The setting sun bathed the mountains of Qing Shan Ao in a golden hue. Mist rose between the peaks, swirling in the amber glow and casting a hazy halo over the sleepy village. Nuan Nuan, barefoot and silent, walked slowly along the familiar mountain path. Her fingers gently grasped the leash of her dog, Blackie, who trotted obediently beside her.
In her little woven basket were the fruits of today's harvest: a few tender dandelion leaves, a bundle of wild scallions, some edible mushrooms, and a small bunch of purple-berry herb—useful for stopping bleeding. Not a rich harvest, but enough for a humble meal for her and her animal companions.
With every careful step, Nuan Nuan could feel the earth beneath her feet change—from hard rock to soft, moist humus. This meant that her home is near. The mountain breeze caressed her cheeks, bringing the scent of pine resin and wildflowers with it. But it also brought something else: the sound of Blackie's breathing suddenly turned short and sharp.
"Woof…" The dog stopped abruptly, letting out a low, warning growl. The leash went taut in Nuan Nuan's hand.
"Nuan Nuan," Blackie said, voice tense, "there's a strange scent… a strong smell of blood."
Nuan Nuan stopped too, her brow slightly furrowed. She knelt and rested her fingers gently on Blackie's neck, feeling the tautness of his muscles under his thick fur. She tilted her head, listening carefully. Beneath the usual chorus of crickets and birds, she detected something foreign—a door creaking open, the clink of metal, and… the heavy breathing of an adult man.
"A hunter?" she whispered, clutching a corner of her tattered shirt.
The last time a hunter intruded her home, he had stolen the rabbit pelts she hung to dry under the eaves.
Blackie shook his head, then realizing she couldn't see, quickly nudged her hand with his nose.
"Not the same. These two… they smell like the city and…. They have the smell of your mother. It's strange."
Nuan Nuan stiffened slightly.
Her mother had been gone for two years now, but Blackie still remembered her scent. Biting her lip, Nuan Nuan hesitated. Yet she still kept walking. That cottage, however broken, was her only home. No matter who waited inside, she had nowhere else to go.
As she pushed open the door, a blur of white rushed out—Tuan Tuan.
The usually graceful white cat was now puffed up, tail high, fur bristling. It darted in a circle around Nuan Nuan's ankles before leaping back inside, positioning itself between Nuan Nuan and the two intruders. Hissing violently, Tuan Tuan arched its back, standing every hair on end.
Nuan Nuan did not react to the presence of strangers. She calmly walked straight toward the corner water jar. She could feel two unfamiliar gazes locked tightly onto her—one of them especially piercing, like a blade on her back. But fear was something she had long since learned to conceal.
When her father Li Qiang used to break in drunk, or when her stepmother Wang Cuihua came chasing her with a broom, the best survival tactic was silence—no tears, no screams, just pretend nothing happened and it is not painful.
She scooped up water to wash the dirt off her hands, her motions smooth and precise, as if she was the only person in the room. Blackie remained by her side, occasionally growling low at the strangers but keeping a cautious distance, ready to defend if necessary.
"Little girl…" one of the men finally spoke, tentative and husky but gentle.
Nuan Nuan didn't respond. She continued scrubbing her hands, droplets falling from her delicate fingers and darkening the old wooden floor. Then, she carefully unpacked the wild vegetables from her basket and began preparing for dinner.
Leaning against the wall, Yun Hanchuan watched in silence. Blood loss had drained his face of color, but his eyes remained fixed on the strange child before him. She wore an oversized, patched-up shirt that nearly reached her knees. The sleeves were rolled several times yet still dangled past her wrists. Her curly chestnut hair was a tangled mess, and dirt smudged her cheeks.
But it was her eyes that struck him—large and luminous, yet empty, like two dulled gemstones. Though they reflected the flickering firelight, they held no focus and no life.
And yet, something about those eyes made Yun Hanchuan's heart skip a beat. A strange, inexplicable familiarity surged through him. He was sure he has never seen this girl before—but her features: the delicate arch of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the subtle curve of her jaw…
She looked hauntingly like someone he had almost forgotten.
"Where are your parents?" Cheng Yan asked, raising his voice with forced friendliness.
Still, no reply. Nuan Nuan's knife moved with fluid precision. Her hands, though small, handled the blade with the confidence like someone who had done this a thousand times. Tuan Tuan jumped onto the table and purred, rubbing affectionately against her hand.
Cheng Yan and Yun Hanchuan exchanged a glance.
Blind… and possibly mute or deaf too?
Yun Hanchuan observed every detail. Despite her blindness, Nuan Nuan moved with uncanny accuracy. She reached for the salt without fumbling, chopped vegetables with evenly spaced slices, and turned to light the stove with a single, practiced motion. These were not the clumsy attempts of someone adapting to darkness but were habits etched into her muscles—repetitively honed by solitude.
Soon, the fragrance of wild vegetable soup filled the room. Nuan Nuan poured three bowls—one into a small dish on the ground for Blackie, another into a shallow plate for Tuan Tuan, and the last for herself. She sat on a small wooden stool, sipping quietly, ignoring the strangers as if they were nothing but wind.
Cheng Yan's stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. They had fled since dawn without a single drop of water or bite to eat. Now, this humble soup, steaming with wild herbs, seemed almost heavenly. Though meatless, its aroma awakened something primal and needy in them.
"Little one…" Cheng Yan crouched, lowering his voice and pulling out a 100-yuan note. "Could we… maybe share a little of your soup? You can have this."
Nuan Nuan didn't flinch. She kept her head down, sipping steadily. Cheng Yan awkwardly held the note, unsure of what to do. As the chief secretary of Yun Group, he was used to buying his way through problems. Yet here he was—defeated by a child.
Then, Tuan Tuan meowed, leapt off the table, and gently tapped Nuan Nuan's foot with a paw.
"Meow~ One hundred yuan. Say yes!" it encouraged, in its strange, half-coaxed tone.
Nuan Nuan paused, tilting her head as if weighing her options. After a moment, she set her bowl aside and extended her hand in Cheng Yan's direction, fingers groping slightly.
The rustle of money slipping into her pocket was quiet, but in this little cabin, it sounded deafening.
Without a word, Nuan Nuan fetched two more earthenware bowls and ladled in the soup. She handed one each to the two men—no hesitation, no questions asked. This was a transaction, wordless but clear.
"Th… thank you," Cheng Yan stammered, caught off guard by the sudden generosity.
As Yun Hanchuan accepted his bowl, his fingers brushed against the back of the girl's hand. He froze.
It was ice-cold, rough, covered in tiny cuts and hardened calluses—not the soft skin of a six-year-old. These hands were more like those of an old farmer, weathered by years of labor—not a child who should have been cherished, protected, and held.
He took a sip.
To his surprise, the soup was delicious. The flavor of the mountains was there—clean, simple, yet layered. A touch of wild scallions and another herb—something aromatic that cut the bitterness—made it unexpectedly rich. The broth soothed his body and stirred something else in him… something disturbingly familiar.
"It's very good," he murmured, knowing she might not hear but needing to say it anyway. His voice was softer than usual, almost gentle. Even Cheng Yan land him a curious look.
Nuan Nuan remained silent, continuing her own meal, her motions was dainty and guarded, like a squirrel nibbling in secret. After finishing, she cleaned the bowls with swift precision, then carefully poured the leftover soup back into the pot—clearly intended for breakfast tomorrow.