Li Shuying lay on the kang bed, staring at the smoke-darkened beams overhead.
Her mother had told her to rest, to conserve her strength after the morning's commotion. But how could she possibly rest?
Her heart was far too restless.
It had been more than six decades since she had last seen this village as it was now—unbroken by time. The thought alone made her chest tighten.
Unable to lie still any longer, she rose quietly and stepped outside.
The afternoon sun blazed mercilessly overhead, its light sharp and glaring. A dry wind swept across Shitou Brigade, carrying with it the bitter scent of dust and burnt straw.
Before her lay the village—exactly as it existed in her deepest memories.
Rows of low, single-story mud-brick houses stretched unevenly along narrow dirt paths. Their earthen walls were cracked like parched riverbeds, patched in places with straw and clay. Roof tiles sagged from years of neglect; some had been replaced entirely with bundles of thatch held down by stones. No house stood tall, no courtyard displayed prosperity.
Even the ancestral hall at the eastern corner of the village had lost its solemn dignity. It had been converted into quarters for the educated youth sent down from the cities.
In another era, thin columns of cooking smoke would have curled up from every chimney at this hour.
Today, there was almost none.
The communal canteen had replaced individual hearths. Iron pots once treasured by families now sat unused in dark corners. On distant walls, bold slogans from the Great Leap still lingered—"Surpass Britain in Steel!" and "Grain Production to Ten Thousand Jin!" The red characters were beginning to peel, their revolutionary fervor dulled beneath relentless sunlight.
Li Shuying walked slowly along the narrow path.
Not a single villager lingered in the lanes. No elderly men sat weaving baskets. No children chased scrawny chickens through the dust. Even the dogs lay sprawled in the shade, too languid to bark.
It was as though the village itself had exhaled all its strength.
Three months.
Only three months without rain, and already the land appeared wounded beyond measure.
But she knew better.
This was merely the prelude.
The true calamity had not yet descended.
The three years when the wind would carry the scent of hunger… when fields would yield nothing but cracked earth… when families would barter dignity for survival—those years were still ahead.
Only she, a soul reborn from decades in the future, understood the weight of what was coming.
Her fingers curled slowly into a fist.
Then she turned toward the fields.
Beyond the northern slope of the village lay the communal farmland. From afar came the dull, rhythmic thud of hoes striking hardened soil.
The brigade members were engaged in soil-loosening work, part of the campaign to increase production. Yet the earth resisted like iron. Each strike raised only a thin veil of dust that drifted away in the wind.
As she approached, the sight tightened her chest.
Men and women stood in long, uneven rows, bending and straightening in slow, mechanical motions. Their cotton jackets hung loosely over frames that had already begun to thin. Cheekbones protruded sharply beneath sallow skin. Eyes that once sparkled with village gossip were now sunken and dim.
In just three months, the drought had carved flesh from bone.
Sweat soaked through faded cloth, yet their movements remained sluggish, as though every lift of the hoe demanded strength borrowed from tomorrow.
A hoarse voice rang out from somewhere among the rows.
"Work harder! The autumn harvest depends on today's effort!" Brigade Leader Liu Zhenshen shouted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Fortune favours diligence. If we loosen the soil well, the grain will not fail us!"
Li Shuying's lips curved faintly, though there was no amusement in her eyes.
In her previous life, she had stood among these very rows. She had watched neighbors grow thinner by the day. She had seen families exchange daughters—and even wives—for a few sweet potatoes. She had witnessed funeral processions grow shorter because there was no strength left to carry the dead to burial.
Now, standing once more at the edge of the field, memory overlapped with reality.
Faces.
So many familiar faces.
She recognized them all.
More than sixty years had passed, yet their features remained etched in her memory.
And she knew—
Many of them would not survive what was to come.
The realization pressed against her ribs like a stone.
Just then, a warm voice called out, breaking her reverie.
"Oh, Old Li's daughter! I heard you were unwell. Why are you standing under this harsh sun?"
She looked up to see Brigade Leader Liu Zhenshen walking toward her. Though he held the title of leader, the harshness of the times had left its mark on him as well. His face was darker from sun exposure, and fatigue lingered in the lines around his eyes.
Li Shuying quickly composed herself and offered a respectful smile.
"Uncle Liu, I'm fine," she replied gently. "I couldn't stay idle at home, so I came out to stretch my muscles."
Liu Zhenshen nodded approvingly. "Good, good. Youth should not lie in bed too long. Your mother is at your elder brother's allocated plot. You can find her there."
She watched him for a moment.
In her previous life, he had been a truly benevolent man.
During the worst of the famine, he had quietly altered grain production records so that villagers could keep a portion hidden for survival. He had organized group hunting expeditions into the mountains, personally leading the strongest men to bring back whatever game they could find. When her family had fallen into despair, when Wang Chunhua and Zhao Hongmei had attempted to sell her, he had been among the few who stood firm, refusing the transaction and sternly reprimanding both grandmother and granddaughter.
Yet fate had not favored both.
He had passed away suddenly and during the leadership transition. In the ensuing chaos, Wang Chunhua and Zhao Hongmei had seized the opportunity. With no one to restrain them, they had sold her to a widower.
A flicker of turmoil passed through her heart. Not only for him but everyone in the village as well.
Should she help them?
If she intervened early, perhaps she could alter everyone's destiny.
But then she thought of Zhao Hongmei—also reborn, also aware of everything. Any rash move would draw attention. She could not afford to expose herself without a plan.
Reluctantly, she suppressed the impulse.
Her heart was unwilling, yet prudence restrained her.
As she moved closer, she overheard Liu Zhenshen speaking in a lowered voice to the village Party Secretary.
"Secretary," Liu said gravely, "the wheat seeds are prepared. But without rain, they won't sprout. And if they remain dormant when winter snow comes, the frost will destroy them beneath the soil."
The village Party Secretary sighed heavily, staring at the cloudless sky.
"I share the same concern," he admitted. "If the seeds fail to sprout before snowfall, next year's harvest will be in serious trouble."
Their voices were low, but the worry in them was unmistakable.
Li Shuying lifted her gaze to the vast, merciless sky.
Not a single cloud.
Heaven remained silent.
"If this harvest fails," Liu Zhenshen said in a low, troubled voice, "it will be a disaster. What worries me more are the villagers. Even if we manage to coax a crop out of the river water, who knows how much grain the state will requisition this year? After all, since February the entire nation has been facing calamity."
His brows were tightly furrowed, the weight of responsibility evident in his lined face.
The Party Secretary immediately stiffened and glanced around before replying sternly, "Comrade Liu, such words should not be spoken lightly. The leaders above are not heartless. They will certainly devise a solution. As for grain submission to the state—" he paused, his tone firming, "—is that not our duty? The nation is one family. When the country faces hardship, the people must shoulder their share."
Liu Zhenshen fell silent, though the concern in his eyes did not fade.
Standing a short distance away, Li Shuying cast the Party Secretary a quiet look—How Naïve.
She did not linger. Turning, she walked toward the plot where her mother was working.
That evening, after the day's labor, the communal canteen was lively as always.
Though exhaustion hung heavy on every shoulder, there was a faint cheerfulness in the air. After hours under the blazing sun, a bowl of hot food—no matter how plain—was still a blessing.
The long wooden tables were already crowded. Steam rose in pale wisps from large iron vats. The smell of sorghum rice, coarse cornmeal buns, and pickled cabbage drifted through the hall.
To everyone it was a fragile luxury.
She knew these were among the few last months when such a hearty meals will be seen. In a few short months, even sorghum and corn, the coarse grain would become precious beyond measure.
People chatted in low voices as they waited for their portions, bowls clutched eagerly in hand.
"Chen Meilan," one auntie asked kindly, "is your daughter better now? I heard you even summoned the barefoot doctor yesterday."
Chen Meilan, seated among the group of women, nodded with relief. "Yes, she's much better. She'll be joining us for dinner tonight."
Another woman leaned closer and said in concern, "You must take good care of her. Children these days are growing weaker and weaker from lack of nourishment. And your Shuying doesn't earn work points yet—her ration is small."
Chen Meilan's expression softened, but she answered firmly, "She's still young, Grand-Aunt Li. She's only in her second year of middle school. Next year she'll take the high school entrance examination. How can she manage fieldwork at this age?"
A crude snort cut through the conversation.
"Young? What young?" The voice dripped with disdain. "She's already thirteen and you still call her young? Children of six collect pig grass and earn three work points. Is your daughter made of gold?"
Chen Meilan turned sharply.
Sun Guifeng stood nearby, arms crossed, her lips curled. As Wang Chunhua's eldest daughter-in-law—and Zhao Hongmei's mother—she rarely missed an opportunity to stir trouble.
Before Chen Meilan could respond, Wang Chunhua herself let out a cold snort from not far away.
"Humph. Instead of teaching her daughter to respect elders, she teaches her to curse and talk back. A girl, not only with such crooked values but also lazy—who would dare marry her in the future?"
The words fell like stones into water, sending ripples through the crowd.
Chen Meilan rose to her feet, anger flushing her face.
"Mother," she said, her voice trembling but resolute, "how can you speak of your own family's child like that? Yes, Shuying spoke sharply this morning—but there was a reason. You weren't willing to listen. She only spoke out because she was thinking of her elder brother."
Wang Chunhua's eyes narrowed.
"What? So she cares about her brother, and I do not?" she retorted loudly. "Even if Li Guoqiang is my stepson, I raised him like my own flesh and blood. If I show concern for his family, is that wrong? Everyone here—" she swept her gaze across the room, "—tell me, is it wrong for a stepmother to speak for her stepson's household? And does Li Shuying's so-called 'care' give her the right to be unfilial to her elders?"
Murmurs of agreement rose from several corners.
"Unfilial" was no light accusation.
In these times, to bear that label—especially as a young girl—could stain a reputation for life.
Wang Chunhua's lips curved in a smug smile.
Chen Meilan's heart pounded violently. She understood all too well the weight of such words. A girl branded unfilial might find no good marriage match, no respect in the village.
"That's enough, Mother," Chen Meilan said stubbornly. "My Shuying is not unfilial. She may be young and a little willful—what child of thirteen is not? She will mature with time."
Sun Guifeng gave a derisive laugh.
"Like mother, like daughter. If a mother cannot properly respect her own mother-in-law, what better can come from the daughter?"
A tense silence followed.
Then—
"I cannot agree more with you, Step-Aunt."
The voice was soft, yet it sliced cleanly through the air.
Heads turned in unison.
Li Shuying stood at the entrance of the canteen, hands loosely folded before her. A faint, almost playful smile rested on her lips, though her eyes were clear and sharp.
"Like mother, like daughter," she repeated lightly. "This morning, your daughter came to our house expressing such heartfelt concern for my mother. It was quite fascinating—almost touching. I had never before seen her show such worry for her so-called 'Step-Aunt.' Yet today, she arrived with step Grandmother, full of compassion."
She tilted her head slightly, her tone gentle but edged with irony.
"And now, here you are—displaying the same concern."
A few villagers exchanged glances.
Li Shuying's smile deepened just a fraction.
"It truly warms my heart," she added sweetly, "to see such devotion within the family."
The sarcasm was subtle—but unmistakable.
Sun Guifeng's face darkened instantly.
"Concern?" she snapped, her voice rising. "Who is concerned about you? Do you think you deserve our concern? My Hongmei was simply thinking of your family this morning, yet you upset her without reason!"
A faint scoff escaped Li Shuying's lips.
"Is that so?" she replied calmly. "You say it was concern for my elder brother. But there is something I fail to understand, Step-Aunt."
Her tone was mild, almost curious.
"Our households separated more than ten years ago. Since then, each family has managed its own affairs. Why this sudden compassion? And more importantly—" her gaze sharpened slightly, "—whether my brother takes the college entrance examination or not, what does that have to do with Sister Hongmei?"
The question landed quietly, yet it carried weight.
Sun Guifeng stiffened for a moment before retorting, "Hongmei was thinking of your family's difficulties! Don't you see the times we are living in? Who still talks about school and university? Everyone worries about the next bowl of grain! Labor is being promoted everywhere—yet your brother and you hide behind 'studying' to avoid real work."
She snorted loudly and cast a sweeping glance at the villagers seated nearby.
"This is the typical attitude of a landlord's daughter," she declared, her voice deliberately amplified. "Talking about studying, talking about university—what, do you think education makes you superior? Is your family looking down on us farmers and laborers?"