The early days of spring carried with them more than just the fragrance of blossoms and the warmth of returning sun.
In the village where Mei Lin now lived, life had begun to bloom again—fields turned green, the river swelled with melting snow, and laughter echoed from every courtyard.
Mei Lin had found peace in the rhythm of village life. Her small hut near the fields had grown into something almost sacred. Rows of herbs stretched neatly along the edge of her fence—mint, motherwort, mugwort, and chrysanthemum.
Chickens clucked behind a hand-woven fence, and in the mornings, she was often seen walking through the dew-drenched fields, checking plants, gathering blossoms, and exchanging greetings with the neighbors.
At first, it was simple. The villagers were grateful to have someone who knew how to treat a cough without relying on temple offerings, who could make fever break without burning incense or praying for days.
Children would run errands for her, old men brought broken stools for her to fix, and women stopped by with baskets of vegetables.
But as the weeks passed, something else began to bloom.
Interest.
It started subtly. Auntie Rong brought her some pickled radish and casually mentioned her nephew in the next breath—"He's a quiet one, very hard-working. Works with timber. Has his own house, too."
The next week, Auntie Mei stopped by with a bolt of cloth and said, "My cousin's boy just turned twenty-seven. He's not much to look at, but oh, his hands! Strong like an ox. And very respectful."
Mei Lin would smile politely, thank them, and change the subject. But it didn't stop there.
One evening, as she returned from gathering wild dandelions by the hillside, she found a small bundle on her doorstep—a woven bracelet and a peach blossom tucked into its knot.
There was no note, but she knew who had left it. Wei Han, the blacksmith's apprentice, had always found an excuse to linger whenever he passed by her hut.
Another time, the baker's son approached her directly. "Miss Mei," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I know I'm younger, but I'd work hard. If you ever think about… settling down."
Her heart was kind, but firm.
"I'm honored," she always replied gently. "But I have no such plans. I've chosen a quiet life."
Most understood. Some were disappointed but respected her wishes. A few still harbored hopes, lingering near her garden or offering help with water jars, but Mei Lin never encouraged them. Her path was her own, and she had walked too far to lose it now.
Not everyone accepted it so gracefully.
Lianhua, known in the village as the "flower girl" for her beauty, had long harbored feelings for Wei Han. Though she rarely spoke of it aloud, her glances and gestures left little to doubt.
She had always imagined that one day, she and Wei Han would walk side by side to the temple, receive blessings, and start a family.
When she learned that Wei Han had confessed his interest to Mei Lin, something shifted.
Jealousy.
It crept in slowly but fiercely. Whispers began. Quiet at first—only among the younger girls who idolized Lianhua.
"Did you hear? Mei Lin lives alone and lets men into her house at night."
"Isn't it strange? She always has boys helping her. Why does she need that many herbs, anyway?"
Rumors turned to accusations.
One morning, Mei Lin walked into the marketplace to find several women eyeing her with narrowed gazes.
One even moved her child away as she passed. Confused, Mei Lin continued on, only to overhear whispers about "stealing hearts" and "disgracing families."
It wasn't long before Lianhua confronted her directly.
She came to Mei Lin's garden with two of her friends in tow, arms crossed, chin high.
"You think you're better than us," Lianhua snapped. "Wearing robes like a monk, pretending to be pure. But you charm the men here with your quiet voice and your medicine."
Mei Lin stood by her herb patch, the morning sun behind her, and blinked slowly. "I've never forced anyone to speak with me. I've never accepted a proposal."
Lianhua scoffed. "You act like a saint. But everyone knows you enjoy the attention."
The confrontation spread like wildfire. Tongues wagged, eyes watched, and suddenly Mei Lin found herself at the center of gossip she hadn't invited.
For the first time in many moons, she felt something sharp and unwelcome—doubt.
But before it could take root, something happened.
The villagers spoke.
Not in whispers, but in voices strong and clear.
It was Auntie Rong who stepped forward first. "My niece was saved by Mei Lin. She couldn't breathe, and this girl stayed up all night for her. Who among us did that?"
The old carpenter added, "She helped me when my legs wouldn't let me walk to the temple. That girl gave me tea, massaged my knees, and asked nothing in return."
One by one, villagers defended her. Mothers, children, elders—those whose lives she had touched. The crowd that gathered turned not against her, but toward her, in support.
Lianhua's face paled. Her words shrank, her pride crumbling under the weight of so many truths.
Eventually, she left—flushed with humiliation, but not entirely shunned. The village was kind, but it did not forget who had tried to cast shadows.
In the days that followed, Mei Lin returned to her quiet rhythm. The villagers, now more protective of her than ever, treated her like one of their own. Offers of marriage dwindled. Respect grew.
Even Wei Han stopped by—not to speak of love, but to bring her new wood for her medicine shelves.
"No promises," he said, smiling faintly. "Just gratitude."
She bowed, touched by his honesty.
Under the clear sky, Mei Lin knelt by her garden again. Her hands sifted through soil, her heart lighter. The rosemary bush she had planted near the entrance was blooming.
She was not here for fame. Not for affection. She was here because this place, this life, had chosen her as much as she had chosen it.
Though thorns had pricked her path, she remained rooted.
And when she stood beneath the plum tree that night, stars winking above, she whispered to herself, "I'll stay. No matter the storms."
And she did.