Ruan Zhitong’s fingers, calloused from years of handling ancient artifacts and now rough from laundry soap, trembled as she pushed the small wooden box across the lacquered table. Inside, nestled on faded silk, lay the ‘Dragon’s Embrace’ hair ornament – a coiled jade dragon, its eyes tiny rubies, its form carved so fluidly it seemed to writhe even in repose. It was an imperial piece, a whisper of a dynasty long gone, and it was her last, most precious item. “Two thousand yuan,” she stated, her voice a brittle whisper in the hushed, incense-scented air of the ‘Whispering Willow’ teahouse. She fixed her gaze on the man seated opposite, He Tingye. He was an enigma, rumored to be an overseas Chinese businessman with eyes that saw too much and a silence that spoke volumes. His tailored tunic, impeccably pressed, stood in stark contrast to her own threadbare cotton. He Tingye picked up the hairpin, turning it slowly under the soft glow of the hanging lantern. The jade caught the light, gleaming with an inner fire. His expression remained unreadable, a smooth mask of contemplation. “A rare piece,” he murmured, his voice a deep resonance that vibrated through the quiet room. “But two thousand is a substantial sum, particularly for a quick transaction.” Zhitong pressed her fingernails into her palm. Her stomach rumbled, an echo of the gnawing hunger that constantly plagued her and, worse, her twins, Xiaobo and Xiaoxue. She thought of their hollow cheeks, their small bodies shivering under thin blankets. Shame burned her face, but a fiercer desperation extinguished it. She slammed her hand flat on the table, a sudden, sharp sound that made a teacup rattle. “I need the cash. Now. My children are hungry.” He Tingye’s eyes, dark and sharp, met hers. For a moment, she saw a flicker there, something akin to surprise, quickly veiled. He laid the dragon back into the box, then reached inside his inner pocket, producing a thick wad of crisp bills. He counted out two bundles, each neatly bound, and pushed them across the table. “Done.” Zhitong gathered the paper currency with stiff fingers, stuffing the stacks into the worn cloth bag at her side. Just as she secured the clasp, the bamboo lattice door of the teahouse burst open with a jarring clatter. A shrill voice sliced through the tranquil atmosphere. “Ruan Zhitong! You unfilial wench! Are you trying to shame our family into the ground?” Fang Jiali, Zhitong’s sister-in-law, stood framed in the doorway, her plump face contorted with fury, her cheap rayon dress bunched around her. She stomped into the room, oblivious to the stares, making a beeline for Zhitong. “Mother wants you back! You think you can just wander off, leaving your brats for others to deal with? Give me that money! It belongs to the Fang family!” Jiali lunged, reaching straight for the canvas pack. Zhitong instinctively recoiled, shielding the bag with her body. “Get away from me, Jiali! This has nothing to do with you or your mother!” Before Jiali could grab Zhitong, a shadow fell over her. One of He Tingye’s imposing bodyguards, a man built like a mountain, stepped forward. His hand, as wide as Jiali’s face, clamped onto her arm. Jiali shrieked, struggling, but she was no match for his grip. “Release me! Do you know who I am? I am Fang Jiali, daughter-in-law of Elder Fang of the Qingshui Fishery Alliance!” she blustered, her voice cracking. The bodyguard, impassive, merely tightened his hold. He Tingye, who had been watching the scene unfold with an unnervingly calm demeanor, finally spoke. His voice, though quiet, cut through Jiali’s squawking. “It seems she is disturbing a private transaction. Remove her.” Without another word, the bodyguard hoisted Jiali up as if she weighed nothing. Her flailing limbs and indignant squawks were met with the stoic efficiency of a seasoned professional. He dragged her out of the teahouse, past the gawking onlookers, and with a grunt, unceremoniously tossed her into the muddy gutter outside. A collective gasp rippled through the street. Jiali landed with a splash, her face smeared with grime, her grand declarations ending in a humiliated whimper. Zhitong watched as Jiali cursed from the gutter, her own pulse steadying. It was the first time anyone had dared to publically defy the Fang family, let alone toss one of them into the mud. A small, cold spark of defiance ignited in her chest. She hurried through the familiar, narrow alleys, the scent of fish and drying seaweed thick in the air. The two thousand yuan pressed solidly against her ribs. When she pushed open the creaking door of their small, dilapidated house, Xiaobo and Xiaoxue were huddled together on the straw mat, their cheeks smudged with dried tears. Granny Yao, their elderly neighbor and occasional babysitter, sat beside them, trying to soothe their cries. “Mama!” Xiaoxue wailed, launching herself at Zhitong’s legs. Xiaobo, ever the quieter one, just clung to her skirt, burying his face in the fabric. “My little stars,” Zhitong murmured, gathering them both into a tight embrace. She pulled out a paper bag, releasing the aroma of sweet, steamed pork buns. “Look what Mama brought. Meat buns!” The twins scrambled forward, wolfing down the warm bread and minced pork. Zhitong wiped a smear of bean paste from Xiaobo's chin. She would amass enough coin to build an iron wall around them until no elder or in-law could ever lay hands on them again. Later, as the twins slept soundly, their bellies full for the first time in days, Zhitong sat on her thin mattress. She closed her eyes, focusing her intent. The familiar shimmering warmth bloomed in her mind, and she stepped through it, emerging into the tranquil embrace of her magical space. The courtyard was a verdant haven, alive with the soft hum of growing things. Lush fruit trees, heavy with ripe, glistening fruit, lined a path of smooth river stones. Vegetables, impossibly vibrant and plump, grew in neat rows, their leaves glistening with morning dew, even though it was deep night in the outside world. This space, a gift from a strange, forgotten encounter, accelerated growth, turning days into mere hours. In the center, a small, crystalline pond shimmered under an unseen moon, reflecting the towering, ornate double doors at the far end: the ‘Threshold of Eras.’ Zhitong walked towards it, a plan already forming. The jade dragon had bought them a reprieve, but she needed a steady income. The Threshold was her solution, a bridge between 1982 and her original time. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a simple, glazed ceramic cup – a common item from her past, but a valuable retro piece in the future. She lifted her hand, her fingers brushing the cool, aged wood of the door, ready to open a pathway to wealth. The intricate carvings on the door pulsed with a sudden, alarming red light. A cold, disembodied voice, devoid of emotion, echoed not from the door, but from somewhere *through* it, freezing the breath in her throat. “Where did you get this?”

The Teahouse Bargain