The next two weeks fell into a rhythm that felt profoundly satisfying to Li Wei. The village's acceptance meant a steady supply of fresh, high-quality ingredients, often bartered rather than bought. Mr. Luo brought the best cuts of chicken, Madam Wang offered the crispest cabbages, and Elder Chen, the water manager, made sure their household received clean, fresh water first thing every morning.
The slice of life deepened. Li Wei was no longer just Shen Xiu; she was the genius behind the Scent of the Daxia Hills, the one who could turn simple greens into a dish worthy of a feast. She was building a small reputation not through wealth or status, but through palpable, edible quality.
Every day was a partnership. Li Wei would spend her mornings sorting, drying, and grinding the wild herbs, transforming their humble dwelling into a fragrant spice workshop. In the evenings, after his hard day in the fields, Guo Fucheng would manage the heavy labor: pounding the pestle, chopping the toughest vegetables, and protecting their garden from pests. Their communication was becoming less formal and more intimate a language of shared tasks and quiet understanding.
One afternoon, Li Wei was in the kitchen, experimenting with a new oil blend for preserving dried mushrooms. She was struggling to lift a heavy earthenware jar of sesame oil onto the high shelf.
Fucheng walked in, wiping sweat from his brow. Without a word, he took the jar from her, his large hands barely gripping it, and lifted it effortlessly. As he did, he glanced down at the table where Li Wei had been working.
He didn't look at the spice, or the mushrooms, or the new recipe scroll she was writing. His eyes were fixed on a small pile of cedar chips.
"Xiu'er," he said, his voice unusually quiet. "What are these?"
"Ah, those," Li Wei replied, dusting her hands. "I need small wooden boxes to package the spice blend. Parchment is good for samples, but wealthy customers—like Madam Zhao's buyers—will pay more for a beautiful, sealed container. I was going to trade some dried fish for a carpenter's time."
Fucheng stepped closer, picking up a few of the cedar chips. His usually rough, practical hands turned the small, thin pieces with an unexpected gentleness.
"Do you have more cedar wood?" he asked.
"In the back shed. Why?"
He looked up, a familiar, patient smile on his handsome face. "I can make the boxes."
Li Wei frowned. "Fucheng, you are a farmer. Your hands are for the hoe and the yoke. Woodworking is a craft."
"I am a farmer now," he corrected, his gaze steady. "But I have other skills. I learned to work wood before I learned to plow."
The Carpenter's Hands
The next two days, Fucheng traded his hoe for a saw. He moved a heavy, worn workbench from the storage room into the courtyard. Li Wei watched, fascinated, as the clumsy farmer disappeared, replaced by a focused artisan.
His movements were precise. He didn't rush or fight the wood; he coaxed it. With tools Li Wei didn't even realize he owned—a fine-toothed saw, a set of sharp chisels, and a smooth wooden plane,he began shaping the rough cedar planks. The courtyard filled with the clean, sweet scent of newly cut wood, a scent that blended perfectly with Li Wei's own spices.
By the end of the second day, he had constructed six small, perfectly formed wooden boxes. Each was meticulously jointed, sanded until silken smooth, and fitted with a hinged lid. The cedar itself was a brilliant choice,its natural aroma would slightly infuse the spices, adding another layer of complexity.
He presented the first finished box to Li Wei. "Will this do, Xiu'er?"
She ran her fingers over the smooth surface, then opened the lid and inhaled the subtle, woody fragrance. It was flawless. The craftsmanship was easily professional, perhaps even better than anything the local market could produce.
"Fucheng," she breathed, genuinely stunned. "This is a masterpiece. You are not a farmer; you are a master craftsman."
He shrugged, a hint of old sadness flickering in his eyes before it was quickly masked by his usual calm. "The tools are still useful, no matter the work. This will increase the value of your spice. That is what matters."
"It does more than increase the value," Li Wei countered, placing a hand on his forearm, feeling the hardness of his muscle under the rough fabric. "It shows me there are parts of you I still do not know. And I want to know them all."
Fucheng's eyes softened, reflecting the depth of her curiosity. He covered her hand with his own. "There is time for that, Xiu'er. All the time in the world."
That night, Li Wei slept soundly, the scent of cedar and spice filling her room. She realized her life here was no longer defined by the money her family had taken, but by the value she and Fucheng created together. She was slowly falling in love, not just with the farmer who respected her, but with the complex man who was also a hidden craftsman. The bond was strengthening, but she knew his untold past the source of that flicker of sadness still remained a mystery, waiting for the right moment to surface.