those large residences—rumors Liu Xianyang and Song Jixin loved to argue about, except in this case, both had agreed. Liu Xianyang claimed that even a wrong step could get a maid's legs broken by a steward with eyes as sharp as a hawk. Song Jixin retorted it was exaggerated gossip, though he admitted the maids did walk like cats, noiseless and precise.
Once, Liu Xianyang had seen Zhi Gui smirking on the side and flew into a rage, shouting at Song Jixin, "What do you mean 'goose'? Can your goose even talk?"
Eventually, Chen Ping'an caught seven or eight more slate fish, which thrashed so wildly that the bamboo basket rocked unsteadily in his arms. His pale face betrayed the toll—spring water was bone-chilling, and more than that, his injured left hand was struggling to endure.
After surfacing one last time, he leapt from the green stone cliff into the grass by the stream, rustling through the undergrowth. Soon, he emerged with three or four types of herbs, their roots still heavy with soil. Gathering them into his palm, he selected a smooth stone and returned to a natural hollow in the cliffside. After cleaning it, he began gently grinding the herbs. A green paste quickly formed, its scent rich with the wild fragrance of spring herbs by the stream.
Turning his back to the girl, he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth as he unraveled the cotton cloth on his left hand. Sweat quickly beaded on his forehead, mixing with the icy stream water still dripping from his hair. Though the wound had improved since he'd first bandaged it—no longer revealing bone—it was still a ghastly sight.
He hadn't planned on his injured hand touching water, so he hadn't brought extra cloth. His mind had only been on earning money from snake gallstones and making fish soup. It was only now he realized his grave mistake.
Just as he was dazed and lost in thought, a hand appeared before him, offering several clean, dry strips of cloth. The green-robed girl had quietly torn a piece from her own sleeve.
Chen Ping'an managed a bitter smile, setting courtesy aside. He applied the herbal paste, then brought one end of the cloth to his mouth, biting down. With his right hand, he wrapped and tied it around his injured hand in precise loops, his movements steady and graceful—like a butterfly weaving through branches, dazzling in their fluidity.
When he finished, he slowly raised his right arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. Both arms trembled uncontrollably, utterly drained.
The girl nearby raised a thumb with a look of admiration—You're amazing.
Chen Ping'an pointed at his own eyes with a rueful smile. "Honestly, it hurt so bad I was crying."
The girl glanced curiously at the oversized basket and bamboo fish creel he had crafted. Chen Ping'an rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. "The stones can be sold. And the fish—they matter too."
Though puzzled, the girl said nothing. Her gaze wandered, eventually landing on the shimmering waters. The murmuring stream whispered against the stones, its sound gentle and endless.
In that moment, under a star-lit sky, the world seemed vast and silent—just a boy and a girl, alone together on this human earth.
Chen Ping'an's breathing slowly settled, the urgency giving way to calm—like a raging mountain torrent softening into the quiet trickle of a dry-season brook. This subtle shift went unnoticed by him, as natural and inevitable as water flowing downhill.
He knew he couldn't stay drenched in the early spring air for long. He had to return to town and change. Though he knew nothing of medical theory, his life of illness had taught him a sharp instinct for the turning of seasons and the state of his own body.
So he slipped on his straw sandals, tied the fish creel at his waist, and hoisted the basket onto his back. With a wave, he smiled at the girl. "I'm heading off. You should get home soon too."
As he made his way down the cliff, he turned and called out, "The water near the bridge is really deep—be careful not to slip. When you go home, stick close to the rice fields. Even if you fall, it's better to get muddy than to end up in the creek…"
Mid-sentence, he realized his words sounded inauspicious—just like the curses old Aunt Gu from Nipin Alley used to spit when angry. He quickly shut his mouth and picked up his pace, running north toward the town.
The basket was heavy. But the boy in straw shoes was elated.
After unraveling a knot that had nearly suffocated his soul, for the first time, Chen Ping'an felt a true desire to live—and live well. He would make money! Enough to buy spring couplets rich with the scent of ink, painted door gods, and meat buns from Aunt Mao's shop. Maybe even a cow. Or raise a coop of chickens like Song Jixin's family next door…
The green-robed girl continued her excavation of the "mountain," solemn and determined. Each new pastry she picked up was like facing a mortal foe. While wrestling with a peach blossom cake, she suddenly froze, sensing danger.
But instead of fleeing, she stuffed a massive bite into her mouth, clapped her hands clean, and sat in place, awaiting her fate.
A man had appeared, no one knew when. Though not tall, he exuded a sturdy presence—not the clumsy heft of a farmer, but a quiet strength that commanded respect. His gaze was piercing, too sharp to meet directly.
He looked at the now half-devoured bundle with floral patterns and sighed helplessly. He opened his mouth, wanting to scold, but couldn't bear to. Seeing his daughter's stubborn expression—ready to accept punishment without excuse—his heart ached terribly, as if he were the one at fault.
He wanted to ease the mood, to say, "If you're hungry, just eat at the sword furnace by the hut. Tomorrow, I'll go to town and buy more for you."
But the words caught in his throat. For a man of few words...