Yang Ruoqing finally saw clearly who had come in—it was a middle-aged woman, fairly tall, wearing a patched coarse blue cloth garment. Her hair was tied up in a bun with a peachwood hairpin securing it.
The woman's face was sallow and thin, her cheekbones protruding, eye sockets sunken, clearly the look of someone suffering from malnutrition.
Her eyes were large, and her skin quite fair, but there were dark circles under her eyes, with traces of bloodshot veins in them. Her whole face was filled with exhaustion, like someone who hadn't slept a wink all night.
Yang Ruoqing's gaze swept over this woman from head to toe. The ancient rural peasant attire, combined with the changes in her own body… she froze for a moment. Suddenly, a popular term from recent years popped into her mind: transmigration.
As soon as Sun Shi entered the room, she spotted her daughter actually sitting up, the quilt pushed aside, wearing patched underclothes, her bare, dirty feet dangling off the edge of the bed, staring fixedly at the doorway.
Sun Shi froze in disbelief for a second, and then pure joy bloomed across her face.
"Qing'er, when did you wake up? Mother was just out in the courtyard doing laundry, why didn't you call for me? Are you thirsty? Hungry? Do you need to relieve yourself?"
She rushed to the bedside, asking questions in rapid succession as she grabbed the coat hanging on the wooden bed frame, gave it a quick shake to get rid of the dust, and draped it over Yang Ruoqing's shoulders.
Her calloused, rough hands gently pressed against Yang Ruoqing's forehead, as if carefully sensing something, and she muttered softly, "Thank heavens, the fever has finally broken!"
Yang Ruoqing came back to her senses, her gaze carrying a hint of scrutiny as she studied this woman who called herself "Mother."
In her previous life, as an elite international agent, she had experienced all sorts of storms and dangers, and her judgment of people was sharp.
The woman before her was overflowing with genuine concern and affection—completely unfeigned.
Afraid that she might catch a cold through her feet, the woman even crouched down and tucked her dirty, blackened feet into the folds of her own clothes, cupping them through the fabric, gently rubbing warmth into them with her palms, without a single trace of disgust.
"You silly girl, why are you staring at Mother like that? Did the fever make you forget your own mother? Do you want tea? Do you need to go pee?" Sun Shi raised her head, gazing at Yang Ruoqing with affection, reaching out to gently stroke her tangled, matted hair, asking softly with tenderness in her voice.
"Pee?"
Did she mean to relieve herself?
This new body of hers looked to be around twelve or thirteen years old at least!
Yet this woman was speaking to her as if coaxing a child of four or five.
Why was that? Was it extreme pampering? Or… was there another reason?
Yang Ruoqing couldn't figure it out yet, and frankly didn't have the energy to dig into it at the moment—her throat was unbearably dry.
She opened her mouth, only to find that her throat was so inflamed she couldn't even make a sound. Hadn't this woman just said she'd been running a high fever all night? Probably acute tonsillitis, maybe even festering by now.
So, she lifted her hand and pointed at the teapot on the table.
The woman immediately caught on.
"My Qing'er is thirsty? Alright then, Mother will pour you some tea right away. You be good and lie back down, alright? The fever just broke—you mustn't catch a chill again!
With the woman's help, Yang Ruoqing lay back down again, leaning against the headboard as she watched the woman walk over and grab a chipped clay teacup from the table. The woman poured some tea from the teapot, gave the teacup a quick rinse, and then casually tossed the used water out into the yard through the door. After that, she carefully refilled the cup until it was more than half full, then cautiously carried it over to the bed, sitting sideways on the edge as she held it.
Yang Ruoqing was about to reach out to take the cup, but the woman moved first, slipping an arm around her lower back to help her sit up straight. Then, she brought the teacup to Yang Ruoqing's lips, speaking softly, "Come, let Mother feed you. Drink slowly, Qing'er, don't choke."
Yang Ruoqing smiled bitterly to herself. This woman doted on children. Such a big girl, and she still needed someone to feed her tea to her lips.
Wasn't there a saying—poor children grow up early?
This family was so poor the house was barely livable, yet they still spoiled their children to death, even feeding tea to their mouths like this. Sooner or later, wouldn't that just raise them to be completely useless?
Yang Ruoqing wasn't used to this kind of pampering. In her past life, she'd been an orphan, wandering the streets before being taken in by an organization, where she underwent the harshest, most brutal training imaginable.
From childhood to adulthood, she'd always been on her own, facing everything by herself. Independence was second nature to her.
Forget it. Her whole body was aching right now, and this was a completely new environment for her. She might as well follow local customs for once.
With the woman serving her, she drank three full bowls of tea before the burning pain in her throat finally eased a bit.
"Oh, you're sweating—that's a good sign!" The woman, Sun Shi, wiped Yang Ruoqing's forehead, the worry on her face easing slightly. Smiling, she said, "Your father left at dawn to go into town to get medicine for you. He should be back before lunch. Qing'er, just sit here and don't move around. I'll go get a cloth to wipe your face."
Yang Ruoqing nodded gently and watched as the woman turned toward the corner of the room, where a simple wooden rack stood with a clay basin on top and a somewhat worn cloth draped over the side.
Yang Ruoqing watched the woman wet the cloth in the water and wring it out forcefully, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder to give the bedridden Yang Ruoqing a comforting smile.
She felt a little dazed.
This wasn't a dream. After the plane crash, after plunging into the sea, she hadn't drowned—instead, she had somehow transmigrated into a poor farming family in ancient times, and what's more, she had a loving mother here.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she opened them again, her gaze regaining its usual calm composure.
Since Heaven had granted her a second chance at life, she was going to seize it. This time around, she would live a brilliant, extraordinary life!
The cloth had only just touched her face, wiping about half of it, when suddenly—
BANG! The door of the side room was flung open from the outside, even before the figure entered, a furious, scolding voice had already burst in ahead.
"Third son's wife, what are you dawdling around for in here? A whole pile of laundry's been scrubbed and you haven't gone to the pond to rinse it yet! Planning to let it rot in the basket so the whole family has to go out into the fields bare-assed?!"
As the sudden shouting rang out, Yang Ruoqing felt the hand holding the cloth tremble violently. A flicker of fear appeared on the woman's sallow face.
Looking toward the doorway, an old woman stood there leaning against the wooden doorframe, wearing a fierce expression. Her sparse eyebrows framed eyes that glared at people as if she wanted to eat them alive. A flat nose, thin lips, neatly combed graying hair tied into a bun at the back of her head with a silver hairpin stuck in it. On both ears, she wore large, shiny silver hoop earrings.
Her short, scrawny frame was wrapped in a set of worn, dark gray clothing that was about seventy percent new. Her feet were tiny, clearly having been bound in childhood. Standing there, she looked like a sharp compass needle driven into the floor.
(End of chapter