After breakfast, Lin Xiaoxiao tidied up quickly. With her food coupons and money in hand, she locked the door and headed straight for the main gate.

An old white minibus was already parked at the entrance, packed with passengers—including Zhang Yimei and Xiao Yan. What were the odds, Lin Xiaoxiao thought coolly as her eyes passed over them. Ignoring the others, she boarded and took a seat in the back.

A middle-aged woman in the row ahead turned around with a warm smile. “Xiaoxiao, are you going to the market too?”
“Just having a look,” Lin Xiaoxiao replied with a nod.

It was Dong Hongmei, wife of the logistics department head. Known as the “big sister” of the compound, Dong was the de facto community mediator—always stepping in to settle family spats and marital disputes.

She had even tried to intervene during the original owner’s arguments with Zhou Huai'an. But the original owner’s stubbornness and refusal to listen had eventually worn even Dong’s patience thin. Still, she never failed to greet Lin Xiaoxiao kindly.

Noticing Lin Xiaoxiao’s polite response, Dong’s smile widened. “The main market is especially lively this year! There are acrobats, opera performances—and the prices are good. You should buy some yarn to knit Zhou Huai'an a sweater.”

Lin Xiaoxiao stiffened. Knitting? I wouldn’t have the first clue! Besides, wasn’t it common knowledge that she and Zhou Huai'an didn’t get along? Why the not-so-subtle push for reconciliation?

Unfazed by her silence, Dong pressed on: “Zhou Huai'an is a good man. His career kept him from marrying early, but he’s highly capable with a bright future. How many men his age have reached his rank? Marriage is fate—it takes mutual understanding to make it work.” She leaned in slightly and added in a confiding tone, “Really, what quarrel can’t be resolved between husband and wife? A little time together can often smooth things over.”

Lin Xiaoxiao could only stare, taken aback by the woman’s frankness. Flustered, she managed an awkward smile as Dong continued expounding on the virtues of marital harmony.

As Dong spoke, Lin Xiaoxiao slowly pieced together Zhou Huai'an’s background: enlisted at seventeen, served with distinction in the northwest, transferred after some incident three years ago. Reaching his rank by twenty-nine without family connections spoke volumes about his ability. A shrewd man, Lin Xiaoxiao concluded. And yet he’d put up with the original owner’s antics. Maybe he wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

Up front, Xiao Yan and Zhang Yimei kept stealing glances backward.
“Lin Xiaoxiao is acting strange today—chatting with Sister Hongmei? Do you think she’s trying to win Zhou Huai'an back?” Zhang Yimei whispered.

Xiao Yan maintained her gentle composure despite her annoyance. “Who knows? If they reconcile, then good for them. She is quite pretty, after all.”

“What good is pretty?” Zhang Yimei sniffed. “She’s hardly wife material. Last night, I saw Captain Zhou’s sweater sleeves were frayed—she didn’t even bother mending them!” Despite owing Lin Xiaoxiao for saving her son, years of gossip and resentment kept her disdain alive.

Xiao Yan turned toward the window without replying. Three years ago, when Zhou Huai'an first transferred in, she had fancied him. Back then, rumors of a girlfriend back in his hometown had held her back. Then, three months ago, he’d abruptly married this headstrong city girl. Xiao Yan couldn’t quite suppress a twinge of bitterness.

The minibus bumped along muddy roads for nearly an hour before finally reaching Huangzhuang Market. Lin Xiaoxiao followed Dong Hongmei off the bus—and froze. This was the bustling market everyone had talked about?

Stalls sprawled across a harvested rice paddy—a chaotic sea of people mixed with donkey carts, ox carts, and bicycles. The pungent smell of animal dung hung thick in the air, almost dizzying, yet vendors sat eating calmly amid the commotion.
This place would give anyone with OCD a heart attack, Lin Xiaoxiao thought wryly.

Dong Hongmei turned to her warmly. “Xiaoxiao, stick with me! It’s not often we get to market. We should buy some meat and make dumplings for dinner. I hear your husband loves them.”

Well, in times like these, who doesn’t love meat dumplings? Lin Xiaoxiao mused. They’re practically a luxury. But it was Dong Hongme’s use of “your husband” that struck her. It was such a direct, rustic term—yet it sent an unexpected pang through her chest.

The market was crowded with people dressed in simple, often patched clothing, but their faces glowed with authentic joy.

Assuming the city-bred Lin Xiaoxiao was unfamiliar with rural markets, Dong Hongmei eagerly explained, “It’s just after the New Year, and spring planting hasn’t started—everyone’s a bit short on cash. Come just before the holidays or in the autumn, and it’s even livelier, full of snack vendors!” She pointed toward a stall.
“Look, offal soup! Want to try a bowl, Xiaoxiao?” Without waiting for an answer, she linked arms with Lin Xiaoxiao and steered her toward the stand.

Lin Xiaoxiao was still taking in the rustic chaos when she found herself standing before a soot-stained stall. A large pot sat on a makeshift stove, its murky broth bubbling with white foam. The strong smell of mutton and organs hit her like a wave.

She recoiled, grimacing. “You go ahead, Sister-in-law. I’ll just look around.”

“Alright then,” Dong Hongmei agreed cheerfully. “Come find me later. I never miss a chance for a bowl of this!” She settled happily onto a stool.

Free from Dong Hongmei’s well-meaning grip, Lin Xiaoxiao wandered aimlessly, fascinated by everything around her. Scenes she had only ever seen in period dramas unfolded before her eyes.

She could almost feel the simple joy radiating from the crowd. A sense of calm settled over her. Since I’m here… I might as well learn to relax. Find my own way, one step at a time.

Her mood lifted, she turned to find Dong Hongmei—and nearly bumped right into her, along with Zhang Yimei and Xiao Yan.

Dong Hongmei noticed Lin Xiaoxiao’s empty hands with surprise. “Didn’t find anything you liked? The yarn over there is such good value! Did you see the navy blue that Dr. Xiao bought? Very stylish.” She gestured toward Xiao Yan.

Lin Xiaoxiao saw Xiao Yan force a smile as she quickly moved the cloth bag behind her back.

Dong Hongmei, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents, turned to Xiao Yan with an eager glint in her eyes. "Dr. Xiao, show Xiaoxiao that wool you just bought. You young women have the same eye for fashion. Xiaoxiao, you ought to knit a sweater for Little Zhou with some like it."

A sudden realization struck Lin Xiaoxiao: Xiao Yan hadn't bought that wool for herself; she likely intended it for Zhou Hua’an. Amused by the irony, Xiaoxiao watched from the sidelines as Hongmei continued her spirited sales pitch.

Cornered, Xiao Yan had no choice but to open her satchel. Before she could even reach in, Hongmei snatched the yarn out, thrusting it under Xiaoxiao’s nose. "Look at this quality! At the state-run Co-op, this would run you seven or eight yuan a pound. Here at the market? Barely five. It feels like pure wool, too. Imagine Little Zhou in this color—he’d look so handsome."

Xiaoxiao struggled for a response, her smile thin and performative. "It’s lovely, really. I’m just afraid my hands aren’t skilled enough. I’d hate to ruin such good yarn."

"Oh, don't be silly!" Hongmei waved the excuse away. "I’ll teach you. Come on—if you’re short on cash, I’ve got some you can borrow."

The offer was a dead end; Xiaoxiao’s protests were effectively stifled. Ushered along by Hongmei’s insistent hand toward the wool stalls, she resigned herself to the situation. Fine, she thought. I’m not getting out of this anytime soon. A sweater for Hua’an can be a thank-you gift for everything else.

Hongmei, however, was playing a deeper game. She knew how hard Hua’an had worked to find a wife, and she was determined to make the girl stay. As they walked, she began her "ideological work."

"I know this place isn't what you're used to," Hongmei said softly, "but things will improve. If Little Zhou keeps performing well, he’ll be up for a promotion soon. You can’t be the one dragging him down now." She sighed, her voice heavy with the gravity of the era. "He’s a country boy; it wasn't easy for him to get here. Now that you’re married, you have to make a real go of it."

As the familiar lectures drifted over her, Xiaoxiao was struck by a sobering thought: in 1977, divorce was a ghost—rarely seen and whispered about in hushed tones. To end a marriage was a mark of "moral failing" that could derail Hua’an’s entire career. She didn't care much for her own reputation—she could always move to another city—but the thought of ruining him gave her pause.

Behind them, Xiao Yan and Zhang Yimei watched Hongmei cling to Xiaoxiao’s arm, their faces clouded with resentment at the sight of such intimacy.

Under Hongmei’s relentless encouragement, Xiaoxiao ended up buying three pounds of navy-blue wool. The fifteen-yuan price tag sent a sharp pang of regret through her heart. It didn't stop there; at the meat stall, Hongmei insisted she buy two pounds of pork belly for another yuan.

Yesterday, Hua’an had given her twenty-five yuan. In a single morning, she was down to nine. Xiaoxiao, who had always been reckless with money, felt a visceral ache at the loss. She was learning, quite painfully, how quickly silver could vanish. I have to become self-reliant, she thought, the urgency tightening in her chest.

On the way back, Hongmei was in high spirits. To her, Xiaoxiao’s compliance was a sign that the marriage could be saved. While the residential compound knew of Xiaoxiao’s temper, no one actually expected a divorce—the concept simply didn't exist in their world. Whether through love or arrangement, people stayed. They bore children and they surrendered to their fate.

Hongmei had always liked Hua’an; she had once hoped to set him up with her niece until she heard he had a fiancée back home. When he married Xiaoxiao instead, she had initially resented him, assuming he’d abandoned a country girl for a city "princess." But seeing the young couple’s life in shambles had softened her. Now, seeing this glimmer of domesticity, she felt a surge of hope. Once a child came along, she figured, Xiaoxiao would finally settle down.

Unaware of Hongmei’s matchmaking fantasies, Xiaoxiao was busy calculating how to earn a living. She decided she needed a serious talk with Hua’an tonight.

When she arrived home after noon, the stove was roaring. A metal lunchbox sat on the small table—clear evidence that Hua’an had stopped by. Xiaoxiao found herself increasingly surprised by this stoic man’s thoughtfulness. If the original owner had just tried to live with him, she mused, it wouldn't have been a bad life at all.

Inside the box was a mound of white rice, sautéed cabbage, and three pieces of braised ribs, their glaze a rich, inviting red. Xiaoxiao blinked in surprise. Was the canteen food really this good?

As she reheated the meal, Hongmei dropped by again to borrow knitting needles. She glanced at the lunchbox, her eyebrows shooting up. "Little Zhou brought this back?"

Xiaoxiao felt a flush of embarrassment. "Yes, I think he came by at noon."

Hongmei nodded slowly, a look of genuine impressed respect on her face. "That’s... that’s really something. They only get a 'special meal' once a week, and the portions are strictly rationed. My husband has never once thought to bring his share home to me."

Xiaoxiao froze. "It’s not all-you-can-eat?"

Hongmei let out a dry laugh. "Oh, you silly girl. Do you know how many people work there? It’s all strictly weighed. And everyone has family at home; if everyone took food back, there’d be nothing left."

Xiaoxiao stared at the ribs. What she had seen as a simple lunch was a hard-won luxury.

"Things are better now," Hongmei sighed. "A few years ago, we weren't even allowed to live here. Life was bitter then. But now? Families are together, there’s meat on the holidays, and if you’re thrifty, you can even have white flour and rice."

To Xiaoxiao, 1977 had seemed like a turning point, but she realized now that for many, "daily white rice" was still a dream. If Hua’an had brought his portion home, did he have anything to eat at all? A sudden, inexplicable warmth pricked at her eyes.

Hongmei’s gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on the small cot against the wall before she smiled. "Anyway, I won’t keep you from your meal. If you get stuck on the sweater, come find me. I’ll show you the stitches."

After seeing Hongmei out, Xiaoxiao returned to the steaming rice. The thought of Hua’an racing back from work just to leave her the best of his rations finally cracked the ice around her heart.

Once she finished the meal, she set to work making dumplings. Hongmei said he loves dumplings, didn't she?

She decided to be practical. She used only a third of the pork for the filling, saving the rest for Hua’an to decide on later.

By the time Hua’an walked through the door, the dumplings were lined up like plump little soldiers on the cutting board, and the pot was beginning to whistle.

"You're back!" Xiaoxiao greeted him, her eyes curving into bright crescents of genuine warmth. "Wash your hands, dinner’s almost ready."

Hua’an paused in the doorway, his boots frozen mid-step. For a fleeting second, he looked like a man who feared he had walked into the wrong house.


Zhou Hua’an stood paralyzed for a moment. He couldn’t wrap his head around it—why was she so different? Was this a genuine change of heart, or was she playing a more calculated game?

He couldn't help but steal a glance at her. She wore a pale green sweater and coffee-colored trousers, her hair gathered in two loose, effortless braids. She stood by the stove, poised and slender as a young poplar tree, her entire being focused on the dumplings dancing in the boiling water.

Once they were done, Xiaoxiao prepared a simple dipping sauce of crushed garlic and vinegar. As the two steaming plates hit the table, a gentle mist curled through the room, bringing with it a damp, comforting warmth that made the small house feel, for the first time, like a home.

"I noticed we're out of chili flakes," Xiaoxiao said briskly, drizzling the sauce into his bowl. "But this is just as good. Eat up. I had such a huge lunch I’m still stuffed."

Hua’an didn't offer a word of thanks. He merely lowered his head and began to eat.

Xiaoxiao, who was a professional ice queen at work but a social butterfly at heart, found the silence suffocating. She cast about for a way to break the tension. "I’ve been thinking," she began. "I want to find a job. You’re the only one bringing in a paycheck, and the pressure on you must be immense."

Fearing he might misread her intentions, she added quickly, "I’ll find something on my own. And if the opportunity arises, I’d like to continue my education."

She knew the National College Entrance Examination—the Gaokao—would be reinstated this very year, in December. What she didn’t know was whether the policy had been officially announced yet.

To Hua’an, however, it sounded like the same old song. He assumed she was simply desperate to find an excuse to crawl back to the city. After a heavy silence, he replied, "I’m heading into the city in a few days. If you want to stay there... you can."

Xiaoxiao’s face lit up, her eyes dancing with a sudden, starlit joy that made her beauty almost blinding. "I can stay in the city?"

Hua’an watched her unshielded delight and nodded curtly. "Yes. You can stay."

Encouraged by his apparent flexibility, Xiaoxiao decided to broach the question that had been weighing on her. "If... if we were to get a divorce, how badly would it affect your career?"

The chopsticks in Hua’an’s hand faltered. He looked up, his dark eyes unfathomable, searching her face for a long, harrowing moment.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "Just let me know when you’ve made up your mind."

He went back to his dumplings, sinking into a silence even deeper than before. Xiaoxiao felt a strange, dull ache in her chest. I must be losing my mind, she thought, frustrated by her own reaction.

After dinner, Hua’an remained a ghost of efficiency. He salted the meat in the clay jar, cleared the table, and scrubbed the dishes as if her words hadn't reached him at all. He was halfway through wiping the table when a voice drifted in from the yard.

"Zhou Hua’an! A word outside."

Hua’an set the rag down, grabbed his coat, and stepped out with a grim set to his jaw. Curious, Xiaoxiao peered through the crack in the door. A man of medium height stood in the courtyard; after a few whispered exchanges, the two men walked off into the darkness.

Zhong Zhiguo walked a few paces before turning to Hua’an. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one. "Smoke?"

Hua’an took it, leaning in as Zhiguo struck a match. He rarely smoked—he’d kept the habit at bay for years during his various assignments—but he reached for it now, as he always did when his mind was a mess. The last time he’d lit up was the day he decided to marry Lin Xiaoxiao.

Zhiguo took a long drag. "Have you sorted things out with Xiaoxiao yet? You know this promotion is critical. Talk to her, Hua’an. How much trouble can one couple have? If you keep feuding like this, people are going to start using it against you."

Hua’an said nothing, exhaling a slow, grey plume of smoke.

"This is a rare opportunity," Zhiguo pressed, frustrated by the younger man's wall of silence. "If you get this grade jump, you’ll be sent to the provincial capital for training. Your record is flawless—except for your domestic situation. A man can’t lead if his own house is on fire."

Hua’an flicked the spent cigarette butt into the dirt. "Give the spot to someone else," he said tonelessly. "We’re likely getting a divorce."

"Don’t be a fool!" Zhiguo snapped. "Divorce? Do you want to pack your bags and go back to the farm? Think about how hard you’ve worked to get here. Is this her idea? Because I’ll go talk sense into her right now."

"It’s mine," Hua’an lied, his voice flat. "I’m the one who wants it. She shouldn't have to suffer out here with me."

Zhiguo looked like he was about to have a stroke. "You’ve lost your mind! Marriage isn't a game. A divorce on your record is a moral stain—it’s the kiss of death in this department. If you were so worried about her 'suffering,' why did you file the marriage report in the first place?"

He glared at Hua’an, who stood there like a stubborn block of wood. "Can’t you just... make it work? Pull the light cord at night and get on with it? Women need coaxing, Hua’an. A little sweetness goes a long way."

He caught himself, realizing who he was talking to. "But look at you—standing there like a statue. What girl would like that? Xiaoxiao is young, she’s from the city; she’s bound to be a bit delicate. Besides, she’s the granddaughter of old Commissar Cheng. She can’t be entirely unreasonable."

Hua’an remained motionless, a silent pine tree in the wind.

Zhiguo finally gave up, kicking Hua’an’s shin in a fit of pique. "Get out of here. Just get out. But mark my words: if you dare put a divorce report on my desk, I’ll have you packed up and gone by morning!"

By the time Hua’an returned, Xiaoxiao was already washing up. Through the thin walls, he could hear her humming a soft, melodic tune—one he didn't recognize, but found achingly beautiful.

In the middle of the night, a crack of spring thunder split the sky, sounding as if it might cleave the roof in two.

Xiaoxiao bolted upright, heart hammering. The rain was a sudden, violent roar against the tiles. Then, she felt it—a cold, wet splash against her cheek. She thought she was dreaming until the drip-drip-drip became a steady rhythm. The roof was leaking.

She reached for the light cord in the dark, but the room remained pitch black. The power was out. As the rain intensified, so did the leaks inside.

"Hua’an?" she called out instinctively toward the outer room.