Days quietly unfolded between the morning mountain mists and the glow of sunset.
Lin Shen's life had settled into a fixed rhythm. At five in the morning, when the sky was still the blue-grey of a crab shell, he would wake naturally. The mountain air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and greenery. He would throw on an old jacket and head to the backyard first.
The lock on the well cover had long been replaced with a sturdier padlock; he carried the only key on him. Unlocking it and lifting the heavy wooden board revealed the well opening to the early morning light. He turned the windlass; the rope rubbing against the wooden axle produced a steady, rhythmic creak. Half a bucket of water drawn up in the dawn light held that faint, moist glow, even less noticeable than under moonlight. One had to lean in very close to see it, as if an invisible, oily film floated on the surface, light shimmering and shifting.
He kept out a small half-gourdful, drinking it directly from the bucket's rim. As the well water went down his throat, the dryness of the night was instantly soothed, and his entire being, inside and out, felt clear and comfortable. The rest of the water he carefully poured into a large prepared earthenware vat—already mostly filled with ordinary spring water drawn from the mountain stream. Using a long wooden ladle, he stirred slowly, letting the two waters blend completely. This was a ratio he had figured out himself: roughly one part well water to twenty parts spring water. This concentration could noticeably promote crop growth and improve quality without making the plants grow too abnormally and attract attention.
The timing of watering also mattered. Too early, when the dew was heavy, could easily rot the roots; watering after the sun was high led to rapid evaporation, which was wasteful and could scorch the leaves. Right now, with the sun about to rise but not yet up, was perfect.
Carrying the diluted water, he watered row by row. The cabbage was on its third harvest; now the plot mainly held late-ripening autumn eggplants and the last wave of peppers, with some cold-tolerant spinach and cilantro dotted along the edges. Water droplets seeped evenly into the dark brown soil, and the leaves seemed to perk up, to become more spirited and erect at a visible pace. This was no illusion; Lin Shen knew the well water's effect was immediate.
By the time he finished watering, the sun had just cleared the eastern ridge, bathing the courtyard in golden-red light. He squatted at the plot's edge, inspecting each plant. This was the most meditative moment of his day. His fingernail traced the smooth skin of an eggplant; his fingertip felt the firm texture of a pepper; his nose caught the fresh scent of earth mingled with plant sap. Occasionally, he found a cabbage worm, which he would pinch off with his fingers and toss to the hens roaming the yard—three Barred Rocks he'd gotten from a village auntie, kept in a simple coop in the backyard corner. They ate insects and vegetable leaves, laying eggs with yolks a deep orange, exceptionally fragrant.
At seven sharp, two car horn honks sounded from the foot of the slope. Boss Wang's silver small truck was parked on the dirt roadside. Lin Shen carried two large bamboo baskets down, filled with vegetables harvested before dawn, still beaded with dew.
"Brother Lin, morning!" Boss Wang jumped out, taking the baskets with a broad smile, weighing them with practiced ease. "Eggplants purple and shiny again! And these peppers, zhezhe, look fiery enough!" He noted the amounts while talking. "That Boss Li who runs the private kitchen restaurant was asking again yesterday. Wondered if you could set aside twenty jin of premium veggies for him weekly, price is no object, fifty percent above market."
Lin Shen pondered briefly, then shook his head. "Brother Wang, thank Boss Li for his esteem. But the output from the land is fixed; I can't spare a regular amount. Same old rule—whatever's available, you take care of the regular retail customers first."
Boss Wang looked slightly regretful but knew Lin Shen's stance. He laughed, "Alright, as you say. Slow and steady wins the race!" He paid and then lowered his voice. "Oh, and you should be careful yourself. Your veggies' reputation is growing. Those wholesale greenhouse guys in town have been asking about you a few times, in roundabout ways."
Lin Shen's heart tightened slightly, but his expression remained calm. "Asking what?"
"What else? How you grow them, what fertilizer you use, if you have some secret formula." Boss Wang curled his lip. "I fended them off. Said your grandpa was an old hand, the land's well-nurtured, and you work yourself to the bone, soaked in the fields every day. They don't believe it, but they can't find a way in."
"Thanks, Brother Wang." Lin Shen expressed his gratitude. Boss Wang was a shrewd businessman but kept his word. After cooperating for so long, he'd never pressed for answers and had helped ward off quite a bit of trouble.
"Don't mention it! We both benefit!" Boss Wang waved a hand, starting the engine. "Off I go! See you tomorrow!"
After seeing Boss Wang off, Lin Shen returned to the yard. The slight ripples in his heart quickly settled. He had been mentally prepared. Good things always attracted attention. But as long as he remained steady, not greedy, and gave nothing away, trouble would find no opening.
For the rest of the morning, he tended the thin plot of land Grandpa had left. It was a bit farther from home, halfway up the mountain, with average soil. In past years, Grandpa had only grown drought-resistant beans or sweet potatoes. Lin Shen had spent nearly a year slowly nourishing it with diluted well water. Now the soil had turned deep black and soft. He planned to plant some melons and fruits here next spring—watermelons, muskmelons—to test the well water's effect on fruit.
During a break in his work, he sat on the old locust tree root bordering the field to rest, pulling out the worn-edged notebook Grandpa had left, which he carried with him. Besides farming season records, the notebook contained scattered observations and insights. On one page, Grandpa had written in small, careful brushstrokes: "In the damp, shaded hollow of East Hill, found several clusters of wild Panax pseudoginseng. Plants short but leaves lush. Dug them up; roots and rhizomes plump, medicinal odor intensely strong, different from ordinary specimens. The spot had a thin spring seeping out; soil color pitch black. May be connected."
Lin Shen felt a stir. Grandpa had also noticed the effect of special water and soil on plants and might have vaguely sensed something. But he never spelled it out, only recorded the phenomenon. This reserve and caution, like a thin layer of paper, seemed to silently instruct him now.
He closed the notebook, looking toward the direction of his backyard. How much Grandpa had known about the well's secret was now lost to time. But Grandpa had chosen the most ordinary way to deal with possible extraordinariness—keeping it to himself and living a solid life. Perhaps that was the best answer.
After a simple lunch, Lin Shen tended the herbs in the backyard "little medicinal garden." The honeysuckle's second flush of buds was at its peak. He carefully picked them, spreading them on bamboo sieves placed under the ventilated eaves to dry in the shade. The mint and perilla grew too wildly; he pinched some tender tips—some for a cold salad in the evening, some washed and air-dried for future tea or cooking. The goji bushes had already yielded one harvest of red berries, dried into wolfberries. Brewed in water, they had a faint sweetness and herbal aroma.
He worked unhurriedly, focused and earnest with each step. This focus on the concrete process of labor gave him a sense of fulfillment and peace he had never known in the city. Sweat traced from his temple, dampening his shirt against his back. The mountain wind blew, bringing coolness and the fragrance of plants. Time here became tangible and clear—no longer jumping numbers on a computer screen but the angle of the sun's movement, the measure of crop growth, the rhythm of his own breath.
In the evening, the sunset dyed the western sky a magnificent orange-red and deep purple. Lin Shen finished harvesting the vegetables for the next day's delivery and cleaned the yard. The hens had returned to their coop, clucking. He drew a bucket of well water, pouring it over himself from head to toe for a rinse. The icy water raised goosebumps on his skin but felt wonderfully refreshing, washing away the day's weariness.
Dinner was simple scallion oil noodles, using his own green onions, their aroma bursting forth with a splash of hot oil. Hidden under the noodles were two poached eggs—today's contribution from the Barred Rocks. After eating, he brewed a cup of his own sun-dried honeysuckle tea, carried a bamboo chair, and sat under the front yard grape arbor.
After another summer of rampant growth, the grapevines were even denser, forming a thick green natural canopy. The evening wind rustled the leaves. A few late-ripening grape clusters still hung on the frame, purple-black like quiet gems in the fading light. He picked one and put it in his mouth; sweet juice mingled with a unique fruity fragrance spread in his mouth—a rich, pure taste unmatched by any market fruit.
He sipped his tea slowly, gazing at the distant mountain ridges layered against the twilight. Cooking smoke rose from village chimneys; occasionally, a few barks or human voices carried, accentuating the surrounding quiet. The numbers in his bank account, Boss Wang's praise, the restaurant owner's inquiries—things that once might have stirred him—now felt distant and blurred. What truly filled him was the vitality of this yard, the lingering sweet aftertaste of the tea in his hand, the healthy fatigue after physical labor, and this unprecedented inner peace.
The spirit spring was a miracle. But what truly integrated this miracle into life, nourishing his existence, was this day-after-day, unhurried cultivation and guardianship. The secret still lay at the bottom of the well. And above this secret, he had built a tangible, hearth-fire-rich prosperity and tranquility.
Night deepened, stars brightening one by one. Lin Shen finished the last sip of tea and stood to go inside. The wind lantern under the eaves cast a warm, yellowish light, illuminating his calm and contented face. Tomorrow, the sun would rise as usual. He would still wake at five, draw water, tend the garden, continuing these days where the spring moistened silently, a slow and steady stream.