The sun rose slow and mellow over Anning, painting the valley in warm light.The dew on the paddies sparkled like glass beads, and a thin mist still hugged the terraces. From afar, it looked as if the land itself was breathing.
Achu sat beneath the awning of the storage shed, surrounded by baskets and small clay jars.Each jar was carefully labeled in her fine, looping script — millet, soy, barley, glutinous rice, and red bean.
Chen and Ran crouched beside her, their faces serious — or at least trying to be.
"Remember," Achu said, tipping a jar toward them so they could see the grains inside, "seeds aren't just food. They're promises."
Ran blinked. "Promises?"
Achu smiled. "Yes. Every one of these holds next year's harvest. You must store them properly, protect them from moisture and pests. Treat them as you would treat life."
Chen puffed up proudly. "I already made the cedar box like you said, Mother. With the salt lining too."
"Good," Achu said, patting his head. "Salt keeps the dampness away. And cedar scent drives out insects."
Ran picked up a jar and shook it gently. "Why not just keep buying seeds from the traders? They're faster."
Achu's expression softened. "Because traders sell what they own. These—" she cupped the seeds in her hand "—are what we own. They remember our soil, our rain, our sweat. If you lose your seeds, you lose your story."
Seed Selection
Later that morning, Achu led the children to the drying rack behind the house. Stalks of harvested grain hung in bundles, golden and fragrant.
"See these?" she said, pointing at the tallest, heaviest ones. "Always choose your seed from the strongest plants. Weak seed breeds weak harvest."
Ran leaned in close, inspecting a grain. "Like how Chen gets his height from eating too much fish?"
"Exactly," Achu laughed. "And stubbornness from me."
"Hey!" Chen protested.
Achu only grinned and kept working, carefully plucking seeds from the best stalks. Each motion was patient, deliberate — almost ritual-like.
As she worked, the children began humming an old village tune, one Achu had taught them years ago — a song for sowing, for calling blessings from the earth.Their voices blended with the breeze, soft and steady, like the rhythm of waves.
The Garden of Fragrance
By midday, the villagers gathered at the square. Spring planting was approaching, and Achu had promised to share her new herbal mixtures — natural repellents made from dried herbs and oils.
She stood at a wooden table, mortar and pestle in hand."This one," she said, grinding lavender and lemongrass together, "keeps away beetles and mosquitoes. And this one —" she lifted another jar, filled with crushed mint and neem leaves — "will keep your seedlings safe without harming the earth."
The villagers leaned close, taking notes, whispering thanks.Children darted between their legs, chasing dragonflies, while the old blacksmith set up his kettle to brew tea for everyone.
Lin watched from a short distance, smiling as Achu's laughter carried across the square.Even now, even after all that had happened, she could bring people together just by teaching them how to care for the soil.
Evening Reflections
When the work was done and the sky began to turn violet, Achu returned to the fields alone.The last light shimmered over the water, catching the reflections of her children running along the ridges — Chen with a net, Ran with a basket, both shouting at the setting sun.
Achu knelt, pressing her fingers into the freshly turned soil. It was cool and firm, pulsing with quiet life beneath her palm.
"So you're ready for another year," she murmured.Her lips curved into a small, weary smile."I just hope the world lets you grow in peace."
From the distant hills, a faint breeze stirred — carrying with it the faint scent of foreign incense, strange and sharp.
Achu's eyes flicked up, her expression shifting just slightly.
"...So it begins again."
But then, as the wind passed, she stood, brushing off her hands and calling out toward the children,"Come wash up! Dinner won't cook itself!"
Their laughter echoed through the valley, blending with the rustle of rice stalks — a song of ordinary peace, too precious to last forever.