“Where did you get this?” The voice was flat, devoid of inflection, yet it carried an undeniable demand that pricked at Zhitong’s nerves. It vibrated not in the air, but directly inside her mind, a cold intrusion. She clutched the ceramic cup tighter, her knuckles white.
“It’s… an antique,” she managed, her own voice a reedy whisper in the vast, silent space. She pressed her ear to the Threshold of Eras, but the sound seemed to emanate from the very material of the door itself. A faint, almost imperceptible gleam rippled across the ornate carvings. “A common household item from the early 21st century. Glazed stoneware, mass-produced.”
“Nonsense. This glaze, the subtle unevenness of the rim, the faint aroma of aged tea… This is a rare example of Ming-era celadon from the Jingdezhen kilns, masterfully preserved. Its provenance is dubious at best, but its authenticity… undeniable.” The voice paused, a disquieting silence filling the gap. “My sensor readings are conclusive. I’m prepared to offer five grand.”
Zhitong blinked. Ming-era celadon? She mentally replayed pulling the cup from her kitchen cabinet in 2023. It had been a cheap replica, bought from a chain store for everyday use. What kind of bizarre time paradox was this? And that much? She had expected maybe a few hundred yuan at best for a retro item, not a sum that could likely buy a small house in 1982.
“Five in yuan?” she dared to ask, her pulse ticking in her ears. This was real. This was wealth.
“Five in US currency,” the voice corrected, a hint of impatience coloring the otherwise sterile tone. “Transferred directly to your designated file. Or, if you prefer, I can arrange for a crypto transfer. Do you have a digital wallet?”
Her head spun. US dollars? Crypto? This truly was a bridge to her original time. “No… no crypto. Just… just a bank transfer will do. To my branch balance here.” She fumbled for a pen and a scrap of paper from her satchel, scribbling down the account number she’d been given at the Qingshui Postal Savings Bank. She pushed the paper against the gleaming surface of the Threshold. It absorbed the paper, dissolving it into faint golden motes.
“Details received. Stand by for confirmation.”
She waited, breath held. Moments later, a soft chime echoed through the walled garden. A radiant green interface bloomed on the wooden doors, displaying a single, stark number: `+100,000.00 RMB`. The exchange rate was unbelievable. A fortune in local notes. More money than she had ever seen in her life, enough to change everything.
“Transaction complete. Should you acquire more items of similar antiquity, or unique historical significance, contact me through this portal. My name is Kaiming. I am a private collector. My offers are always fair.” The voice, Kaiming, faded, and the green interface dissolved, leaving the Threshold of Eras inert once more.
Zhitong sank to her knees, the ceramic cup forgotten beside her. Xiaobo and Xiaoxue would never go hungry again. They would have new clothes, shoes, proper medicine. This was her chance. Her portal. Her future.
She stepped out into the crisp morning air of 1982, feeling infinitely more hopeful. Her first stop was the bank, where the stern-faced teller confirmed the astronomical deposit with an arched eyebrow. Next, the bustling Central Market. Zhitong moved with a quiet purpose, her eyes scanning stalls laden with grains, vegetables, and, most importantly, seeds. She bought bags of plump rice, sacks of sweet potatoes, fresh fish, and then, a generous selection of vegetable seeds: robust cabbage, sweet corn, leafy greens, and even a small packet of rare medicinal herbs. She paid in crisp, newly acquired banknotes, thick paper proof of her rising power.
Back in the quiet sanctity of her magical plot, the air felt warm and alive. The crystalline pond glowed with gentle light. Zhitong carefully prepared the rich, dark soil of the central patch. As she tucked the tiny seeds into the earth, a soft, emerald light pulsed from the ground. Within seconds, delicate green shoots emerged, stretching towards the unseen moon. Leaves unfurled, stalks thickened, and plump vegetables swelled into existence. She watched, mesmerized, as an entire harvest matured before her eyes, vibrant and abundant. The hidden soil truly was a miracle.
That evening, Xiaobo and Xiaoxue devoured steaming bowls of rice mixed with fresh, sweet cabbage and succulent fish, their small faces glowing with health and happiness she hadn't seen since before their father’s accident. Zhitong watched them, a fierce, protective joy swelling in her chest. This was worth fighting for.
The next morning, a gentle knock sounded on the dilapidated door of their small house. Zhitong, fresh from harvesting another batch of courtyard greens, opened it to find Granny Yao, her neighbor, standing there. Granny Yao was a wizened woman with a kind, crinkled smile and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She carried a basket of freshly steamed sweet potato buns, their earthy scent wafting through the air.
“Zhitong, my dear. I saw the twins playing out earlier. You must be busy, now that you’re selling those lovely antiquities. Let this old woman help. I can watch the little pair for a few hours if you need to run errands.” Granny Yao’s voice was soft, laced with a comforting warmth.
Zhitong felt a familiar blush creep up her neck. “Granny Yao, you’re too kind. I couldn’t impose.”
“Nonsense! These little ones are a joy.” Granny Yao stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the now well-fed boy and girl playing quietly with wooden blocks. As she stooped to offer Xiaobo a bun, her eyes flickered downwards. A tiny speck of rich, dark earth clung to the worn fabric of Zhitong’s shoe. It pulsed with a faint, iridescent sheen, almost imperceptible. A flicker of something predatory, something ancient and hungry, flashed in Granny Yao’s normally placid eyes before her smile widened, perfectly innocent. “Eat up, little ones.”
Later that afternoon, Zhitong found herself walking through the dusty lanes of the Qingshui Antique & Trade District. Her recent success had emboldened her, and she sought out smaller vendors, discreetly inquiring about overlooked items that might hold value in the modern world. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and stale tea. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see He Tingye emerging from the arched doorway of a particularly weathered antique shop, his elegant suit a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. His gaze, as sharp and knowing as ever, met hers.
“Miss Ruan,” he acknowledged, a polite nod. “Quite unexpected to see you here. Are you perhaps looking to expand your collection?” His tone was light, but his eyes held a deeper question.
Before Zhitong could reply, a sudden, sharp crack echoed overhead. A loose roof tile, dislodged by the incessant sea wind, began to slide precariously from the eaves of the building they stood beside. Time seemed to slow. Tingye’s hand shot out, grasping Zhitong’s arm, yanking her roughly into his side just as the tile shattered on the cobblestones where she had been standing moments before. A shower of ceramic shards flew, grazing his impeccably tailored shoulder. His grip on her arm was firm, almost possessive, and for a fleeting second, their bodies were pressed together. A flare of heat bloomed across Zhitong’s ribs, quickly overshadowed by alarm.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low, his dark eyes searching hers. The scent of his expensive cologne, clean and subtle, filled her senses.
“N-no. Thank you, Mr. He. You… you saved me,” she stammered, her face flushing.
He released her, his expression returning to its usual guarded neutrality, though a subtle tension lingered in his jaw. “It was merely a reflex. The district can be treacherous.”
Their charged moment shattered as a cacophony of shouting erupted from the end of the lane. Madam Fang, her face contorted with fury, marched towards them, Fang Jiali trailing behind her like a resentful shadow. Three burly men, their expressions grim and their biceps bulging, flanked them. Dread seized Zhitong by the throat.
“There she is!” Madam Fang shrieked, pointing a trembling finger. “The widow who squanders her husband’s family fortune! Ruan Zhitong! You owe us! You owe us for the funeral, for the debts your good-for-nothing husband left! And you owe us for the upkeep of our precious grandsons!”
Fang Jiali elbowed one of the thugs. “Don’t forget the money she stole from my dowry!”
He Tingye stepped subtly in front of Zhitong, his back to her, shielding her. “Madam, this is a public street. Such vulgar displays are unbecoming.”
Madam Fang scoffed. “Who are you, pretty boy? This is a family matter! We’ve come for what’s ours! The children! As collateral for her debts!” She lunged forward, her eyes fixed on Zhitong with a terrifying, avaricious gleam. The thugs surged forward behind her.
Panic flared, hot and sharp, but it was quickly eclipsed by a primal rage. *Her children?* No. Never. Not again. Zhitong’s gaze swept desperately around, landing on a discarded wooden stool outside a closed shop. She grabbed it, the rough wood surprisingly solid in her hands. The first thug, a hulking man with a sneer, reached for her. With a guttural cry, Zhitong swung the stool with all her might. The leg connected with a sickening thud against the side of the man’s head. He staggered, a pained grunt escaping his lips, then crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The stool splintered, but Zhitong barely noticed. Her blood roared, a cold, focused fury replacing her fear. She looked at Madam Fang, then at the remaining thugs, her eyes blazing with an intensity that promised utter devastation. Amid the chaos, as everyone’s attention fixed on Zhitong’s sudden, brutal defense, Granny Yao, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere at the edge of the commotion, quickly slipped her hand into Zhitong’s pocket, her fingers brushing against a small, glowing talisman before it vanished without a trace.