The twilight gathered, and Qinghe Town lay shrouded in a thin layer of cooking smoke.
The air carried the scent of firewood and food—someone was stir-frying chili, someone else was cooking gruel, the smells unmistakably clear. The willow trees by the ditch swayed gently in the wind; the streetlight at the end of the main road, broken for half a year, remained unlit. Once darkness fell, each household's doorway lights and flashlights were what people relied on. Lin Chen had grown up running along this road; he could walk home from the village entrance with his eyes closed. But today he stood beneath the old locust tree for a long time, not immediately moving forward. As if standing a little longer would delay a little longer seeing his grandmother's waxen-yellow face, hearing her hoarse "Little Chen is back," and a little longer remembering the few crumpled bills left in his pocket.
The town was small. One main street ran from east to west, flanked by low tile-roofed houses and scattered shops. Beyond that lay field paths, ditches, and scattered villages. Lin Chen stood beneath the old locust tree at the village entrance, looking at the scene before him—so familiar—gray tile-roofed houses, crooked dirt roads, farmers returning home in groups along the distant field paths, some carrying hooves, some leading cows, walking slowly toward home. The sunset stretched their shadows long, and stretched Lin Chen's shadow long too. Yet he didn't move. He simply stood, his heart full of indescribable bitterness.
Twenty-two years old.
These four words pressed like a stone against his chest. A medical university graduate, a proper bachelor's degree, five years of hard study—anatomy, pharmacology, diagnostics, internal medicine, surgery, pediatrics—he had learned everything he needed to learn and obtained all the required certificates. But only after leaving school did he understand that a degree was just a ticket to enter. To truly squeeze into a top-tier hospital, connections, papers, residency certificates, and networks were all essential, missing one was impossible. He had none of them. His parents had passed away early; at home, it was just Grandmother and him, depending on each other for survival. Supporting him through university had exhausted the old woman's life savings. Without connections or recommendations, the résumés he sent out sank like stones into the sea. Occasionally receiving interview notices, he took the cheapest trains, stayed in the cheapest motels to rush there, only to be told either "we prefer candidates with residency experience" or "your specialty doesn't quite match ours." There was one private hospital that did show interest, but after deducting social insurance and housing fund, the take-home pay was less than four thousand yuan—unable to rent a decent single room in the provincial capital, let alone cover food, transportation, and the contingency of sending money home if Grandmother got sick. He calculated again and again, and finally politely declined. That night he walked alone on the provincial capital's streets, the neon lights hurting his eyes, the streets full of people hurrying past, no one noticing this poor student from out of town. He stood on the overpass for a long time, finally bought a standing-room ticket, and stood for eight hours on the train back to school. From then on, whenever he received interview notices from other places, he would first do the math: travel, accommodation, food. If he got the job, fine; if not, another few hundred yuan wasted.
He couldn't stay in the big city, and he had tried opportunities in small counties too. But hospitals in small places either required local household registration or a referral—he was a graduate from another province, rootless and without a background, and they wouldn't even bother looking at his résumé closely. After half a year of struggle, the money in his card dwindled, but Grandmother's phone calls became more frequent—not urging him to come back, but always saying "I'm fine, focus on finding a good job." But neighbors secretly told him that Grandmother often sat at the door in a daze, eating less and less. Listening to her hoarse voice on the phone, Lin Chen finally bought the cheapest ticket, carried his luggage, and returned to Qinghe Town.
That was three months ago.
He still remembered the day he first returned, walking from the town's small station to the village with his luggage, encountering many acquaintances along the way. Some greeted him warmly, asking how he was getting on in the city; others had probing looks, as if guessing whether he had come back because he couldn't make it. Lin Chen simply smiled, saying he came back to see Grandmother. When he entered his own courtyard and saw Grandmother standing at the door with a cane waiting for him, her hair all white, her back hunched, his nose stung, and he barely held back. That night Grandmother made a whole table of dishes, all his favorites from childhood. But Grandmother only ate a few bites and said she was full. Only then did Lin Chen realize it wasn't that she didn't want to eat, but that she couldn't.
During those three months, he never sent out another résumé. Not that he didn't want to, but he didn't dare—if he left, who would take care of Grandmother? Hiring someone cost money, sending her to a nursing home cost even more, and he could barely sustain himself. There were no decent companies in the town, but there was casual labor: helping harvest rice, carry bricks, repair roads, daily pay of just over a hundred yuan, leaving his back sore. He did it for a few days, but when Grandmother was seriously ill, he had to stay home and couldn't go out to work every day. Later, he just did odd jobs in the town, occasionally writing things for people, running errands, earning what he could. He saved all the money to buy medicine and food for Grandmother; himself, two meals a day of thin porridge with pickled vegetables was enough. Some in the village gossiped behind his back, saying that Lin's boy went to university and a farmer's fate still ended up with; others sympathized, saying the child was filial, but fate was unkind. Lin Chen heard it but pretended not to. He couldn't explain to others, and even if he did, it wouldn't help.
Grandmother was over eighty this year.
Lin Chen was raised by his Grandmother since childhood. His parents died in an accident when he was ten, both leaving, leaving him and Grandmother alone. Grandmother didn't cry or make a scene; she simply dried her tears, held his hand, and said, "Little Chen, there's Grandmother." From then on, she played both father and mother—farming, raising chickens, delivering babies, treating minor illnesses—somehow managing to send him to middle school in the town, high school in the county, and finally getting him into the provincial medical university. Lin Chen remembered the day he received the admission letter; Grandmother looked at it again and again, asked him to read the characters she didn't recognize, and after reading, she smiled happily, "My grandson is accomplished." But that night, when he got up to use the bathroom, he saw light still on in Grandmother's room; she sat alone on the bed, wiping tears while looking at his parents' photo. He didn't go in, just stood outside the door, silently vowing to make sure Grandmother would live a good life in the future. But now he had graduated, couldn't even find a decent job, couldn't even afford money for Grandmother's medical treatment. Every time he thought about these things, he felt like he couldn't breathe.
In her youth, Grandmother was a famous midwife in the area. Within a dozen miles of Qinghe Town, whenever a woman in any family was about to give birth, they would come to invite her. In the dead of night, no matter the wind or rain, as long as someone knocked on her door, she would grab her cloth bag and go. A midwife not only delivered babies but also had to know fetal positioning, handle difficult births, stop bleeding, and soothe mothers. Grandmother never went to school, could barely recognize a few characters, but a lifetime of experience was in her head. Whenever a child had a fever or diarrhea, or an adult had a bruise or injury, people would come for a folk remedy. Grandmother never charged money; at most, she would accept a few eggs or a handful of vegetables. She said, we're all neighbors from the same area, help where you can. But now that she's old, her body is getting worse by the day. Last year she could still sit in the yard bask in the sun, pick vegetables, chat with passing neighbors; but after the start of this year, she often stayed in bed, eating less, speaking less, sometimes sleeping drowsily all day. Lin Chen looked at this and felt panic, but there was nothing he could do.
He had no money to treat Grandmother.
Going to the county hospital or city hospital for a full check-up—CT, ECG, blood tests, hospital observation—easily added up to over ten thousand yuan. He couldn't afford it. The health center in the town was cheaper, registration was a few yuan, medicine a few tens. He took Grandmother there twice; the doctor listened, asked questions, measured blood pressure, listened to heart and lungs, and finally just said "old age, organ degeneration, rest well," prescribing the most ordinary vitamins, calcium tablets, and calming medicine. Lin Chen knew in his heart that those medicines treated the symptoms, not the root cause. Grandmother's problems were the sequelae of decades of hard work; a few pills couldn't solve it. He could only dig out those folk remedies Grandmother recorded in her youth—some written in a small notebook, some kept in her heart, fragmentary oral accounts to him—go to the town to get the medicine, come back and decoct it, feed her spoonful by spoonful. He wasn't sure if they helped, but besides this, he really couldn't think of another way. His teachers at school had said that Traditional Chinese Medicine emphasizes pattern differentiation and treatment; one shouldn't rigidly apply formulas to match diagnoses. But he had no room to choose now. All the formulas he could use were ones Grandmother had used for people in her youth—tonifying qi, calming the spleen—he tried them in rotation, observing Grandmother's reactions and making slight adjustments. Sometimes at night he would suddenly wake up, afraid he had used the wrong medicine, aggravated the condition; but without medicine, Grandmother would only decline day by day. He was caught in the middle, between a rock and a hard place, could only try to make sure every ingredient's dosage was clearly checked, clearly asked about, before acting.
That evening, Lin Chen came back from the town, carrying half a jin of pork and a handful of vegetables. The pork was to nourish Grandmother; he hadn't bought meat in a long time. Passing the village entrance, he met Aunt Zhang from across the way. Aunt Zhang carried a vegetable basket, glanced at him, seemed to want to speak but held back, finally came closer and lowered her voice, "Little Lin, your grandmother's been even more listless these past two days, pay more attention." Lin Chen's heart tightened, nodded, thanked her, and quickened his pace home.
Pushing open the creaking wooden door, the courtyard was quiet. Grandmother's door was slightly ajar, faint breathing sounds coming from inside. Lin Chen put down his things, first washed his hands, then quietly entered Grandmother's room. The old woman lay on her side, covered with a thin blanket that had been washed until it faded, her face waxen-yellow, cheekbones prominent, eye sockets sunken. Lin Chen called out "Grandmother," and she slowly opened her eyes, saw him, the corners of her mouth twitched, like trying to smile, but had no strength.
"Little Chen is back..." The voice was hoarse, almost inaudible.
"Yeah, I'm back. Got some meat today; I'll make you some porridge in a bit." Lin Chen sat at the bedside, reached out to feel Grandmother's forehead—not hot, but a bit cold. He tucked the blanket around her and said, "Sleep some more; I'll call you when food is ready."
Grandmother murmured an answer and closed her eyes again. Lin Chen sat by the bed for a while, listening to her light, shallow breathing, his heart sour and choked. He got up, closed the door quietly, and went to the kitchen to start the fire and cook. The rice was old rice; he rinsed it twice, added water, and cooked porridge; the pork was cut into shreds, added to the pot near the end of cooking, then sprinkled with a bit of salt. The vegetables were washed and chopped; separately, he stir-fried them in another pot. By the time the meal was made, it was already dark. He served a bowl of porridge, added some vegetables and pork shreds, carried it to Grandmother's bedside, and fed her spoonful by spoonful. Grandmother only ate less than half a bowl and shook her head, saying she couldn't eat any more. Lin Chen didn't insist, helped her rinse her mouth, took away the bowls and chopsticks, and himself just scooped up the remaining porridge and ate a few bites with some pickled vegetables.
After cleaning up the kitchen, he fetched warm water to wipe Grandmother's face and hands. Grandmother suddenly moved her lips and said, "Under the pillow... that box... take it out..."
Lin Chen was startled, took out an old wooden box from under her pillow. The box was very light, its corners worn shiny, the clasp somewhat loose. "Is this it?"
Grandmother nodded slightly and said, "Someday... you'll need it... keep it well..."
Lin Chen wanted to ask what it was, but seeing her exhausted face, didn't ask further, just said, "Alright, I'll keep it. Sleep now."
After putting Grandmother to sleep, he carried the box back to his own narrow room. The room only had a wooden bed, an old table, and a lacquer-peeled cabinet. An old-style desk lamp sat on the table, its light yellowish. Lin Chen sat at the table, placed the box in front of him, and gently opened it.
Inside there was no gold or silver, only a few yellowed old objects: a faded thimble, a wooden comb with broken teeth, a neatly folded handkerchief, and an old book wrapped in cloth. Lin Chen picked up the thimble and comb—thimble used for sewing, the comb had been with her for countless years, several teeth broken. The handkerchief was folded square, corners worn fuzzy; he didn't dare open it, afraid it might contain the old woman's private things. Finally his gaze fell on the book wrapped in cloth. The cloth was earth-blue, washed until it faded, carrying a musty scent of years. He unwrapped the book; the pages were yellowed and brittle, the cover had three faded characters: "青囊经".
Lin Chen was stunned. He had heard of "青囊经"—traditionally attributed to Hua Tuo. Because Hua Tuo was killed by Cao Cao, much of his book has been lost; versions circulating in later ages are of questionable authenticity, and there has been much scholarly debate. He never expected Grandmother to have such a book. He carefully lifted the book, turning pages one by one. The text was vertical, traditional characters, interspersed with many archaic characters and strange symbols; many places were blurred, like having been soaked in water and then dried, some page corners were also damaged. He tried reading a few lines, completely unintelligible, like a heavenly book. Turning to the middle, it seemed to be diagrams of human meridians and acupuncture points, but the lines were incomplete, annotations hard to distinguish. He sighed, carefully put the book away, rewrapped it in cloth, placed it back in the box.
Outside the window, the moonlight was cold and clear, distant dog barks rang out a few times. Lin Chen put the box in the cabinet, blew out the lamp, and lay on the bed. In the dark, he looked at the blackened ceiling beams above, his mind in a mess. Tomorrow he still needed to go to the town to see if there was any casual work; Grandmother's medicine was almost finished, needed to get more; the rice jar was also running low, needed to buy... Money, money, money. He turned over, pulled the thin blanket onto his shoulder. The blanket had a sun-dried scent; it was from a few days ago when Grandmother was feeling slightly better and helped him sun it. He curled his legs, only one thought in his mind: tomorrow, he still had to find ways to get some money, buy Grandmother some decent medicine, let her eat a few more bites. As long as Grandmother could still eat, still sleep, still occasionally open her eyes to look at him, there was still hope. He couldn't break down; if he broke down, Grandmother would truly have no one to care for her.
He closed his eyes, his breathing gradually steadied. The wind outside the window gently passed through the treetops, making a soft rustling sound. Lin Chen, in a half-dream half-awake state, thought: if only there was some money, even just ten thousand yuan, he could take Grandmother to the county hospital for a good check-up, whatever hospitalization, whatever medication... But thinking was thinking; money wouldn't fall from the sky. He sighed, and fell into a deep sleep. He didn't know that the "heavenly book" "青囊经" by his pillow, in the mysterious will of fate, was about to trigger some wondrous opportunity and change everything about him.