Dong Hai's eager voice tumbled ahead of him, his words spilling so quickly that he nearly tripped over his own foot.
Lin Xin shifted his basket slightly and cautioned, "Hold it steady… if you swing it too much, the crabs will escape before we even reach home."
Startled, Dong Hai immediately clutched his basket with both hands, nodding his small head with the solemn gravity of an old farmer. Yet, before long, his humming began again, the childish tune bubbling out of him like a spring that could not be capped.
By the time they reached the edge of Hangul Village, the sun was already leaning westward, casting long shadows across the worn path.
A few villagers noticed their return. Some paused in their pounding grain or sorting vegetables, their voices dropping into hushed murmurs. Whispers circled quietly about the earlier commotion in the Han household, though their hands never ceased their work.
Oblivious to the glances and whispers, Lin Xin and Dong Hai walked deeper into the village. The daylight was thinning, slowly yielding to dusk.
The sky stretched wide, painted in strokes of orange and violet, while the first pale stars trembled faintly on the horizon. One by one, doorways flickered to life with the glow of oil lamps, their halos spilling warmth across the hard-packed earth lanes. The mingled scents of woodsmoke and simmering broth drifted through the air, wrapping the village in a quiet, homely hush.
The lively shouts of children had already faded, leaving only the occasional bark of a dog and the steady creak of a spinning wheel from some distant courtyard. Compared to the bustle of noon, Hangul Village now seemed gentler, quietly settling into the comfort of evening.
Lin Xin adjusted the basket in his arms, the faint lamplight catching in his green eyes. Stray strands of his golden hair slipped free, the glow softening his delicate features even further. Behind him, Dong Hai hurried along, his little face puffed with effort as he clutched his basket close against his chest.
By the time the weathered gate of their courtyard came into view, the last light of the sun had nearly slipped away. Their small house stood quietly in the dim twilight, like an old guardian silently awaiting their return.
With a grunt of effort, Dong Hai pushed the creaking gate open. "We're back!" he called out proudly. But no answer came. The courtyard lay still, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves stirred from the old peach tree in the corner.
He scampered inside and dropped his basket with a heavy thump, crouching low to inspect their catch once more. A stubborn crab scrambled upward, its claws clacking, but he quickly poked it back down with triumphant glee.
Lin Xin followed more quietly, closing the gate with a muted click before stepping across the stone slabs. He set his own basket neatly beneath the eaves, then brushed a loose curl back behind his ear. His gaze swept the quiet courtyard, lingering in the empty stillness.
Han Yan had not returned.
A faint crease appeared between his brows, unease settling in his chest. Almost unconsciously, he lifted his hand and nibbled lightly at his fingertips a small habit of his whenever worry took root.
Why hasn't he come back yet…?
—
Meanwhile, at the Han household.
A handful of villagers had gathered just beyond the low wall, their steps slowed by curiosity. They craned their necks toward the gate, murmuring softly among themselves.
"What now? Another quarrel in the Han house?" someone whispered.
"Best not to get involved," an older woman muttered, shaking her head. "Family matters are like another's cooking pot even if it burns, outsiders shouldn't stir it.
Though their words urged restraint, none truly moved away. Concern and gossip wrestled quietly behind their eyes. The cries of a child drifted faintly from the courtyard, making a few hearts tighten yet still, they held their tongues.
Inside, Madam Wei's plump hand shot forward, her jeweled fingers trembling with anger as she pointed accusingly at Han Ling, one of first Brother's twin daughters.
"You little wretch! Was your conscience fed to the dogs? You dare snatch the candy I saved for my precious grandson, Han Bo?"
The little girl's shoulders shook, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She felt deeply wronged, she had only wanted a taste just a small bite of the candy her elder brother was eating.
Madam Zhang, however, paid her no mind. She sat nearby, her full attention fixed on her beloved son. With endless tenderness, she wiped Han Bo's sticky face as he continued to stuff candy into his mouth, each bite making his cheeks puff out like a little squirrel.
Across the hall, Madam Liu's eyes flickered with envy. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she watched Han Bo chew with delight. Her own daughter Han Lan sat quietly in her lap, gaze fixed longingly on the bright piece of candy in the boy's hand.
The men of the Han family had already departed for the rice fields. With Han Yan no longer there to shoulder most of the work, the others were forced to labor on their own. The house, quickly filled with idle complaints and petty squabbles.
With the irritation of not having enough and not getting her way, unfortunately little Han Ling, who only wanted some candy from her elder brother, became the unfortunate victim of Madam Wei's anger.
Behind a carved pillar, Han Ling's twin sister Han Qing hid herself away, clutching her sleeve tightly. Her wide eyes darted toward her mother yet Madam Zhang did not even blink, as though her daughter's tears were invisible.
Just then, footsteps sounded from the courtyard.
Han Yan entered the main hall, his calm gaze swept across the scene from Madam Wei's sharp scolding to Han Ling's tearful cries. He could only sigh inwardly.
In ancient times, sons were regarded as the roots of a family line, while daughters were like passing clouds destined to marry out, to bear another family's name. To raise a son was to raise one's own future; to raise a daughter was a favor without return.
Such was the belief woven into the bones of the old generation, and no reasoning could change it.
Han Yan knew better than to interfere. He was no saint, and attempting to correct their views would only bring him unnecessary trouble. Besides, he knew his sudden appearance alone would make madam Wei totally forget about Han Ling he guessed either way he was still the sacrificial lamb.
Sure enough, Madam Wei's voice faltered the instant she saw him. She snorted, lifting her chin high, her face twisting into a sneer.
Madam Wei's voice dripped with disdain.
"Oh? What wind blew you back here? Once, you strutted about so proudly. Now look at you, no better than a beaten dog."
The words fell into the hall like stones in still water.
Han Yan stood silent, his expression unreadable as the faint light from the doorway flickered against his face. Outside, the wind stirred, carrying faint whispers from the gathered villagers beyond the gate.
---