The cart left the narrow dirt path with the familiar creak of wheels that seemed to complain at every stone. Yù Méi was exactly where she wanted to be: on the driver's seat beside her brother‑in‑law, her legs swinging in the air as if they were already dancing with the wind. The bag of bread rested on her lap, heavy with promises—sesame bread still warm, sweet bean cakes wrapped in banana leaves, dried fruits that her mother had threatened to hide if she ate them all before noon.
"Goodbye, village!" she shouted, waving both hands, the wind carrying her voice behind her. "Goodbye, chickens that peck at my feet every morning! Goodbye, washing stone that I pray the stream will carry away once and for all! Goodbye, coal mine that stinks of black dust! Qīngshí, hold your breath because Yù Méi is coming and she won't shut up!"
Her brother‑in‑law turned his face just enough for her to see the corner of his mouth lift—that rare half‑smile that always seemed to light up the whole day. Yù Méi felt her chest tighten in a silly, warm way, like when she was small and he let her "help" with the mine accounts by doodling little flowers in the corner of the tablet.
He laughs so little it feels like the sun rose twice today, she thought, then quickly shook her head. Stop it, Méi. He's your sister's husband. Almost a brother.
Her sister sat in the back, between the sacks of rice and the bundles of supplies, but her eyes were already glued to the back of her husband's neck. She barely blinked. Yù Méi looked over her shoulder and let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"Sister… are you going to stay like that the whole way? You look like if you blink, he'll turn into smoke and rise to the heavens."
"He might," her sister answered softly, without looking away. Her voice was calm, but it carried that certainty that always made Yù Méi feel a mix of admiration and an urge to stir things up just to see what would happen.
"By the ancestors, you two…" Yù Méi shook her head, laughing. "If Sister looks at him with any more fondness, the birds will start building nests in the cart thinking it's eternal spring."
Her brother‑in‑law let out a low laugh, barely a breath. Her sister finally looked away for a second—just to cast a sidelong glance at her younger sister, one of those looks that said "you're impossible, but I love you."
The road stretched before them like a river of packed earth. To the right, the rice fields rippled gold under the morning sun, the stalks swaying as if waving goodbye. To the left, ancient trees were beginning to shed their leaves in orange whirlwinds that danced in the wind. The air smelled of damp earth, fresh grass, and something distant—smoke from other fires, perhaps, or the scent of freedom.
Yù Méi stretched her arms until her fingers nearly touched the sky.
"Finally! No mother telling me to sweep the yard three times a day. No father asking me to check the mine records until my eyes burn. No grandmother telling the same stories about when Grandfather was still alive. Just the road, just the three of us, and…" she nudged her brother‑in‑law's arm with her elbow, "you, who always knows where to go even though you've never set foot outside the village."
"Father explained it well," he said, his voice as serene as ever. "Three big turns, the broken stone marker, then the wooden bridge. After that, just follow until the walls appear."
"Of course. You memorized a map that doesn't even exist on paper." Yù Méi tilted her head, studying his profile. The straight brows, the firm jaw, the eyes that seemed to see beyond the trees. He always makes the impossible look simple. As if the wind blows the answers just for him and no one else. "Tell me something, brother‑in‑law. When you were little, before you came to our house, did you already feel that the world was… bigger? Like, bigger than the bamboo grove and Green Mountain?"
He thought for a moment before answering.
"Always. But only now do I understand how much."
Behind them, her sister murmured something Yù Méi didn't quite catch, but she saw her sister's hand slide over to touch her husband's back lightly—a quick, almost invisible touch, like adjusting a root that only she knew was there. Yù Méi pretended to look at the horizon, but inside she thought: They've been like this forever. As if they were two threads of the same weave. I watch and feel… not envy. Just a strange longing to have someone who understands me without my needing to explain.
The thought passed quickly. She didn't hold on to it.
The sun rose. They passed a narrow stream where children from a neighboring village were washing clothes. Yù Méi waved at them as if they were old friends. A girl with braids answered with a happy shout. Yù Méi laughed loudly.
"Look at that! They don't even know we're going to Qīngshí. They think we're just another cart. When we come back, I'll tell them everything and they'll think I made half of it up."
"And you will make it up," her sister teased.
"Only the part about the flying lanterns. The rest will be true. Promise."
The laughter faded into the wind. Yù Méi looked at the bag of coins her brother‑in‑law carried in the back of the cart. Her father had handed over the mine's savings at the table, in front of everyone, without hesitation. Her mother had held her hand while her brother‑in‑law explained that the herbs might awaken what had been sleeping inside her.
She clutched the bag of bread on her lap tighter. Her chest ached, but it wasn't pain. It was as if something were growing there, taking up space that had been empty before.
"Brother‑in‑law," she called, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. He turned his face. "Is Sister going to be mad if I ask something?"
"She's always mad."
Behind them, her sister made a sound that could have been a laugh or a grunt. Yù Méi decided to ignore it.
"The herbs… will they really work?"
He didn't answer right away. He looked at the road, at the horizon, at the sky that grew wider with every stride.
"Your body responded to the first one. You need more. You need time. But it will work."
"And if it doesn't?"
"It will."
It wasn't hope in his voice. It was certainty. The same certainty her sister had when she said he wouldn't disappear. Yù Méi felt her eyes sting and turned her face to the wind before anyone could see.
He said it will. So it will.
---
Noon arrived warm and fragrant. Her brother‑in‑law stopped the cart in the shade of an ancient fig tree, thick roots rising from the earth like giant's fingers. The stream beside them sang crystal clear, cold enough to make one's teeth ache if drunk too fast.
Yù Méi jumped off before the wheels had fully stopped.
"I choose the spot!" she announced, running to the widest root and spreading out the cloth like an imperial rug. "Here! You can hear the water, you can see the road, and you can still watch for any handsome merchant carrying fine silks from afar."
Her sister climbed down slowly, stretched her legs, and, as always, leaned her shoulder against her husband before even sitting. Her brother‑in‑law settled on the bank, face turned to the sun, eyes half‑closed. Yù Méi opened the bag with a flourish.
"Sesame bread, cakes, dried fruit, cheese… Mother said it was for the three of us, but I vote the cheese is ninety percent mine. You two already have enough sweetness to sweeten tea for a whole year."
Her sister raised a perfect eyebrow. Yù Méi didn't miss the chance:
"Just look at you two… if Sister looks at him with any more honey, the bees from the whole valley will abandon the flowers and come after the cart thinking it's a giant honeycomb."
Her brother‑in‑law laughed—short, genuine. Her sister smiled from the corner of her mouth, that smile that only appeared when he was around, as if the whole world could crumble and she would still smile. Yù Méi chewed her bread, satisfied with the effect.
Mission accomplished. They're so clingy that even I get secondhand embarrassment… but in a good way.
Sitting on the thick root, legs crossed, she watched the two. The wind swayed the fig tree's leaves, casting dancing shadows on their faces. The bag of coins rested against the cart, the leather aged by time, the weight her father had handed over without hesitation.
They're here for me, she thought, chewing slowly. Father gave all his savings. Sister left the village even though she hates strangers. And he… he promised I wouldn't be left behind.
The cheese lost its flavor for a second.
"Brother‑in‑law," she called, without looking up from her plate. "Those herbs… are they very expensive?"
"Enough."
"Enough that Father has nothing left?"
He didn't answer right away. When she looked up, he was looking at her with that expression she could never decipher—as if he were seeing something no one else could.
"Your father did what he thought was right," he said. "Now you do the same."
I will, she thought. I'll take all the herbs, I'll feel the Qi, I'll make them proud. I'll prove the money wasn't wasted.
She gripped the bread tighter. When she looked at her brother‑in‑law again, he already had his eyes closed, face turned to the sun.
One day I'll understand what he sees. When I can feel. When I'm no longer just the broken sister.
---
When the walls of Qīngshí appeared on the horizon, the sun was already painting the sky orange and gold. Yù Méi simply stopped talking.
The walls were too tall to be real—gray stone cutting the sky, towers that looked like fingers pointing to heaven, colorful flags fluttering as if dancing. People streamed in and out of the enormous gate: merchants with loaded carts, soldiers in shining armor, women with baskets on their heads, children running between everyone's legs.
"By the ancestors…" she murmured, leaning her whole body forward. The smell reached her before they even entered: baking bread, strong spices, sweat, earth, incense smoke. All mixed together, alive, gigantic.
Her brother‑in‑law stopped the cart in the long line. The crowd swallowed them. A woman passed with a basket of live chickens clucking indignantly. A boy bumped into the cart's wheel and laughed before disappearing. Yù Méi felt her heart beat in time with the other wheels—frightening and wonderful at once.
A lady on a nearby cart nudged her companion and pointed toward them. Yù Méi heard the whisper: "Look at those two… they look like walking paintings." The other replied, "They must be nobles in disguise. Or something better." Yù Méi stifled a laugh. Nobles in disguise. Sister would love to hear that. Or she'd get that stone face she makes when someone looks at him too much.
Her brother‑in‑law's hand touched her shoulder lightly, firm enough to calm.
"Stay close, Méi."
The touch was warm. Yù Méi felt her cheeks burn as if she had run for miles. Quickly she pointed at a stall just past the gate, full of paper lanterns painted with dragons and flowers.
"Look at that! If I ever live here, I want one of every color. Red for when I'm angry, blue for when I want to dream, gold for… I don't know, for when the world is too good."
Her sister climbed down from the cart and pressed close to her husband, but her eyes met Yù Méi's for a second—a rare gleam, almost pride. My noisy sister.
A silk merchant stopped shouting his offers mid‑sentence. His eyes traveled over her brother‑in‑law, her sister, and back to her brother‑in‑law. His wife slapped his arm. "What are you looking at?" she snapped. The man hurried: "Nothing, nothing. Just thought I recognized…" He recognized nothing. Yù Méi knew. It's always like this. They look at him, they look at her, they forget the world is turning. Sister pretends not to notice, but I saw her hand tighten on his.
The inn stood on a side street behind the main square. It smelled of fried onions, fresh bread, and something sweet Yù Méi couldn't identify. The owner was a man with a thick mustache and eyes that seemed to weigh every traveler. He looked at her brother‑in‑law, then at her sister, then at her.
"Room for three," her brother‑in‑law said calmly.
The innkeeper took an extra second to hand over the key. His eyes went from her brother‑in‑law to her sister, from her sister back to her brother‑in‑law, and he seemed to forget there was a third person there. "Special guests," he said finally, with a smile that tried to be friendly and only came out awkward. Yù Méi scratched her nose. Special. That's a way of saying 'too beautiful to be ordinary.' Sister is going to hate this place.
They climbed the creaking wooden stairs. The room was small: two straw beds, a narrow window looking onto a dark alley, a cabinet that smelled of old herbs. Yù Méi tossed her bag onto the bed by the window and gave the mattress an experimental bounce.
"Hard as a millstone," she declared, laughing. "Perfect! Much better than my soft bed at home… just because it's in Qīngshí. Tomorrow I'll wake up with a sore back and tell everyone I slept like a real princess."
Her sister sat on the other bed, facing her husband. They closed their eyes almost simultaneously, hands nearly touching, breathing falling into the same slow rhythm. Yù Méi had seen that dozens of times—on the veranda, in the clearing, even in the bedroom when she arrived too early. They stayed like that, quiet, as if talking without words, as if the air around them grew denser, more alive.
She never asked. She knew she wouldn't understand. But she liked to watch.
She lay down, hands behind her head, staring at the cracked ceiling where a spiderweb danced with the breeze from the window.
I am in Qīngshí. Me, who until yesterday thought the bamboo grove was the end of the world and the biggest event of my life would be helping with the rice harvest.
The bag of coins leaned against the wall. Her father had counted each one before putting them there, his thick miner's fingers holding them as if they were the most precious things in the world. Her mother hadn't cried in front of her, but Yù Méi saw the corner of her eye glisten.
Tomorrow we go after the herb merchants, she thought. It will be the beginning. I will feel the Qi. I will stop being just the sister who needs taking care of. And he… maybe he'll look at me and see someone who made it.
And they'll look at them too. Like always. In the city line, in the square, at the inn. People won't be able to look away. Sister will get that stone face, and he'll pretend not to notice. And I'll be laughing inside, thinking they're so different they don't even realize it anymore.
The thought came and went, light as a leaf on a current. She didn't hold on to it. Instead, she turned on her side, drew her knees up, and let tiredness pull her eyes shut.
Outside, the city breathed—loud voices haggling prices, cart wheels creaking, a cat meowing in the alley, distant music from some flute. Inside the room, three breaths mingled: one deep and serene (her sister), one calm and alert (her brother‑in‑law), and one vibrant, full of sparks and questions (hers).
Yù Méi closed her eyes, still smiling.
Tomorrow, she would wake up in Qīngshí. Tomorrow, she would start becoming who she had always wanted to be. And maybe, just maybe, she would earn a smile from him that lasted a second longer. Just for her.
---