Shen Anran rose before sunrise, as she did every day, even when her arms ached and her back protested. The first rays of light hadn't yet touched the county road, but the rooster crowing from a neighbor's yard already warned that another day had begun.
The small village she called home lay on the outskirts of Yuxi County, surrounded by rolling hills and patchwork fields that smelled of damp earth and the faint sweetness of ripening crops. The main street, a dirt path that led to the county center, was still empty except for a cart creaking in the distance. Beyond it, the river that cut through the valley glimmered faintly, reflecting the morning sky.
Anran's mother, Liu Meilan, had already started fetching water from the well. She looked smaller than usual in the morning haze, her thin shoulders hunched against the chill. Anran grabbed a basket and followed her, the muddy floor of their house sticking under her bare feet.
Life had never been easy. Her father had died when she was only ten, leaving them with a small plot of land, a humble house, and a world that seemed to demand more than they could give. Her mother was a strong woman, but one person alone could only stretch so far. Farming had become their life: plowing fields, sowing seeds, carrying water, harvesting vegetables and corn in the sweltering heat.
Anran worked diligently, though she knew little beyond the basics. She had no formal skills, no trade to fall back on, and no network in the nearby city. They sold their produce in Yuxi County's bustling market, a dusty square lined with stalls. Farmers from surrounding villages brought cabbage, beans, and tomatoes, shouting prices over the wind. Each day was a delicate negotiation.
She remembered the numbers vividly, as any girl who depended on them would. A pair of simple shoes for a child could be bought for 1 yuan, while four dumplings cost 20 cents. A basket of fresh tomatoes could sell for 2–3 yuan, depending on the season. Every coin mattered.
One morning, while helping her mother set up a small stall near the county's main gate, Anran noticed the city people walking by, their shoes polished, small radios tucked under their arms, handbags swinging. Their lives seemed impossible to reach. She clutched her basket, filled with just a few cucumbers, and waited for customers.
Her mother nudged her. "Remember, Anran, call out, smile, don't let them pass without noticing us."
She nodded. "Yes, mother."
By midday, they had sold a handful of vegetables and a few baskets of fruit. They made 7 yuan that morning, enough to buy rice for two days and some soy sauce. Anran calculated mentally. Seven yuan wasn't much, but it was enough to keep them afloat—for now.
Evenings were spent repairing nets, scrubbing baskets, and mending clothes. Sometimes she watched the county roads and imagined what it would be like to walk along them without carrying a heavy basket or worrying about tomorrow's sales. She had dreams, small ones—dreams of learning a skill, perhaps weaving cloth like some of the older women, or traveling to the city to see schools she'd only heard about—but they seemed far away, unreachable.
She had no siblings to share the burden. Being the only child meant every worry, every scrape with poverty, fell entirely on her. And yet, she never complained. Work was just life. Survival was everything.
At times, she felt a quiet envy for families with sons or daughters who could help, who could run small errands or fetch water. She had no such support. Her mother, though strong, often looked at her with worry in her eyes, silently acknowledging the weight she carried alone.
Still, Anran had a spark that made her endure. She learned from watching, listening, and mimicking. She memorized the best paths to the county market to avoid the larger carts. She learned which merchants would give a little credit if money ran short. She remembered that a single 1-yuan coin could be stretched, or that saving 50 cents one day could mean extra dumplings for herself and her mother tomorrow.
By the end of each day, when the sun dipped behind the hills and the village quieted to a faint murmur of crickets and distant animals, she would sit outside the small muddy house, feeling the fatigue in her arms and legs. She would close her eyes and imagine what life could be beyond Yuxi County, beyond these fields that defined her existence.
Her mother would join her, carrying a small bowl of rice and a few pieces of dried vegetables. "You've done well today," she would say softly. Anran would nod, eating in silence, knowing that every coin earned, every dumpling sold, every basket carried, brought them one step closer to stability—even if it felt impossible.
And yet, despite all this, she felt fragile. She was strong in body, capable of labor, but weak in experience. She had no trade, no formal skills, no foothold beyond the farm and the small county market. She depended entirely on her mother, on the seasonal crops, and on the chance encounters with merchants who might buy their produce.
Even as the economy began to open, even as the county markets grew busier with city goods and foreign products, Anran and her mother were still far from it. Life demanded adaptation, and they had nothing but sweat, patience, and hope.
Anran rubbed her hands together, feeling the rough calluses, and whispered into the cool evening air, "One day… one day, we'll have more than this."
The words felt small, fragile, but they were hers. And in a world where 20 cents could buy four dumplings or 1 yuan could buy shoes, even a dream was a kind of wealth.