Madam Wu returned home, cradling two bowls of steaming chicken congee. One bowl—crafted from fine, warm porcelain—was brimming with thick, fragrant porridge and a generous heap of tender chicken. The other, a plain grey vessel, was filled only halfway, and nestled within it were just two lonely pieces of meat.
Wen Ran gazed longingly at her sister's bowl, her mouth watering, but she said nothing. She had no complaints.
Wen Nuan looked down at the simple meal before them. This family always huddled close when it came to meals. Even when faced with such disparity, no one ever raised a word. That, surely, was love.
"Eat slowly, and watch out for bones," Wu said softly. "Nuannuan, eat more, it's good for your health. Mother, come, let's eat outside."
With that, Madam Wu set down her bowl and walked out.
Ran watched her leave and understood immediately—neither her mother nor grandmother were willing to eat the chicken congee.
"Sis, I… I'm going outside to eat too. The room feels stuffy. You take your time," she said, picking up her cracked clay bowl and heading out.
Wen Nuan knew where Wu had gone. As always, she was hiding in the kitchen, nibbling at some boiled greens or foraged wild vegetables. Chicken congee? Neither Wu nor Wang could bring themselves to eat it.
Wen Ran saw this too, and her appetite vanished.
A heaviness settled over her. She rose and made her way to the back of the house, where a simple stove had been assembled beneath a lean-to.
Just as she expected, Madam Wang was ladling steaming cabbage into a bowl.
"Mother," Ran said gently, "I can't finish all the chicken congee. Why don't I share it with you and Grandmother?"
Before they could reply, she scooped a generous ladleful into each of their bowls—giving away even her only two pieces of chicken.
But Madam Wu quickly stopped her. "Ran, eat it yourself. I've just had some congee. I'm a bit tired and just want something light—maybe some green vegetables. "
Madam Wang echoed her sentiment. "Yes, dear. Grandmother already ate. I'm old now, and these oily meats don't suit me. You eat—it's better for you."
Wen Nuan felt her heart swell with warmth. She inhaled deeply and strode into the room.
"No more skimping! Let's all sit down and eat together—eat with full bellies and open hearts. There's more than enough! From now on, whatever hardship we face, we face it as a family—with love."
She stepped forward and fetched two more clean bowls, filling them to the brim with chicken congee. The meat was full of bones, but she didn't care—she piled it high. Then, turning to Ran's bowl, she continued adding chicken until it threatened to overflow.
The three women stared in speechless astonishment.
"Come, eat," Wen Nuan said firmly.
Wu and Wang exchanged uneasy glances. A memory flashed in their minds—of the day this girl had forced them to eat a spoonful of meat porridge and a steamed bun, unrelenting in her concern.
Madam Wu glanced at the pot, then took a long sip of the thick congee. Her eye twitched at the richness of it.
"Eat, Mama. Eat, Grandma. We eat together," Wen Qing said again, her tone brooking no resistance.
Wu Family: "…"
Faced with her fierce tenderness, none of them dared refuse.
A tear slipped down Madam Wang's cheek. She wiped it away quickly and smiled. "Alright, let's eat. Let's eat heartily!"
Bowing their heads, they all began to eat.
The room was quiet. The congee was thick and warm, the rice soft and fragrant, the chicken tender and succulent. A flavor none of them had ever tasted before.
And as Wu and Wang ate, tears spilled silently into their bowls.
This porridge was sweet—so sweet, it hurt.
In the chill of early autumn, a bowl of congee could warm not just the body, but the soul.
When they had all finished, Wen Ran let out a full, contented burp—something she had never experienced before.
Once they were truly full, Wen Nuan finally spoke: "Grandmother, Mother, I've thought of a way we can make money."
Madam Wang chuckled, not taking it seriously. "And what kind of business has our nuannuan come up with this time?"
"While the farmers are busy harvesting," Wen Nuan said, "we'll fry and sell river snails."
Madam Wu shook her head. "You could catch buckets of them from the river, but who would buy them? They're muddy and dirty. I remember a family that tried once—they all got sick."
Madam Wang agreed. "Those things are filthy. They upset your stomach. Best not to eat them."
Wen Nuan repeated what she had once told Wen Ran. Her words stunned the two women.
In those days, people held many superstitions. When Wennuan was still in her mother's womb, a passing monk had warned: the child would be born prematurely, her constitution weak, her health frail. She would suffer greatly in her early years—but if she could survive until the age of eleven, she would live a long, prosperous life, blessed beyond compare.
They hadn't believed it then. But Wennuan was born early—a seven month child, tiny and sickly, no stronger than a mewling kitten.
She fell ill every few days. Nearly died at least once a year. Over time, they started to believe the prophecy.
The promise of "unmatched wealth and prosperity"? That, they dared not hope for. They just prayed she would live past eleven, and lead a quiet, healthy life.
Now, hearing her speak with such certainty, a strange feeling stirred in their hearts. Perhaps… just perhaps, she had seen a glimpse of some divine realm, and learned a few hidden truths.
Only days ago, Wennnuan had turned eleven. She had fallen into the river—nearly drowned. It had been the most dangerous moment yet.
But she had survived.
And now, each day, she seemed healthier and more full of spirit.
Could the monk have been right?
"Grandma," said Wen Nuan "if we try it tomorrow, you'll see I was right. The rice is ripe, the skies are clear—it's harvest time. The villagers will all be working hard, and they'll need good, hearty food. That's when we step in and sell fried snails—spicy, flavorful, with bits of meat. Just two coins for a big bowl. It's cheap, delicious, and perfect with rice. Everyone's too busy to cook anyway. We'll set up a stall not just in the village, but in town too. The river's full of snails—if we buy only seasonings, we'll turn a tidy profit. I reckon we could earn a few taels of silver from the farmers alone!"
Wang pondered the idea, her heart warming. It made sense—if it was tasty, someone would buy.
"Right now, an egg costs a copper, and a bowl of cooked meat costs two. Selling a hearty snail bowl for that? Of course people will buy it."
More importantly, during harvest, no one has the time or energy to cook. If someone offers a hot meal for two coins, they'll buy it without hesitation.
The Wang family had once run a noodle shop. Once Wang thought it through, she didn't hesitate.
"Alright. I'll go into town this afternoon to buy seasonings. Tomorrow morning, we'll make a trial batch. If it tastes good and no one gets sick, we'll all go to the river and start gathering snails. Your father's done working today anyway—we can go as a family."
"Great!" Wen Nuan exhaled. She hadn't expected to persuade them so easily.
But snail-selling wasn't a long-term plan. Sooner or later, someone else would catch on. She needed to head into town and look into other opportunities.
That afternoon, she took a well-deserved nap. Her body was still weak, and the fatigue set in quickly.
When she awoke, the house was quiet. She was alone.
The sun was low in the sky. Dusk approached.
She walked to the water vat, drew a half bucket, and began watering the vegetable patch.
The bucket was old and wooden, thick and heavy. Because of her poor constitution, she could only manage half a load at a time.
Exhausted, Wen Nuan sat down beside the low tree near the garden. She looked at the tiny green sprouts poking out of the soil.
If only you could grow faster, she thought.
They'd eaten everything in the garden. She hadn't grown yet herself, and now she needed to forage wild vegetables just to get by.
Suddenly, a strange warmth flooded her palm.
A flicker of purple mist shimmered before her eyes.
"…Huh?" Wen Nuan murmured.
It was just like before—when the purple mist had appeared to heal her. But this time, she hadn't been injured. She had simply wished the vegetables would grow faster…
And yet—it had come again.