The sun was already sliding toward the horizon when Dai An reached the village. The roofs of the houses—thatch patched with straw, mud, and whatever scraps the villagers could find—glowed faintly in the evening light. The narrow paths were uneven, some broken stones jutting out, and the wells creaked tiredly whenever someone drew water.
Despite it all, the village carried a gentle calm. A few elders sat by their doorsteps, mending baskets or tending small cooking fires. The air was hushed, broken only by the creak of old wooden carts and the soft murmur of neighbors exchanging greetings. Most of the young had long since left; only a handful remained, and their absence left the streets wide and still.
"This place…" Dai An muttered, shaking his head as he looked around. "Half the houses are falling apart, the road's nothing but dirt, and don't even get me started on that well. And yet everyone's seems so unbothered."
"Dai An! You're back!" a middle-aged woman called, hurrying over. She carried a basket of wilted greens, her face lined from years of toil yet bright with kindness.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm back," Dai An grumbled, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. He fished into his pouch and handed her a small packet of medicine. "Here, this should help with your joints. Don't waste it, and don't go lifting buckets bigger than you."
Her eyes widened, soft with gratitude. "You went all the way to town for this? Ah, thank you, child."
"It's nothing," Dai An muttered, scratching his cheek. "Just… don't overdo it, alright? You're not twenty anymore."
He moved on before she could say more, his little pouch of medicine quickly dwindling as others gathered around. An old man hunched from years in the fields, a young mother worried for her coughing child, even one of the village boys who had scraped his knee too badly to ignore—all received a portion.
"Tch, seriously," Dai An complained as he pressed a packet into a farmer's hand. "Do none of you take care of yourselves? I can't keep running back and forth every time someone sneezes, you know."
For all his complaints, Dai An handled each person with care, listening closely and giving quiet instructions. The villagers, accustomed to his sharp tongue, simply met him with patient smiles and words of thanks.
By the time his pouch was nearly empty, the smell of cooking fires drifted through the air. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of pots clattering mixed with the chatter of families settling in for dinner. Dai An let out a sigh, glancing at the darkening sky.
"Haaah… finally. Maybe I'll actually get to eat before collapsing today." He stretched his sore shoulders and without wasting any more time, Dai An hurried home.
**
When Dai An finally arrived home, the smell of boiled greens and thin millet porridge drifted out to greet him. Madam Yun—his mother—was already setting the table, placing down two chipped bowls with a decisive clack.
"You're late," she said, hands on her hips, a few loose strands of hair falling from her hurried bun. "Don't think I'll save the good bits if you keep wandering about."
Dai An snorted, kicking off his worn shoes. "What good bits? The porridge looks like it's been watered three times already."
Her eyes narrowed. "Hah! Then don't eat it."
He slid onto the stool without hesitation, already reaching for the bowl. "Who said I won't eat? I nearly collapsed on the road. I'll eat anything right now."
Madam Yun clicked her tongue, but a smile tugged at her lips as she ladled the porridge into his bowl, tossing in the last scrap of pickled radish from a jar. "Hmph. You complain louder than a rooster, but at least you eat like one too."
As they ate, Dai An kept stealing glances at his mother, dragging out each bite with exaggerated slowness. He was clearly working himself up to bring forth a deadly topic—one that might risk his life tonight.
"So…" Dai An began, voice overly casual. He'd been rehearsing this moment in his head all day, yet the words still tangled on his tongue. "I was thinking—about the well, you know? It's in such bad shape. And the road too! If we could fix them, maybe the old folks could finally walk outside the village without stumbling. We could… make life better here, you know?" He waved his chopsticks dramatically as if the weight of the entire village rested on his argument.
Madam Yun arched an eyebrow, watching him without interrupting, her lips twitching as if she already knew he was winding up to something.
"That's why," Dai An said, leaning forward, eyes shining with exaggerated conviction, "I need to earn more money."
Madam Yun hummed, taking her time with a bite of rice. "Mm. You've always had big ideas when your stomach's full."
Dai An nearly choked. "I'm being serious!" He scratched the back of his head, trying to appear nonchalant, though his voice betrayed his excitement. "I heard being a Jingzhe pays well. And—listen to this—it's free. No tuition, no payment at all. The Xu Clan trains and teaches their disciples for free."
For only the briefest moment, Madam Yun's expression faltered. A muscle in her jaw twitched, and her chopsticks stilled midair.
"No. Absolutely not." Her voice came out sharper, colder than she seemed to intend.
"But listen—"
"That's enough!" she cut him off, her chopsticks striking the bowl with a sharp click. "Stop daydreaming about such nonsense and focus on yourself."
The finality in her tone left no room for argument. Dai An clamped his mouth shut, shoving down his annoyance along with another bite of rice.
**
The night was cold, and the thin walls of their house offered little protection. Madam Yun tossed restlessly on her mattress before finally sitting up and moving toward the window. The darkness outside wrapped their small village like a shroud. She squinted, straining to see past the black that seemed to press against the panes.
Of all the requests Dai An had ever made, this one unsettled her the most. She could not shake the foreboding that had settled in her chest the moment he had uttered the word Jingzhe.
She clutched her robe tightly, her fingers brushing the pendant of her long necklace as though seeking comfort. Her eyes drifted across the silent, sleeping village, every shadow seems to stretch longer than it should, every rustle of leaves sounded sharper in the stillness.
Suddenly, a rustling sound behind her made her jump.
"Dai An! You scared me!" she exclaimed, spinning to find him standing silently in the room.
She examined him carefully.
His eyes were empty, distant, staring through her as if she weren't there. A sigh then escaped her lips.
Gently, she tapped his cheek. "Come now, you're sleepwalking again," she said, guiding him back toward the mattress.
Dai An grunted softly, mumbling nonsense before finally settling back into a deep, undisturbed sleep.
Madam Yun shook her head, a small frown creasing her brow. "Haven't you been sleepwalking quite a lot lately? While you rest peacefully, I'm out here, listening to your murmurs every night," she whispered, half in complaint, half in affection.
Her eyes lingered on him, tracing the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Even as he drifted in and out of mumbled nonsense, she couldn't help but let out a quiet chuckle.
As she watched him her gaze softened, growing distant and tender. There was a weight behind it, an unspoken worry and countless thoughts she carried alone—burdens she had never shared with anyone. The lines of her face, the careful tilt of her shoulders, all spoke of a mother's quiet vigilance, of someone who bore the world for the sake of her child.
In that moment, as she watched Dai An sleep, Madam Yun's heart ached with a mixture of love, pride, and the heavy solitude of her hidden cares.
She could only try her best, but sometimes, maybe some things were bound to happen.