The fields had turned gold.
Harvest season arrived like a slow-moving wave gradual inevitable and all-consuming. Every day, from sunrise to the last sliver of light, the village was filled with the rustle of stalks being cut, the low thump of footsteps in muddy furrows and the laughter of children chasing frogs along the barrier.
Yi Rong rose earlier now before even the roosters crowed. The mornings were still cool, and she loved that quiet stretch of time when the world hadn't fully woken. She fetched water, swept the yard and prepared steamed buns with slices of sweet potato tucked inside simple food but warm and filling for the long days ahead.
Her mother was already out back when Yi Rong stepped into the kitchen. A neat stack of bamboo slats sat by her feet ready to be woven into grain baskets. Her hands moved in a practiced movement, fingers bending and twisting with quiet determination.
"Take the porridge to your father," she said without looking up,"He left before dawn."
Yi Rong poured the hot porridge into a clay jar and wrapped it in cloth to keep it warm. Her father had joined the harvest teams helping the village elders his back ached at night but he refused to slow down,"It's just a bit of work," he always said. "Can't sit still when food's in the field."
She found him by the western paddies, knee-deep in cut stalks, his hat low over his face.
"You didn't have to bring this," he grunted but took the jar anyway.
"I know," Yi Rong replied with a small smile,"But you'll be grateful in an hour."
He didn't argue. He sat on the edge of the paddy, spooning the hot porridge carefully, steam curling around his face. Beside him, old Farmer Chen chuckled, "Your daughter's a good one,which is hard to find these days."
Her father only nodded but there was pride in the way he straightened his back a little, as if those few words had put some strength back into his spine.
Yi Rong left them to it and wandered along the narrow ridges between fields, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and damp earth. Her thoughts drifted toward Lianhua, who had stayed behind today. Her friend had been tasked with finishing a set of baskets for a wedding next week and her mother insisted she won't shrank her work today.
Still, Yi Rong missed her company. Lianhua always filled the silence with something stories, mischief, wild ideas. She was like a breeze through a still house.
As she walked, a voice called out.
"Yi Rong!"
She turned to see a boy running toward her barefoot, face flushed red from running. It was Da Bao, one of the Liu children from the far edge of the village.
"Come quick!" he panted. "It's my baby brother. He's got the red rash again!"
Yi Rong didn't hesitate,"Take me to him."
They ran together down the narrow path weaving through tall grasses and bundle of rice stalks drying in the sun. The Liu family's house stood under a crooked willow, its roof patched with tarps. Inside, the baby cried weakly, his cheeks red and patchy with rash.
Yi Rong knelt beside him, gently unwrapping the swaddle. His skin was hot but not dangerously so she checked his mouth, his breathing, the stiffness in his arms. Her mind was calm she had seen this before.
"He needs to stay cool," she told the boy's mother, "Boil some water with chrysanthemum and barley,let it cool and give him small sips."
The woman nodded eyes wide,"Thank you, Yi Rong. Thank you."
Yi Rong gave a tight smile,"He'll be fine ,let him rest and don't give him greasy food."
She stayed a little longer, helping mix the herbs and wipe the baby's forehead with a damp cloth. Then she left, slipping back into the warm sun and the hum of harvest day.
That evening, when she returned home, her hair smelled like smoke and rice husks. Her mother had made radish soup, and the warmth of it seemed to settle deep in her chest. Lianhua came by after supper, carrying a half-finished basket and a stubborn scowl.
"My fingers are raw," she grumbled collapsing on the floor.
"You should rest them," Yi Rong said gently.
"I will after this one." She held up the basket, "It's for the bride's dowry it needs to be perfect."
Yi Rong smiled and handed her a small jar of cream made by honey and calendula, soaked in oil.
"What's this?" Lianhua asked, sniffing it.
"For your hands."
Lianhua looked at her, something soft flickering in her gaze,"Sometimes I forget you're not really from here."
Yi Rong froze.
Lianhua didn't seem to notice the way she froze or perhaps she did and chose not to speak on it. Instead, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.
"I hope we can stay like this forever," Lianhua said quietly,"Our families, our village. You and me."
Yi Rong watched her for a long moment. The fire crackled low in the stove, casting golden light on the worn floorboards.
"Maybe we will," she whispered,"Maybe we'll make it so."
The next day would come with its own work another child to help, another neighbor to reassure, another day of effort in a quiet world where no one knew who she had once been.
But she didn't need them to know. She didn't need to tell her mother about the glint of city hospital tiles or the hum of electric lights. She didn't need to explain sutures or sterile gowns or the lonely quiet of machines.
Here, there was warmth not the kind born from convenience or comfort but from hands that worked, voices that called her name and meals shared even when food was scarce. There was effort in every small moment: in the mending of clothes the turning of soil, the quiet glances between those who cared without needing to say it aloud.
This was a life being carved slowly and deliberately not from the remnants of what once was but from the choices she made now each one a stitch in the fabric of something real and present.
And in that steady becoming, Yi Rong realized: it was not just enough. It was hers.