The beam of light held Qiao Mian captive, the cold air stinging her face. Old Ma, a man whose face was a roadmap of forgotten brawls and too many bitter nights, stepped from behind the skeletal larch. His breath plumed in the frigid air, and the hunting rifle slung over his shoulder seemed too casual, too ready. Qiao An whimpered beside her, pressing further into her side, the half-eaten radish still clutched in his small fist.
“Well, well. Look what the snow dragged in,” Old Ma rumbled, his voice gravelly, but without the usual boisterousness he reserved for the tavern. “Ding Dafu told me you’d frozen stiff. Said I could forget the ten yuan he owed me from your… services.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the biting air. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, scanned Qiao Mian’s emaciated frame, then Qiao An’s. “Guess he miscalculated.”
Qiao Mian calculated her margins. Old Ma was a fixer, a smuggler, a man who dealt in hushed transactions and direct threats. Her body, though still weak, drew strength from the crisp root vegetable. She saw no fear in his eyes, only calculation. He wanted his money, and Ding Dafu had used her supposed death as an excuse to renege on a deal.
“He owes you ten yuan for my ‘services’?” Qiao Mian’s voice was hoarse, but steady. “What ‘services’ could I, a dying woman, possibly provide him to incur a debt with you?” The accusation hung in the air, blunt against Dafu’s casual cruelty.
Old Ma snorted. “He promised me a cut of the marriage dowry, the one he got from the Yan family for that overseas tycoon’s son. Said he’d pay when you were married off. Then you got sick, and he declared you dead, swore the deal was off. A man doesn’t go back on his word to Old Ma.” He tightened his grip on his rifle, his gaze flicking to the precious radish in Qiao An’s hand. “That root looks fresh, girl. Mighty fresh for this time of year.”
Qiao Mian knew this was her chance. A man like Old Ma understood the language of profit. She thought of the Spring-Scroll Realm, of its absurd, impossible bounty. A flash of vibrant green, the smooth, dark skin.
“What if I could make sure you get more than ten yuan?” Qiao Mian asked, her voice low, conspiratorial. “What if I could offer you something… unheard of? Something that would make even Dafu’s paltry dowry look like frost-nipped weeds?”
Old Ma chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Hah. You’re a dying woman, girl. What could you possibly have?” His skepticism was a shield, but his eyes held a flicker of curiosity.
Without a word, Qiao Mian reached into the worn satchel she’d scavenged from her coffin. Her fingers brushed against the familiar, smooth, cool skin of a fruit that had no business existing in the frozen heart of winter. She pulled it out, slowly, letting the pale moonlight catch its deep green rind, striped with darker bands. A perfectly ripe, out-of-season watermelon.
The woods filled with the scent of summer sweetness, impossibly vibrant. Old Ma’s brow twitched, his lids shrinking into tight slits. He took a step closer, inhaling sharply through dry teeth. His hardened face was a mask of disbelief. He reached out a trembling hand, his calloused thumb tracing the cool, firm surface of the fruit.
“A… a melon?” he whispered, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “In… in January? This is… impossible.”
“It’s very real,” Qiao Mian said, her voice quiet but firm. “And it’s just the beginning. Imagine the price this would fetch on the Mingshan black market. A taste of summer, when the snow is piled high outside.” She watched his internal struggle, the greed warring with his ingrained suspicion. “Help me, Old Ma. Help me disappear. And you’ll get more than just one melon. You’ll get a regular harvest.”
He stared at the melon, then at her, a strange mixture of awe and avarice in his gaze. Finally, he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “Get out of my sight, girl. And if anyone asks, you’re still frozen stiff under a foot of snow. My ten yuan… consider it paid in advance.” He turned abruptly, melting back into the shadows of the woods, the melon cradled in his arms like a newborn. The beam of his flashlight cut a final arc, then vanished, leaving Qiao Mian and Qiao An in the sudden, deeper gloom.
The bitter wind bit her cheeks as Qiao Mian led Qiao An towards the familiar, dreaded outline of the Ding household compound. The village was mostly dark, save for a few flickering oil lamps in distant windows. The snow crunched under her worn boots, each step deliberate against the gale.
Her first objective: Qiao An’s legal registration papers. Without them, he was a ghost, easily claimed and just as easily sold. The Dings kept the important documents in a lacquered box on top of the ancestral altar, a place they considered sacrosanct and therefore safe.
She scaled the low, crumbling mud-brick wall at the back of the compound, lifting Qiao An over first. He was light, fragile. The courtyard was a desolate expanse of packed snow, quiet save for the occasional gust of wind rattling the bare branches of the mulberry tree. A faint light glowed from the main house. She crept towards it, pressing her ear to the window, the glass cold against her cheek.
Inside, a voice, high-pitched and affected, drifted out. “Yes, Father Yan, it truly is a miracle. All these years, I never forgot my true origins. My heart always yearned for my real family…”
Qiao Mian froze. That voice. Ding Cuifen. And the words… Father Yan? The overseas tycoon. The frost seemed trivial beside the sudden, bitter realization of their scheme. Cuifen, masquerading as the lost heiress.
She peered through a crack in the window frame. Cuifen, preening in front of a tarnished mirror, wore Qiao Mian’s wedding dress – a simple, embroidered silk garment, the one meaningful thing her own mother had left her. Cuifen traced the delicate peony stitching with a possessive finger, practicing her false narrative, her face a grotesque parody of feigned sorrow and filial piety. A harsh knot of heat coiled hard in Qiao Mian’s stomach. They hadn’t just buried her; they had stolen her very identity.
The rage fueled her. She found the back door to the main house unlocked, a casual disregard for security that spoke volumes of their confidence. Inside, the house smelled of stale cooking oil and unwashed linen. She moved through the familiar layout, past the dark kitchen, the sleeping quarters, to the main room where the household altar stood.
Her fingers closed around the lacquered box. It was cold, heavy. She cracked the lid, keeping her lungs still. Beneath a stack of tattered account books and faded land deeds, she found it – a small, folded paper, worn at the creases: Qiao An’s household registration. His name, his birth date, and beneath it, “Son of Qiao Mian.” She tucked it inside her tattered tunic, tucking the hem tight.
As she slipped toward the rear door, a thin, taut wire concealed beneath the threshold caught her boot. A small, tinny bell, hidden inside the doorframe, rang out, shrill and piercing, across the quiet courtyard.
Immediately, the compound erupted. Dogs began to bark violently, their howls tearing through the night. Torches flared to life in the windows of the main house, casting dancing shadows. The back door to the Ding house burst open, and a towering silhouette, unmistakable even in the gloom, stepped out. Ding Dafu, his face dark with fury, leveled a hunting rifle directly at her.