Xia Meng's grandmother began telling Jiang Cheng stories about Xia Meng's childhood.
Some of the tales were hilarious, others heart-breakingly sad.
Only from her grandmother's account did Jiang Cheng realize how harsh Xia Meng's early years had been.
Her parents divorced when she was little.
After the split, both headed to big cities to hustle.
Though custody went to her father, he rarely came home; even when he did, he barely spoke to her.
Village life was naturally grueling.
Daily fare was nothing but greens and steamed buns, plus every sort of farm chore.
Worse, before dawn each day she had to walk alone with a flashlight for nearly an hour to reach the village's Hope Primary School.
A textbook case of a left-behind child deep in the mountains.
Listening, Jiang Cheng's gaze drifted to Xia Meng outside the door.
She was squatting by the earthen stove in the yard, feeding it dry twigs.
"Crackle…" The popping fire painted her silhouette in yellow light.
She fanned the flames with an old fan in one hand and prodded the burning wood with a long stick in the other.
Seeing her slight frame, Jiang Cheng couldn't help wondering how nature had blessed her with a D-cup.
Squatting, her breasts pressed against her knees, forming a perfect shape.
Jiang Cheng knew they were the real deal.
After all, genuine feels different from fake.
Who'd have thought such harsh conditions could still produce such natural gifts?
A moment later he caught his thoughts drifting way off track.
Now wasn't the time for that.
Shaking off the risqué images, he looked at her again.
Head lowered, she wore a faint sadness, as though lost in memories.
In that instant Jiang Cheng understood why she'd once applied for that kind of job at the club.
Poor kids grow up fast; judge not without walking their road.
He'd never lived in luxury, but he'd always had enough.
Watching the scene, he truly couldn't picture how her childhood had unfolded.
Seeing her still feeding the fire, Jiang Cheng walked over and said softly, "Let me."
Xia Meng looked up at him.
Firelight danced in her clear eyes, making them even more luminous.
Perhaps from the heat, her cheeks were flushed, her lips red; when she unconsciously licked them they looked irresistibly tender.
Surprised, she smiled. "No need, I'm almost done. Stay back or you'll smell of smoke."
That casual glance back left Jiang Cheng momentarily dazed.
Though they'd been intimate many times, the fleeting charm in her lifted gaze still felt intoxicating.
He almost couldn't resist pulling her up for a frantic kiss.
After stoking the fire, she led him on a stroll around the village.
As they walked she introduced him to old customs and ancient buildings.
Though plants flourished, everything felt worn and tattered.
Strangers were rare; elders and children peered out curiously as Jiang Cheng passed.
Seeing his refined air, they whispered among themselves.
Wandering about, Jiang Cheng found mostly the old and the very young; hardly any youths were in sight.
Reading his puzzlement, Xia Meng explained, "Like me, the young have left for cities or county towns. No jobs here. You saw it—every family just grows vegetables. Apart from buying a bit of meat and daily goods at dawn markets, nothing develops."
They strolled until they reached a dilapidated hall with two rusty basketball hoops; nearby stood a three-storey earthen building.
Time had eaten the structure; rain had pitted its walls, giving a sense it might collapse any moment.
Even the window frames were rotten, the glass seeming ready to fall and shatter.
Just as Jiang Cheng was about to ask its purpose, he heard voices reciting lessons inside.
The sound made his eyes widen in shock.
Then he noticed a faded carving in the middle of the building: a school's name.
Looking closely, he read: Rongshan Hope Primary School!
Beside the dusty basketball court a clean five-starred red flag fluttered.
"This… is a school??"
Seeing his disbelief, Xia Meng nodded with a bitter smile. "It's our local school—my school when I was little."
Jiang Cheng's mouth opened slightly.
He'd only seen such decrepit schools on TV.
Witnessing it firsthand hit him hard.
"Didn't you say it took an hour to get here?" he asked, puzzled.
She nodded. "When we were kids there were no roads; we had to loop around. These paths were built later, so it's much nearer now. Still, the school's too run-down. Many volunteer teachers can't endure it. Maintenance funds arrive only every few years and the sum is tiny. The principal says it can't even cover repainting the walls—just endless patching."
Frowning, Jiang Cheng stepped into Yichang Hope Primary School.
With biting irony he said, "TV constantly touts Hope Primary aid and volunteer programs—billions in yearly poverty funds, rural-revitalization policies every year. Hard to believe this is a Hope Primary under those policies."