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Chapter 5: Coins in a Pouch, Roots in the Soil
The mountain breeze was cool and still, brushing softly against the windows as morning arrived with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves.
Inside the house, the wooden floor creaked faintly as Su Yun stepped out of the room, drawn by the subtle noise outside.
Ren Shang was already preparing for the hunt. He moved quietly, but with practiced confidence—strapping his satchel across his back, adjusting the grip of his long spear, and tucking a small knife at his waist.
His shirt sleeves were rolled just below his elbows, revealing weather-browned arms marked faintly with scars and quiet strength.
"…You're going now?" Su Yun asked, his voice still clouded with the warmth of sleep.
Ren Shang nodded. "The traps need checking early. I'll be back before dusk if nothing delays me."
There was a moment of quiet between them, filled with the rustling of trees and the crackling of morning firewood in the stove.
Just as Su Yun turned to go, Ren Shang paused and pulled out a small cloth pouch from the satchel. He placed it gently into Su Yun's hands.
"What's this?" Su Yun asked softly.
"Mushrooms I gathered last time sold well," Ren Shang replied. "Eighty-four wen. It's all here."
Su Yun blinked, fingers tightening slightly around the soft cloth. It was still warm from Ren Shang's hand.
"I haven't used any," Ren Shang added, glancing to the side. "You're the one keeping the house now. Spend it as needed."
"…Even though we haven't held the wedding banquet yet?"
Ren Shang's voice lowered. "You married me with that bowl of rice and one quilt. That's enough for me."
The words weren't overly sentimental, but the way they landed made Su Yun's heart stir.
Ren Shang turned, lifted his spear, and left through the courtyard without looking back. The door creaked shut gently behind him.
Su Yun stood for a while with the coin pouch in hand, the fabric soft against his palm, his thoughts tangled with warmth and unfamiliar steadiness.
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Left alone in the quiet house, Su Yun busied himself with the daily rhythm—tidying the bedding, checking the stove, rinsing out bowls from last night. The silence wasn't lonely, just calm.
The house, though simple, was generous in size. Three rooms—one for them, one empty, and one used for storage—a small but sturdy kitchen, and at the back, a vegetable patch stretching nearly half a mu.
It was overgrown now, but the soil seemed healthy.
He stepped into the backyard and crouched by the patch. A few weeds had grown tall, curling under the fence. If tended properly, it could grow more than enough for both of them.
Just as he stood up, a voice called from over the fence.
"Yun'er! You're up early!"
Su Yun turned and smiled. "Aunt Gao."
Aunt Gao walked over, hands on her hips, a bamboo basket resting on her arm. Her face was ruddy from the sun, eyes bright with energy.
"I thought I'd catch you before you start working yourself to the bone," she said with a grin.
"Come, help me transplant some sweet potato slips. You've got good land sitting idle, and I don't like to see good land going to waste."
Without waiting for his reply, she marched through the small side gate with practiced familiarity.
Su Yun followed her into the patch. She bent down, ran her fingers through the soil, and nodded approvingly.
"Not bad. Your man must've worked this before. See here? The earth remembers careful hands."
Su Yun crouched beside her. "I've never grown anything before."
"That's fine," Aunt Gao said cheerfully. "The earth teaches quickly."
They worked slowly, the morning sun warming their backs.
Aunt Gao chatted as they planted the slips—telling him which neighbor had hens gone missing, who had added too much salt to their pickles, which daughter-in-law was always quarreling with her mother-in-law.
Su Yun mostly listened, sometimes smiling, sometimes adding a quiet comment. He liked the rhythm of her voice, the ordinary stories of village life.
He gotten to know basics of village. Like where the village chief lives and in which season farmers plant thier crops etc.
After planting, Aunt Gao handed him a small paper pouch. "Spinach seeds," she explained. "Quick to sprout. Just sprinkle them over there near the wall."
When they finally stood up to stretch, Su Yun's back was damp with sweat, but the soil rows looked neat and promising.
"Come in for a light meal," he offered, brushing dirt from his hands.
Aunt Gao didn't protest. "As long as you don't fuss over it. I'm too old for formalities."
Inside, Su Yun prepared a simple meal. He reheated the thin millet porridge, tore two leftover flatbreads into halves, and stir-fried fresh mustard greens in lard with just a pinch of salt and savory soy sauce.
Aunt Gao added a boiled egg from her basket and split it with him.
"There is not much things at home, hope you don't mind." Su Yun said, placing the bowls down.
Aunt Gao waved him off. "It's warm and honest. That's enough."
As they ate, she looked at him, not unkindly.
"Ren Shang's not one to speak much," she said slowly, "but I've lived beside that man for a long time. I've never seen him hand over his coin pouch to anyone. That means something."
Su Yun lowered his gaze.
Aunt Gao chuckled. "Don't be shy, now. I know what I see. A man with no words is the kind who speaks with his actions."
After the meal, they sat outside under the shade for a while. The garden now looked a little fuller, life beginning to bloom.
"Rest easy," Aunt Gao said before she left. "When your man comes back, have him dig you a little well near the patch. Rain can't be trusted this year."
Su Yun nodded, watching her retreating figure grow smaller down the dirt path. She didn't look back, but her presence lingered like the scent of turned soil and wood smoke.
She was a kind old lady. Su Yun will remember her. It was rare to find such neighbors.
He glanced toward the field again, where green slips had just begun to settle into the earth.
In his waistband, the pouch of coins remained warm. He touched it lightly, then turned back into the house.
He would tend to the vegetables. He would wait for Ren Shang.
He didn't know when that moment had begun to feel so natural—but now, it simply was.
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