(A temporary storage for thoughts—please do not overanalyze any inconsistencies; just consider this a parallel universe.)

The bright room, with its cozy arrangement and exquisite decorations, was filled with a sweet and pleasant atmosphere.

Lying in bed, Jiao’er listened to the faint yet persistent knocking coming from outside the door.

Her delicate brows furrowed slightly before she buried her head back under the blanket.

After a while, Xiuzhu sat up and stretched lazily.

Her white cotton nightdress with a doll collar shifted slightly with her movement.

She shuffled to the door in her slippers, still drowsy, and spoke in a spoiled, impatient tone, “Mom, why so early? I haven’t had enough sleep yet!”

Mother Lin looked up at her daughter’s excessively delicate and beautiful face and gently reminded her, “Aren’t you leaving for Beijing today? Uncle Yan will be here to pick you up at nine o’clock.

“It’s already seven. If you don’t get up and start packing, you’ll be late!”

Xiuzhu suddenly remembered that she was supposed to take the train to Beijing today—she couldn’t afford any delays.

It was all because of that dream again, the one where she couldn’t distinguish reality from illusion.

It felt like she had traveled through time, and was in another world.

Next month, her cousin was getting married, and she also wanted to take this opportunity to find herself a “golden thigh” to cling to.

Since childhood, Xiuzhu had been as beautiful and adorable as a porcelain doll. When she was in a good mood, she was great at acting spoiled.

So even though she was proud, willful, and a bit spoiled, the boys in the military compound had always liked playing with her when they were young. They all wanted her to be their little sister, doting on her and letting her have her way.

But in the past two years, those childhood playmates had stopped coming to find her. Strangely, whenever she spoke to them, they would blush and run away.

As for friendships with other girls, it was the complete opposite. She had never gotten along well with the other girls in the compound.

So aside from her “mission,” she was also looking forward to going to Beijing to spend time with her cousins.

In a rush to wash up, she pouted and complained, “Aiyo, then you should have woken me up earlier! Now I have to pack everything in a hurry.”

Mother Lin, ever patient, reassured her, “What’s the rush? I’ve already packed your money, tickets, and a change of clothes.”

“You can’t bring too much luggage with you, and you’ll be staying at your uncle’s house for almost a month. If you’re missing anything, you can just buy it there.”

“I left a bottle of milk, six brown sugar steamed buns, and four boiled eggs for you in the kitchen. Wash up and eat first. Take the rest with you for Uncle Yan.”

“You’ll be on the train for two days—you need to keep up your nutrition.”

Mother Lin reminded her over and over, worried.

It was 1965. Even though the most difficult years had passed, supplies were still scarce.

For most families, simply not going hungry was already considered fortunate. Few, like the Lin family, could afford to consider balanced nutrition.

“Fine,” Xiuzhu pouted her soft, rosy lips before heading toward the kitchen.

Mother Lin gazed tenderly at her graceful and elegant daughter, her heart filled with love yet tinged with a faint sense of worry.

Her skin was as fair as jade, smooth as fine silk, with a tall and delicate nose, crescent-shaped eyebrows that arched softly, and bright, expressive eyes that seemed to capture poetry and painting within them.

Her slender figure and gracefully curved waist exuded beauty in every detail.

As she ate, the corners of her eyebrows lifted slightly, revealing a hint of playful charm.

Mother Lin had lived for more than half her life, yet she had never seen a woman more beautiful than her daughter.

Her unease deepened. In this turbulent and ever-changing era, she wasn’t sure if she could protect her daughter and keep her safe.

Her husband had mentioned that tensions in Huaguo were intensifying, and the situation would likely grow even more chaotic. To prepare for unforeseen circumstances, they needed to secure a backup plan for their daughter as soon as possible.

A bitter sense of guilt surged within her. If not for her own background, she wouldn’t feel this constant anxiety.

Mother Lin’s name was Ye Yunrong, a name given by her well-educated grandfather. It was derived from a verse in Qing Ping Diao: “Clouds think of garments, flowers think of beauty,” symbolizing the hope that his granddaughter would possess a beauty as light and ethereal as the clouds and enjoy a life of wealth and honor.

The Ye family had once been renowned merchants in Hangcheng. Yunrong’s grandfather had only one son who survived to adulthood—her father. She was the youngest granddaughter, born in 1930, and had been doted on since childhood.

She had an older brother and an older sister above her.

Her brother, Ye Yunliang, had secretly enlisted in the army during the war, against the wishes of the family elders. Tragically, he was killed in action at just 19 years old.

Yunliang was ten years older than Yunrong and the second eldest in the family. He used to let her ride on his shoulders, playing “horseback riding” games.

When he smiled, he had two small tiger teeth, and his youthful spirit radiated like sunlight. There was always a fearless longing for the future in his brows—he was a young man full of ambition and vitality.

Yet in the end, he was wrapped in a soldier’s shroud.

Their elderly grandfather and already frail mother could not bear the grief of burying a child, and they soon passed away in succession.

Her older sister, Yunjuan, was the eldest in the family. Twelve years older than Yunrong, she was vastly different from Yunrong’s gentle and delicate nature—Yunjuan was intelligent and highly capable.

After losing so many family members in quick succession, their father was devastated, losing his will to carry on. It was Yunjuan who managed the family business and took care of the young Yunrong.

To Yunrong, her sister was like a mother—protecting her, silently shouldering the burdens of the family, never marrying, dedicating herself entirely. The bond between the sisters ran deep.

In 1950, as Huaguo underwent restructuring, the Ye family found itself in a precarious position. Only thanks to Lin Zhongjun’s efforts and maneuvering were they able to protect the remaining family members.

Yunjuan was meticulous and keenly aware that Huaguo was in its early years of nation-building, riddled with challenges and conflicts.

To avoid causing trouble for her younger sister’s family, she swiftly sold off the family assets and took their aging father far away to Xiangjiang.

Lin Zhongjun was Yunrong’s husband, a soldier who had fought against the Japanese. They met at Hangcheng People’s Hospital.

While recovering from severe war injuries, he had fallen in love at first sight with the gentle and elegant nurse, Ye Yunrong. Later, they grew to understand each other, fell in love, and eventually married.

After their wedding, Yunrong followed her husband to Yushi as part of the military family, and their life together was one of deep harmony.

Later, they welcomed a daughter, transforming their once intimate world of two into a warm and loving family of three.

Father Lin named their daughter Lin Xiuzhu, meaning “precious and beautiful.”

Out of love for his wife, who had endured the hardship of childbirth, he decided against having more children—an unusual choice in the pro-natalist atmosphere of the 1950s and 60s. Thus, Xiuzhu became a rare only child.

Father Lin doted on his daughter beyond measure, and Mother Lin, with her gentle disposition, spoiled her as well.

With a life of security and privilege, the fair and delicate little Xiuzhu grew up pampered, developing a slightly willful and spoiled temperament.

“Mom, breakfast is so delicious.”

The soft and charming voice rang out, pulling Lin Mother back from her thoughts.