Chapter 5

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“This—” Zhuo Fenglan’s eyes widened slightly.

“You just noticed now?” Zhuo Congyun twirled the small mustache at his lip, his aged eyes narrowing a bit.

His fingers, rough and calloused from years of carving stone, pointed to the patterns on the rock with a hint of pride.

“The moment I got this stone, I noticed it—this color, this texture… it’s from Rouge Mountain. Look at the pattern—what does it resemble? A cicada! And by coincidence, that girl from the Boyuan family is named Wang Chan. If that’s not fate, then what is?”

An old stonemason who had spent his life working with stones loved them dearly. For Wang Chan, whom he felt destined with even before getting to know her, he already felt a special fondness and closeness.

“Here, put it in the girl’s room,” Zhuo Congyun said as he picked up the lantern on the stone table, wrapped the stone in a bundle, and pushed it toward her, preparing to go back inside.

Before leaving, he didn’t forget to add, “Though stones can’t speak, after enduring the years and elements, they possess a kind of spirit. With this stone by her side, maybe the girl’s wound will heal faster. If she recovers sooner, she’ll suffer less.”

Thinking of the injury he had seen earlier that day, the old stonemason, used to hardships, shook his head with a sigh.

She’s really been through a lot.

“Father!” Zhuo Fenglan held the stone wrapped in floral cloth and, hearing this, felt both amused and exasperated.

If she followed her father’s logic, the whole town wouldn’t need doctors during festivals anymore. Anyone with a headache or fever could just dig up a stone from the mountain.

That would save so much money!

She scolded, “Such superstitions—it’s just a stone.”

Fate, huh—

Stones from Rouge Mountain? Look around her father’s courtyard—they were everywhere!

As for the pattern resembling a cicada—

Just a coincidence.

“Stubborn stones having spirit? They’re not jade.”

“You know nothing!” Zhuo Congyun, irritated, puffed up his mustache and raised his voice. “Where does jade come from? From stone!”

“To us craftsmen, jade or stone, it’s all the same!”

“It’s just that people are snobbish, chasing after rare things, which drives up jade’s value and makes stone seem worthless.”

“Know this: after thousands or even millions of years, each stone is polished by time, each with its own posture, every single one unique.”

If these don’t have spirit, then what does?

“Fine, fine, I’ll put it in Chan’s room right away!”

Seeing Zhuo Congyun’s eyes wide open, the old father’s authority evident, Zhuo Fenglan smiled wryly.

She tapped her own mouth, signaling she had misspoken.

With the floral cloth covering the spirited stone, she lifted it and briskly walked toward Wang Chan’s room.

An old father is not to be trifled with, especially a sulky one.

“Hmph!” Watching her daughter’s retreating figure, Zhuo Congyun snorted. “You’re just a stubborn stone-headed girl! What do you know?”

…

“Creak—” The wooden door opened.

“Why are you up?” Zhuo Fenglan closed the door, blocking the chilly autumn wind outside.

Turning back, she saw Wang Chan sitting on the immortal chair and quickly walked over.

She placed the stone on the table, looking at Wang Chan with concern.

“Don’t worry, Cousin. I’m feeling better, and my head isn’t so dizzy anymore,” Wang Chan smiled at her.

Now, the girl’s head was wrapped in several turns of white cloth, with medicine applied at the back. The cloth bore some brown herbal stains, and the faint aroma of herbs, both fresh and slightly bitter, lingered on her.

Sitting in the large immortal chair, her small frame seemed even more fragile.

“That’s good.” Seeing the half bowl of thin porridge finished clean, neatly placed on a wooden tray—a sign that the girl had tidied up herself—Zhuo Fenglan sighed slightly at her politeness.

Outsiders are polite.

Those with no one to rely on are cautious, fearing even the slightest misstep might cause annoyance.

Indeed, waking up in a pitch-black coffin with no memories would leave anyone feeling lost and alone.

If it were her younger self, she’d probably hide under the covers and cry hard several times.

In that moment, Zhuo Fenglan felt even more pity for Wang Chan.

She took Wang Chan’s hand. “Chan, dear.”

“Please call me Achan,” Wang Chan said shyly, meeting Zhuo Fenglan’s gaze. “I like being called that.”

“Chan, dear… sounds like a greedy little girl.”

She was not greedy in the slightest.

Zhuo Fenglan paused, and upon understanding Wang Chan’s meaning, couldn’t help but laugh heartily.

“Alright then, Cousin will call you Achan.” Her voice was brisk and cheerful, full of warmth.

Wang Chan blushed.

…

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“Achan,” Zhuo Fenglan thought for a moment and decided to be honest.

“For the time being, you’ll stay with Uncle and Auntie. During the day, once I finish my chores at home, I’ll come see you. When you’re better and your head isn’t afraid of the wind anymore, you can come to my house. No rush to go to the capital city yet.”

As for fully healing and whether she would be sent to Scholar Wang Boyuan’s home in Jianxing capital—

Zhuo Fenglan hesitated.

After a moment, she shook her head quietly, deciding not to think about the future for now.

“I know,” Wang Chan interrupted before Zhuo Fenglan could explain further. “I heard everything you and Uncle said just now.”

“My father… he’s going to remarry.”

Wang Chan touched her head, fully aware that she was a burden.

There’s an old saying: better to have a beggar mother than an official father. But she was unlucky—while her father was becoming an official, she didn’t have a beggar mother.

Not exactly remarrying—

Zhuo Fenglan was about to correct her but, considering Wang Boyuan’s situation, it was almost the same. So she kept silent.

Wang Chan’s gaze fell on the stone on the table.

“Your uncle said stones have spirit and that this one should stay in your room to protect you.” Zhuo Fenglan followed her gaze and glanced at the girl’s pale, bloodless face.

Even if she didn’t believe the stubborn stone had spirit, she hoped it did.

Wang Chan picked up the stone from the table; it felt slightly cool to the touch.

The stone was small enough to fit in one hand, but because Wang Chan’s hands were tiny, it seemed larger.

“I think Uncle is right. This stone is connected to me. Looking at it makes me feel close, and it comforts me.”

She thought a moment longer and added,

“It should be something I like, not something from the Wu family. Look, my father took it with me to the fields.”

When the accident happened, Wu Fugui hadn’t seen the scene and didn’t know where the stone that was thrown came from.

“You’re quite the stone fanatic yourself,” Zhuo Fenglan laughed. “You two will definitely have a lot to talk about.”

“He’s a stonemason who always says stones have spirit. When drunk, he’d tell me stories about our ancestors raising stones, with mystical powers.”

Zhuo Fenglan didn’t really believe in the stories about raising stones, taking them as mere folklore.

Tales of alchemists, seeking immortals, refining elixirs, turning stone into gold, forbidden spells, and prayers…

Just stories!

If it were truly that powerful, the Zhuo family would have long been court advisors. She herself would be a noble lady from such a family, eating from golden bowls and living in splendor.

Instead, she was the daughter of an old stonemason in Rouge Town, living a hard life, with the family’s greatest heirloom being millstones.

Raising stones?

Perhaps because of her empty mind, Wang Chan was curious about everything. Hearing this term, she stored it in her mind, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“Auntie, what is raising stones?”

“Who—” Before Zhuo Fenglan could answer, the doorbell at the gate jingled. Zhuo Congyun, still not resting, called out loudly from inside the house.

“Father, it’s me, Shi Hua.”

A man’s voice came from outside the gate, followed by footsteps and the sound of the wooden latch dropping.

“So late already, why are you still here?” Zhuo Congyun asked. “What, Fenglan fell asleep here with her old father, and you’re still worried?”

The old father looked at his son-in-law with disdain.

“The boy at home kept asking for Mother,” the visitor, embarrassed by the old man’s tone, smiled sheepishly. “I was worried about Fengniang missing the boy, so I came by myself instead of letting her walk home in the dark.”

Finishing his words, Xie Shihua peeked at the candlelit room and changed the subject.

“How’s the girl?”

“After applying medicine, she’s better…”

…

Inside the house.

Zhuo Fenglan quickly picked up the tray from the table.

“Your uncle is here. The two boys made a fuss, so Cousin will leave first.”

“All right.” Wang Chan was reluctant to part from Zhuo Fenglan, still wanting to hear more about raising stones, but still said, “Cousin, take your time on the way. I’ll greet Uncle and… uh, them.”

Not knowing their ages, or whether to call them older or younger cousins, Wang Chan left it vague.

Zhuo Fenglan understood.

“Your cousin’s two boys— the elder is Xie Bangcai, the younger Xie Bangzhi. One is younger than you, the other older. You have both older and younger cousins. I’ll introduce them to you later.”

“No worries, slowly, Achan will know everyone soon enough.”

Wang Chan looked into Zhuo Fenglan’s eyes.

By candlelight, the woman’s gaze was gentle, full of unspoken care and silent comfort despite knowing she had no memories.

“Mm.” Wang Chan’s nose tingled with unshed tears.

…

After Zhuo Fenglan and Xie Shihua left, the courtyard fell quiet again. Occasionally, the old man’s coughing from the main house pierced the night’s stillness, oddly comforting.

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By candlelight, Wang Chan looked at the stone again.

It had a faint reddish tint, an irregular shape with jagged edges, not smooth and oval.

Touching it, the texture was extremely hard.

Because of this, during the day, she had used this stone to strike the coffin. The collision of wood and stone favored the stone, leaving a hole.

Of course, the suddenness of the incident and the haste meant the Wu family only managed to buy a thin coffin at the market.

…

Amid the faint rouge red, blue threads traced the surface, tangled and winding roughly. From a distance, it really looked like a summer cicada.

Its delicate wings and slender claws clung to the rouge-red stone, like a cicada perched on an autumn or early spring leaf.

“Raising stones—” Wang Chan murmured.

If she knew how to raise stones, she’d raise this one, treasuring it more and more.

…

Her head wound couldn’t endure the deep night; despite sleeping all day, exhaustion pressed heavily on her eyelids, making them droop uncontrollably.

Wang Chan placed the stone by her pillow, glanced at it once more, then closed her eyes to sleep.

Late at night.

Moonlight and starlight poured down like silk threads, a complex and ethereal glow wrapping around the stone.

The cicada pattern seemed to come alive, and in the next moment, light from the stone enveloped Wang Chan.

The deathly energy invisible to ordinary eyes was dispelled and consumed, and her spirit cleared.

Beneath the white cloth, her wound slowly healed, as if being reshaped.

…

Wang Chan knew she was dreaming again.

In her dream, she was still a cicada.

The summer wind blew, swaying with the branches, bored and lazy, occasionally complaining of the heat with a few disgruntled calls.

“Zhi liao, zhi liao—”

When the cicada’s song started, she grew annoyed and shut her mouth, refusing to sing despite the heat.

Fragments flickered, broken and scattered like a water curtain falling.

The next moment, she was the young lady of Scholar Wang Boyuan’s family in Jianxing capital—Wang Chan.

“Call me Father, and I’ll buy you candied hawthorn.”

The scholar, dressed in his robe, squatted before the little girl, coaxing her in a high-pitched voice.

The girl ignored him, squatting on the ground watching ants move. The scholar blocked her view, so she shifted direction, turning her back to him to watch a different ant trail.

The scholar: …

“Sigh—” He sighed, watching the girl with a floral bun hairstyle, troubled.

“Achan, when will you call me Father? Why are you so dull-witted? It’s a sin! For me, Wang Boyuan—the famous scholar of Rouge Town and ten surrounding villages—to have a daughter— a daughter—” His voice choked, “How come she’s so foolish?”

“It must be because your mother isn’t smart enough!”

In the dream, Wang Chan saw him passing blame. The scholar wiped his tears with wide sleeves, stood up, and furiously put his hands on his hips.

After a moment, he spat some harsh words.

“If you don’t call me Father, no candied hawthorn for you!”

Saying this, he paced around the loquat tree in the yard a few times, then returned from the kitchen with sleeves rolled up and arms bound, holding a bowl of fresh dairy curd.

“Eat this.”

The curd was cool, with a milky, sweet aroma—quite delicious.

…

At the Zhuo household.

In her sleep, Wang Chan seemed to taste the curd’s flavor.

The girl in the dream lifted her head—her own face—playing with ants, occasionally creating mountains and obstacles for them with a certain stone.

Wang Chan opened her eyes, turned her head, and her gaze fell on the stone by her pillow.

So, she wasn’t foolish now.

It was her past self who had been foolish.

Morning light streamed through the window, shining on the bright red stone on the bed.

Gathering moonlight and starlight, as if unable to bear the sunlight or fulfilling a long-held wish, the stone crumbled like powder under Wang Chan’s gaze.

Dust swirled in the light, then vanished without a trace.

Unconsciously, Wang Chan reached out her hand, the palm empty but her heart somewhat enlightened.

The cicada is her, and Wang Chan is herself.

…