Taking Root
Lin Shen pushed open the courtyard gate of his old home just as the July noon sun beat down at its fiercest.
The dirt road was baked pale, and the wheels of his suitcase crunched over gravel with a kala kala sound. One year after graduation, the security guard uniform, the food delivery helmet—all were left behind in that city that had no room for him. Grandpa was gone. The seventh-day funeral rites had just passed. No one would ever again say on the phone, "Come home if you're tired."
The old house was just as he remembered: earthen walls, black-tiled roof. In the yard, the old locust tree's branches and leaves sprawled boldly, shading half the courtyard. He pushed open the wooden door with its familiar creak. The smell of dust mixed with the lingering scent of incense. In the main room, a black-and-white photo of his grandfather stood quietly on the table. In front of it, three incense sticks in the burner were nearly spent, their thin smoke rising straight up for a brief moment before dissipating.
The house was so empty he could hear his own breathing.
At dusk, Lin Shen boiled water and made a bowl of instant noodles. The large water vat in the kitchen was almost empty. He remembered the old well in the backyard. When Grandpa was alive, disliking the odd taste of water from the plastic pipes drawn from behind the mountain, he always used well water for tea and guests.
The backyard weeds had grown almost knee-high. A blue-stone well curb, a wooden windlass with a rope tied to a tin bucket. The bucket was scrubbed clean—Grandpa's habit. Lin Shen turned the windlass. The creaking sounded especially loud in the silence. The bucket sank down with a dull thud.
He hauled up half a bucket of water. The moonlight happened to shift across the well opening, spilling a clear, cold light onto the water's surface. Lin Shen paused—the water in the bucket shimmered with an extremely faint, milky-white luminescence. It didn't look like reflected moonlight, but rather as if the water itself was glowing softly.
Was he seeing things?
His throat was parched and itchy, a years-old pharyngitis worsened by the city's polluted air. Not overthinking it, he bent down, cupped a handful of water from the bucket's rim, and brought it to his mouth.
The water was intensely cold. As it slid down his throat, the clear, icy sensation carried an indescribable moistness. The sandpaper-like dryness, itch, and pain were soothed away almost instantly. He froze, then took several more large gulps. Not only did his throat feel better, but the fatigue from the day's travel also seemed to ease somewhat.
It wasn't his imagination.
In the following days, Lin Shen drank from the well daily. The water was unusually sweet, and drinking it lifted his spirits. What nagged at him more was this: a few cabbage seeds he'd casually scattered on the damp muddy ground by the well curb after returning had, in just six or seven days, shot up tall, their leaves thick, oily green, green as if about to drip jadeite.
He plucked a leaf, rinsed it in the well water, and took a bite.
Crisp, sweet, refreshing. A pure, clean freshness he'd never tasted in any vegetable melted in his mouth. This was absolutely not ordinary cabbage.
A suspicion began to form in his mind, but he didn't dare believe it. He used the water to irrigate the few wilting plots of eggplants and peppers Grandpa had planted in the yard. In just three or four days, the seedlings seemed to have taken a miracle drug—their leaves unfurled, they flowered and bore fruit with astonishing speed. The eggplants were a glossy purple-black, the peppers long and straight.
Lin Shen harvested the first batch of ready cabbage, eggplants, and peppers, filled a basket, and set off for the town's morning market at dawn while dew still clung to the grass. He didn't hawk his wares, just set the basket by his feet.
The cabbage's exceptional appearance quickly drew attention. Soon, an auntie bustled over. "Young man, how much for this cabbage?"
Lin Shen quoted the market price. The auntie peeled off an outer leaf, inspected it, leaned in to smell it, her eyes lighting up. "So vibrant! I'll take one."
Where there was a first, a second followed. His basket of vegetables sold out in under an hour. Standing in the now-bustling market, clutching the surprisingly substantial amount of loose change in his hand, Lin Shen felt somewhat dazed.
The next morning, a slightly worn-down small truck pulled up at the foot of his slope, honking. A middle-aged man in a suit, carrying a leather satchel, had come looking for him.
"Brother! Finally found you!" The man was effusive. "My surname is Wang, from the Xinglong Vegetable Station in town. My old mother bought your cabbage yesterday, ate it, and said she'd never tasted anything so good in her life! Insisted I find you. How much more do you have? The eggplants and peppers are yours too, right? I'll take it all! Price is negotiable, 20% above market rate!"
Lin Shen looked at the man before him, then glanced back toward the backyard. Morning mist was rising lazily from that direction.
"There is some," he said, his voice steadying. "But it needs to be a slow and steady stream."
Boss Wang's eyes sparkled. "Understood! I get it! Let's supply what you have for now. I'll take whatever you can provide."
Lin Shen didn't sign a contract but tacitly agreed to let Boss Wang collect vegetables daily. He began carefully planning the land around the house, irrigating with well water diluted with ordinary mountain spring water. The effect was still excellent, just slower than pure well water, and the quality remained far superior to common market vegetables. He didn't dare plant too much—for one, he couldn't manage it alone; for another... the secret of the well water was too astonishing.
As money gradually accumulated, he bought cement and gravel and built a thick wooden cover with a lock for the old well himself. He also began tending the few mu of land Grandpa left behind, slowly nourishing it with diluted well water.
Days passed. Lin Shen rose before dawn daily: watering, weeding, loosening soil, harvesting at dusk, handing it over to Boss Wang the next morning. His vegetables gained a reputation in town. People said the vegetables grown by that university graduate who returned to Heishanyu were different, exceptionally flavorful. But the villagers just thought he was diligent, educated, and knew scientific farming. No one suspected anything else.
Once, the village party secretary bumped into him, clapping his shoulder. "Shenzi, keep up the good work! A university graduate making a name for himself farming back in the village brings glory to us all!"
Lin Shen just smiled and said it was all because of the good land Grandpa left behind.
He was indeed cautious. He always watered at dawn or dusk, never letting outsiders into the backyard. The well water was always heavily diluted with ordinary spring water, the ratio carefully controlled. He didn't use any special farming methods either, just diligence—watering when needed, fertilizing when needed (using ordinary organic fertilizer bought in town). To others, his vegetables thrived simply because the land was fertile, he was hardworking, and he used good methods.
After several months, the old house quietly changed. The leaky roof was repaired, the mottled walls replastered. Simple furniture and appliances were added inside. Lin Shen also bought a used scooter, making trips to town much easier.
With some financial cushion, he began pondering the land Grandpa left. Besides common vegetables, could he grow something else? He remembered Grandpa saying when he was little that there used to be many wild mountain greens and medicinal herbs on the back hills of Heishanyu, but they'd grown scarce in recent years.
Lin Shen went to the town bookstore, bought a local plant guidebook, and some common herb seeds—honeysuckle, mint, perilla. He cleared a small, secluded plot in the backyard and experimented.
He irrigated with the diluted well water. These herbs grew even more vigorously than the vegetables, with sturdy stems and leaves and intense fragrance. He picked some honeysuckle, dried it, and brewed tea. The tea was clear, the floral aroma penetrating, soothing his throat remarkably. The mint grew fast; he used it for tea, cooking, refreshing and uplifting.
He kept some for himself and gave some to familiar elders in the village. Everyone praised his skill, saying his herbs were better than wild ones. Lin Shen just said maybe the soil was fertile and he'd followed the books.
Gradually gaining more capacity, he built a simple grape arbor in the front yard and planted two vines. Nourished by the well water, the vines grew rapidly. By the second spring, they covered the arbor; by summer, heavy clusters of grapes hung down, a translucent purple, purely sweet.
Villagers passing by would always look twice, marveling. But considering Lin Shen spent all day in the fields, diligent and studious, it seemed normal he'd grow them well. Those who tried to imitate him, planting fruit saplings or vegetable seeds, never achieved his results. They concluded: those few mu of land must be exceptionally fertile, good land Old Lin had nurtured years ago.
Hearing such talk, Lin Shen never argued. He continued his daily labor, his life routine and simple. Drawing water by the well at dawn, busy in the fields in the morning, reading or sorting through Grandpa's old things in the afternoon, harvesting at dusk, delivering the next day. Money slowly saved, days steadily passed.
One day, Boss Wang came to collect vegetables and remarked offhandedly, "Brother, your vegetables are truly unmatched. I just wish we could have a bit more volume. Many regular customers can't even place orders."
Lin Shen, weighing vegetables, paused briefly. He smiled. "Brother Wang, there's only so much land, and only me. Any more, I couldn't handle, and the quality might suffer."
"Right, right," Boss Wang nodded. "Good things shouldn't be rushed. Steady as it is now is just fine."
Yes, steady was just fine, Lin Shen thought.
He grew accustomed to this life. The city's noise and pressure receded. Life in the mountains was quiet and solid. After a day's work, sweaty, sitting by the well drinking cool well water, watching the distant blue-green mountains, listening to the wind rustle through the crops—his heart was more peaceful than ever before.
He slowly perused the old books Grandpa left. Mostly old almanacs, lunar calendars, texts on solar terms and farming. There were also a few notebooks from Grandpa's youth, recording which plots yielded well with which crops, when to fertilize, when to remove pests. The handwriting was somewhat scribbled but earnest. Reading them, Lin Shen seemed to see Grandpa's youthful figure toiling in the fields.
In the notes, he found Grandpa particularly emphasized crop rotation and fallowing, always saying, "The land must not be overworked." On one page, it read: "That slope land at the east foot, grew beans for three years, should rest this year, plant some alfalfa to nourish it."
Following Grandpa's notes, Lin Shen began planning rotations for different plots. Plant beans to nourish where needed, let rest where needed, rotate crops where needed. With the well water's help, the land recovered quickly, and crops grew well.
A year passed. July again.
Lin Shen stood by the backyard well, drawing up a bucket of water. Under the moonlight, the water's surface still shimmered with that faint, moist glow. A year on, the well water's magic hadn't diminished, and he had grown better at using it sparingly—not greedy, not showy, a slow and steady stream.
In the distance, a few barks from dogs made the night feel stiller. The mountain wind blew, carrying the scent of crops and earth.
The city had once left him lost and weary. Here, these mountains, this well, had given him new roots. The days were long. Living like this, day by day, year by year, guarding this land and water, living steadily and surely, seemed just fine.
He lifted the bucket and turned back to the house. The moonlight stretched his shadow long, casting it quietly onto the earthen courtyard.
The days flowed like a mountain stream,unhurried and steady.
Lin Shen adapted to the mountain's rhythm. At 5 a.m., when the sky was still dusky blue, he woke naturally. Slipping on clothes, he went to the backyard first. Lifting the well cover, he drew up half a bucket—the well water was warm in winter, cool in summer; in July, the bucket's sides beaded with a pleasant chill. He kept enough for his daily drinking, then diluted the rest into several large vats of stored mountain spring water in the yard, stirring evenly with a long-handled wooden ladle.
The front and back yards, plus the few mu Grandpa left, were now all neatly tended. Vegetable beds lined up in rows, soil finely loosened, planted with seasonal produce. Summer belonged to cucumbers, eggplants, peppers, and beans, their leaves oily green, fruit abundant. He built trellises with bamboo poles; cucumber and bean vines climbed enthusiastically. Up close, you could hear bees buzzing.
Watering was meticulous work. Lin Shen carried the diluted water, ladling it evenly around the vegetable roots. The sun hadn't fully risen yet; water droplets clung to leaves, sparkling. After watering, he'd pull weeds, catch the occasional bug, and pick the ripest, most vibrant produce for the bamboo basket beside him.
Around seven, Boss Wang's small truck appeared punctually at the slope's base with two honks. Lin Shen carried baskets of fresh vegetables down. Weighing, accounting, payment and goods exchanged. Boss Wang now treated him with great respect, sometimes slipping an extra red envelope, saying it was a tip from customers specifically for his vegetables.
"Brother Lin, you're the best!" Boss Wang often gave a thumbs-up. "In all my years selling vegetables, I've never had such loyal repeat customers. Some city folks even drive here on weekends just to buy your produce."
Lin Shen just smiled, carrying the empty baskets back. He didn't chase quantity, still working the same land with intensive care. Sometimes Boss Wang hinted about leasing more land or investing in a greenhouse, but Lin Shen always declined gently. "Land is like people; you can't be greedy. Greed leads to poor digestion, and the flavor changes," he'd say mildly. Boss Wang would drop it, cherishing his current supply even more.
Mornings, Lin Shen spent the remaining time in the fields. Grandpa's notes were frayed from use. Integrating Grandpa's experience with crop rotation, interplanting, solar terms, and farming seasons with his own practice, he developed a rhythm better suited to the "secret water source." He tried sowing cilantro beside eggplant rows, planting amaranth seeds among peppers, using different crop traits and growth cycles to increase land efficiency and diversify output.
The secluded herb plot in the backyard became his "little medicinal garden." Honeysuckle bloomed profusely yearly. He picked and shade-dried it, brewing tea for himself and filling clean glass jars for village elders with chronic coughs, not claiming cures, just saying it was homegrown for enjoyment. Mint and perilla grew vigorously, picked fresh for cooking or tea, filling the yard with fragrance. He even tried a few goji plants; they bore fruit the first year, bright red berries dotted among green branches, pretty and nourishing.
Life had tangibly improved. His bank account grew steadily. While far from wealthy, it was more than enough for mountain living. He renovated the old house: new roof tiles, whitewashed walls, running water (though he drank boiled well water), a solar water heater for warm baths even in winter. He added a fridge, washing machine, bought a computer, installed internet, no longer cut off from the world.
But his favorite spot was under the front yard grape arbor. He'd built it the second spring back, planting two 'Kyoho' vines. Nourished by the well water, they grew swiftly. Now in their third year, the arbor was densely covered, thick leaves creating a cool green shade. In summer, heavy grape clusters hung down, purple-black, dusted with natural bloom. Popping one in your mouth revealed thick flesh, abundant juice, sweetness with a hint of tartness—flavor more intense than ordinary grapes.
Village children passing by after school often gazed longingly. Lin Shen would smile and wave them over, snipping a few clusters to share. The children would run off cheering, mouths stained purple. Later, parents sent homemade pickles or sticky bean buns. Lin Shen accepted gladly, reciprocating with fresh vegetables or dried herbs. Gradually, his relations with villagers grew even more harmonious.
He kept mountain hours, sleeping early as darkness fell quickly. Evenings, he might read—Grandpa's farming books, his own agricultural guides, or simply browse news online, learning new things. But more often, under a warm lamp, sipping honeysuckle tea, listening to summer insects or the faint sound of winter snow weighing branches, he'd think of nothing, simply feeling at peace.
With stable income, he considered improving "production conditions." He bought a used small truck—old but sturdy, handy for trips to town for fertilizer, tools, or occasional deliveries (when Boss Wang's truck broke down). He acquired simple machinery: a small rotary tiller, an electric sprayer, saving considerable physical labor.
In the third spring, Lin Shen made a decision. From Grandpa's land, he fenced off a small plot closest to the village with relatively average soil, experimenting with a simple plastic greenhouse. Not for off-season premium prices—he still followed natural seasons—but because mountain springs came late and autumns ended early. A greenhouse allowed earlier seedling starts and extended some crops' growth later into fall, adding stability. Inside, he was even more cautious with irrigation, using a lower well water ratio. The effect, while less stunning than directly diluted water outdoors, still far surpassed ordinary greenhouse produce.
When the first batch of tomato seedlings from the greenhouse were transplanted outdoors, they grew exceptionally robust. The resulting tomatoes were sandy, juicy, perfectly sweet-tart, becoming another "star product" on Boss Wang's stall after the cabbage.
Villagers seeing his greenhouse said, "Shenzi's really putting down roots, going modern." Some came to learn. Lin Shen shared freely: how to build frames, control temperature and humidity, use common fertilizers. Following his methods, others' vegetables improved, but never quite matched his open-field produce. They concluded, "Shenzi has a green thumb; we can't compare."
Hearing such comments, Lin Shen just smiled, head bowed, tending his crops. He knew where the difference lay, and knew the secret must stay buried. Grandpa had guarded ordinary life his whole life. This well might have always been here, but Grandpa never used it to chase wealth, just lived steadily. He was likely walking the same path—using this gift to improve life, become steadily prosperous, but never showy, never greedy.
Another autumn, under the grape arbor, Lin Shen invited Boss Wang and a few village elders for a meal. Dishes were fresh from his garden, simple yet exceptionally flavorful. Homemade wine (from his grapes, with a tiny, secret dash of well water during fermentation) was mellow and sweet. Everyone ate heartily, drinking just to a pleasant buzz.
The village party secretary sipped wine,感慨感慨 (emotional). "Shenzi, when you first came back, some gossiped behind your back, saying a university graduate returning to farm was a waste. Look now! Your life is thriving, more comfortable than us migrant workers! A tidy house, a vehicle, good harvests, no sales worries. And you seem content, solid."
Boss Wang nodded. "Yeah, Brother Lin's vegetables are truly top-notch, and he's honest. I'm counting on your brand now."
Lin Shen poured more wine, smiling. "It's all thanks to everyone's support and these good mountains and waters."
The moon was clear and bright, casting dappled shadows through grape leaves. The evening breeze carried field scents and faint rice fragrance. Lin Shen listened to the chatter, surveying all he'd built: the tidy yard, lush vegetable plots, heavy grape arbor, warm indoor light, bank savings ample for peace of mind, and the villagers' sincere respect.
The city's crowding, anxiety, and rootlessness felt like a past life. Here, every gain was tangible, each day full and clear. With this accidental well, his own strength and mind, he had truly sunk roots in his native mountain village, living a content, stable, leisurely, and happy life.
The days were long, like the mountain stream, flowing unhurried, unwavering, toward the future. He just needed to guard this land, this secret, continuing day by day, year by year, shaping life into what he wanted it to be.