Chapter 13

A’miao’s message sat pinned at the top of her chat screen:

[Nan Nan, my mom really wants to place an order. She said whenever you have time, make her a small batch to try. She’ll pay—whatever price you name.]

It ended with three little bouncing bunny emojis.

Ran Nannan stared at the message, fingers curling slightly.

She was sitting in her tiny room, deep into the night. The breeze stirred the window curtain softly. The small porcelain jar on her desk glowed under the warm lamplight, like a little spark that had never before existed in her heart.

Money.

For the first time in her life, someone was willing to pay for something she had made with her own hands.

Not for her face.
Not for the Zhou family’s calculations.
Not for the Cheng family’s selection.
But because the face cream she made truly moved someone.

That feeling—nothing had ever felt more precious.

The next morning, she took her notebook and headed to the old herbal shop.

A half-worn bamboo curtain hung over the doorway, rustling gently in the breeze. The white-haired shopkeeper was slowly working his abacus behind the counter. When he saw her come in, his brows lifted ever so slightly.

“You’re back, girl? Need more lotus pollen or beeswax today?”

“Both,” Ran Nannan nodded gently. Her expression held a quiet determination that hadn’t been there the last time. “I’ll need more this time. A friend’s mom wants to try it.”

The old man studied her for a moment, then smiled lightly. “If this really turns into something one day, don’t forget to hang the Hundred-Year Tongchun name on it.”

She blinked, then smiled back with soft eyes. “I won’t.”

Back home, she got to work in the kitchen.

She chopped beeswax into small pieces and slowly melted them over a low, indirect flame. The golden liquid swirled gently in a white porcelain bowl, like sunlight ground into silk. When the temperature was just right, she sifted in the lotus pollen and safflower powder, stirring as she added, until the color gradually shifted to the palest pink.

The air filled with a soft fragrance, green and fresh like crushed leaves.

She carefully dipped a bamboo stick into the mixture and smoothed it onto the back of her hand. The cream melted in, leaving a soft, delicate sheen. She let out a slow breath.

“Perfect.”

That afternoon, A’miao showed up with her mother in tow.

Her mom was a poised, no-nonsense woman with her hair neatly pinned up and dressed in a crisp white linen shirt. Fine lines traced the corners of her eyes, but it was clear she’d once been striking.

As soon as she entered, her eyes swept Ran Nannan up and down with the seasoned scrutiny of an elder—tempered by a touch of warmth.

“So you’re Nannan? A’miao wasn’t kidding—you’re a pretty, well-mannered one.”

Ran Nannan lowered her head, a little flustered. “Hello, Auntie.”

A’miao grinned, jumping in to smooth things over: “Ignore her. She sounds strict, but she’s soft-hearted. Hurry, bring out the good stuff!”

The face cream was packed in a small white porcelain jar. As soon as the lid was opened, a soft lotus fragrance spread through the room.

A’miao’s mom dabbed a little with her pinky and rubbed it onto the back of her hand, inspecting it carefully for a long moment before finally speaking:

“Nice texture. Smooth application. Natural scent.”

Then she looked up at Ran Nannan and slowly smiled. From her purse, she pulled out a slim envelope and pushed it onto the table.

“Here’s 500 yuan. Consider it a trial batch. If it’s good, trust me—my whole group of friends will be lining up.”

Ran Nannan stood frozen. Her eyelashes quivered.

That envelope sat so close to her, its pale yellow paper glowing faintly under the afternoon sun. It almost looked like it was lit from within.

“What’s wrong?” A’miao’s mom teased. “Worried Auntie might not pay?”

“No…” Ran Nannan shook her head quickly, her chest quietly swirling with emotion.

She reached out slowly, took the envelope.

Thin and light, yet heavier than anything she’d ever held. The faint warmth from the paper soaked into her fingers, then deeper—straight to her heart.

She lowered her head and gave a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you, Auntie. For trusting me.”

That night, back in her room, she laid the envelope out on her desk.

Carefully opening it, she found five crisp 100-yuan notes, neatly folded, the familiar red ink printed with the national emblem and a portrait she had seen countless times.

She’d held money before—new clothes and tips from the Zhou family, hush silver slipped to her by the old maid, even the bridal gold the Chengs once sent over in an ornate box.

But none of that had ever been earned.

Those were payments for her appearance—for the value her beauty added to the Zhou family’s bargaining table, or the price she might fetch in a match.

But this—this was payment for something she had made.

Not for her face, but for her hands.

She gently smoothed the bills, tucked them back in the envelope, and placed it at the very back of her drawer—

Like a precious piece of porcelain.

Then she sat down at her desk again, opened her notebook, and carefully wrote:

[First income: 500 yuan.]

She paused a second, pen tip lingering on the page—

Then added another line in smaller characters beneath it:

[Earned it myself.]

Later that night, she lay in bed for a long time, unable to sleep.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silvery chill across the little room. She turned onto her side, looking toward that quiet white porcelain jar.

Took a small breath through her nose—

And smiled.

That gentle fullness in her chest, like warm water slowly flowing down her throat and settling in her heart.

“I want to earn more next time.” she whispered.

Her voice was soft, almost like she was talking to herself.

Then she closed her eyes—

And slowly drifted into the soundest sleep she’d had in years.