Chapter 30: There Is a Girl Named Xiaofang in the Village (Please Follow for Updates)

Page 1/3

This bolt from the blue struck Song, leaving him panic-stricken and desperate to flee. This naturally could not escape the sharp, discerning eyes of the old village secretary. Unwilling to bear the shame, the old man reacted with fierce and stern rebukes, forcing the two into a hasty marriage.

They were wed in the height of summer, a season when the blossoms were at their most vibrant, reaching the very pinnacle of their bloom.

On their wedding night, the candlelight flickered as if bursting with life. Xiao Fang thought to herself, "How happy I am. I truly wish it could be like this forever..."

Days passed in a cycle of grueling farm work, trivial domestic squabbles, and fleeting, modest joys. A child was born, and whispers began to drift down from above about the educated youth being allowed to return to the cities.

The educated youth grew restless. Song Jingming was no exception; he struggled internally, yet he did not leave. However, a few days later, two letters from the capital jolted him awake. He realized he belonged at the very heart of the nation, not rotting away in silence in this remote village in the southern frontier until death claimed him.

A few days later, Song left a letter behind and vanished quietly.

It was a poem, or perhaps, a song. It was the final vestige of his tenderness.

"There is a girl in the village named Xiao Fang, beautiful and kind-hearted. With a pair of lovely, wide eyes and thick, long braids. On the night before I returned to the city, you and I came to the side of the stream. Tears that had never flowed before mingled with the stream’s current. Thank you for the love you gave me. I will never forget it in this lifetime. Thank you for the gentleness you gave me. You accompanied me through those years. How many times have I looked back at the road I traveled? I sincerely wish you well, kind girl. How many times have I looked back at the road I traveled? You are standing there, by the little village."

Xiao Fang remained silent. She did not join those from the village or the county who had suffered similar fates in filing complaints at the Office for Educated Youth, nor did she attempt to pursue the man who had made up his mind to leave.

Yet, Xiao Fang was strong. She was determined to raise her child. She named her daughter "Little Grass," hoping that, like the resilient grass, she would survive, while also using the name to inspire herself.

The heavy burdens of life, the malicious whispers of others, the crushing poverty, the wailing daughter waiting to be fed, and her own frail body, broken after the hemorrhaging of childbirth—everything pressed down upon Xiao Fang, leaving her unable to catch her breath.

She was slowly withering away.

Because autumn had arrived.

"Can this piece of trash just die already!"

Cheng Kaiyan sighed, writing the final strokes of the first volume on the gridded paper, his voice filled with venom.

Page 2/3

Overall, he was satisfied with this version. The fervor of the educated youth going down to the countryside to support agricultural construction, their unity in the face of epidemics, and then the gradual descent into poverty and pervasive anxiety—all these contradictions culminated in an explosion during this season of Liqiu.

Next would be the second volume, "Autumn." Cheng Kaiyan had already mapped it out; it would be short, roughly fifty thousand words.

His old father, the village secretary, would be consumed by rage and illness over the incident. With no one to visit him, the man who had given his all for the village would soon pass away.

As life dragged on and various hardships mounted, the eve of winter arrived. Sensing her time was short, Xiao Fang would pass away after taking Little Grass to the capital to search for Song.

On the journey, she would die of illness, leaving Little Grass an orphan. The girl would end up scavenging for food in trash heaps alongside a boy a year or two her senior. The two would depend on each other for survival as they made their way to the capital, where the boy would steal to support her and manage to secure a spot for her to sit in on classes. Later, she would grow up with great tenacity, even abandoning her dignity just to stay alive.

By the time they reached their late teens in the nineties, the social environment would have shifted drastically. On the eve of the college entrance exam, the boy would be imprisoned for theft, driven by hunger. Little Grass would perform excellently on the exam, only to be denied entry because her identity had been stolen. She would eventually discover that the girl who stole her identity was her own half-sister.

In the end, in the depths of a cold winter, she would choose to immolate herself.

The ancients praised the wild grass: "The wildfire cannot burn it all; the spring breeze brings it back to life." But if there is never any spring, how can it ever grow again?

"Got it, I'll be back tonight."

At the Wutong Courtyard in the capital, Cheng Kaiyan picked up his mother’s briefcase and pushed his bicycle out the door. Today, he was going to visit the venerable Mr. Ye Shengtao to seek his guidance. Although he believed his work was at least above the passing grade, he lacked confidence in his own writing. He hoped the old master could shed some light on his path.

In the early morning, a biting wind whipped through the alley, yet Cheng Kaiyan felt no cold. He was wearing new clothes—a heavy grey cotton-padded jacket filled with cotton harvested from the rural outskirts of the capital this year, processed through multiple stages. It was fluffy, soft, and warm.

In the blink of an eye, he arrived at Dongsi Batiao in the East City District. Blue bricks, tiled eaves, and an exquisite doorway. The door was open, and he could see the elderly Mr. Ye exercising in front of the screen wall.

Hearing the tapping of the door knocker, Mr. Ye turned his head. Seeing the tall, slender young man standing outside, he smiled. "Ah, Comrade Cheng is here. Come in, come in. Why are you standing at the door?"

"Good morning, sir. Have you eaten?"

Page 3/3

The two stepped into the study.

Entering the room, the first thing that caught the eye was a carved wooden window. Sunlight spilled through the latticework in fine, golden spots, casting a warm hue over the interior. In the center of the study stood a large rosewood desk, which occupied the place of honor. Several exquisite Hu brushes hung on a brush rack, accompanied by a stack of rice paper and a Duan inkstone.

To one side of the desk stood a bookshelf filled with various classical texts, ranging from the *Classic of Poetry* to the *Songs of Chu*, and from the *Records of the Grand Historian* to the *Book of Han*. Between the books were several bronze ornaments and small porcelain vases, their archaic forms bearing the marks of time. In one corner of the study sat a simple tea table, holding a tea set from which thin wisps of fragrance curled, adding a touch of elegance to the room.

"What a beautiful study. Mr. Ye possesses the refined air of an ancient scholar; it is truly enviable," Cheng Kaiyan said, looking around in admiration.

Hearing this, a smile touched Mr. Ye Shengtao’s kind face. He was deeply fond of such elegant artifacts and often spent his own money at antique and calligraphy shops to acquire items he admired, even though such pursuits were not currently in vogue.

After the initial pleasantries, the two sat across from each other at the tea table, boiling water and pouring tea.

"Wuyi Mountain Dahongpao. Consider yourself lucky, young man."

Mr. Ye Shengtao took a small porcelain box from under the tea table, used tweezers to peel back the moisture-proof aluminum foil, and revealed the tightly knotted, dark, greenish-brown tea leaves.

Wuyi Mountain Dahongpao?

"Then many thanks for your hospitality, Mr. Ye. I shall savor this rare King of Wuyi Tea properly," Cheng Kaiyan said generously.

"You really don't treat yourself as an outsider, do you? But I admire that about you—straightforward, no affectation, unlike some others," Mr. Ye chuckled, finding the young man increasingly likable.

"I’m just thick-skinned," Cheng Kaiyan replied.

Jokes aside, he had been an orphan in his past life; how else could he have survived without a thick skin?

*Gurgle, gurgle...*

The water boiled, and the teapot began to chime. Just as Mr. Ye Shengtao was about to rise to brew the tea, Cheng Kaiyan quickly stopped him.

"Let me do it. To drink your tea and still make you brew it—how could I be so shameless?"

Cheng Kaiyan adjusted two delicate white porcelain bowls, raised the teapot high, and rinsed the bowls with a thin, thread-like stream of boiling water. Rinsing, adding tea, swirling the cup, washing the leaves... his movements were fluid and natural, a perfect blend of motion and stillness.