Chapter 1

Next door to Zhou Xin’s house lived a family whose youngest son had gone to Hong Kong years ago to work in foreign trade. He struck it rich, built a big new house for his family, and just last month sent home a large color television, which now sat proudly in their first-floor living room.

In the days right after they plugged in the TV, their home became a revolving door of curious villagers. Everyone wanted to see what a 36-inch color TV looked like compared to the black-and-white ones some of the slightly better-off households in the village had.

Zhou Pingguo, a shy young woman who had become a widow just last year, didn’t dare join the crowd for fear of being looked down upon. Still, she was only twenty, and naturally curious about such things. It just so happened that the kitchen in her house had a window at an angle where she could catch a glimpse of the TV.

She had good eyesight. While cooking, she would often tiptoe up and sneak a few glances through that window.

And just a few of those stolen glances were enough to stir tiny ripples in the still water that was her dreary life.

Around noon, Zhou Pingguo headed to the kitchen to cook. It was December now—even in their relatively southern climate, the weather had turned bitterly cold. And it wasn’t just cold—it was damp. The kind of chill that seeped into your bones.

So when winter came, Zhou Pingguo always kept the kitchen door tightly shut while cooking, afraid even the slightest draft would sneak in.

That day, the old folks next door were watching the 1983 version of The Legend of the Condor Heroes. On the screen, Weng Meiling’s portrayal of the lively Huang Rong was captivating. As she swung her Dog Beating Stick, Zhou Pingguo looked at the fire poker in her own hand and mimicked the motion a couple of times—then blushed at herself and quietly put it down.

Their household now used a coal briquette stove. They would buy coal fragments from a coal plant, mix them with red clay, stomp around in water shoes, and use a briquette mold to press them into shape. That’s how a honeycomb coal briquette was made.

Some villagers did this for a living—earning about a cent per briquette—and were skilled enough to make ones that burned well.

But ever since her husband’s accident, Zhou Pingguo had no income. With three younger siblings to feed, she had to pinch every penny—so she made the briquettes herself. They weren’t high quality, but they saved money. She usually made a batch once every month or two.

Lost in the TV show, Zhou Pingguo didn’t notice that the pot of water had boiled over and seeped into the stove. A strange smell started to fill the air, and before she could react, her vision darkened and she collapsed.

It was at that moment, as Zhou Pingguo hovered near death, that Zhou Ping entered her body. In her haze, she heard a pleading voice:
“Take care of the children… Please… I beg you…”

When she came to, Zhou Ping had fully absorbed all of Zhou Pingguo’s memories—along with her young body, now bruised from hitting her head during the fall.

Rubbing the large bump on the back of her head, Zhou Ping winced and cursed,
“Damn it, that hurts!”

Clumsily getting to her feet, she rushed to open all the doors and windows. The last thing she wanted was to die all over again—probably from carbon monoxide poisoning this time.

As the cold wind blew in, it sobered her up quickly. She shivered, ran to put on more clothes, then returned to the kitchen. She hadn’t used briquette stoves in decades, and her mind was still a bit foggy—so she accidentally burned one dish and mistook sugar for salt in another. The result? Food that tasted very strange.

The three kids had just come home from school, starving after a long morning. They ran straight into the dining room.

Zhou Ping had no choice but to bite the bullet and serve the food.

Naturally, the charred and oddly flavored dishes didn’t go over well. The harshest critic was Zhou Sen, the second younger brother of the deceased husband. He eyed the burnt tofu with his chopsticks and asked irritably,
“Is this even edible?”

Zhou Pingguo had always been gentle, but Zhou Ping was not. Still, she forced down her rising anger and replied calmly,
“I didn’t manage the heat well today. I’ll pay more attention when I cook tonight.”

Zhou Sen wasn’t done.
“We’re still growing! How can we eat like this?”

“Then I’ll go buy you something from Lao San’s place.”

In their village, thanks to the nearby mine, miners made decent money but were exhausted by the labor. The food provided at the mine was barely better than pig slop—so some enterprising villagers started cooking meals at home and carrying them over to sell. At first, they used shoulder poles. Later, with more money, they switched to bikes or motorcycles, modifying them to carry meals.

Those meals usually sold out.

Eventually, some vendors set up roadside stalls, even attracting truck drivers who would stop and grab a boxed meal to eat in their vehicles or in the small shops.

Villagers themselves rarely bought those meals, since most still lived frugally.

As soon as Zhou Sen heard about spending money, his face twisted in pain. He glared at Zhou Ping like she was crazy.
“With our situation, you dare suggest eating out?!”

Zhou Ping just looked at him calmly.
“Weren’t you the one who said you’re still growing and can’t eat what I cook?”

Zhou Sen glanced at his younger brother, who was practically glowing at the mention of a boxed meal, and his sister, who looked a bit scared by the earlier shouting. He immediately softened his tone.
“Just buy for them. You and I will eat this… whatever you made.”

Zhou Ping sighed. She didn’t like the way Zhou Sen had spoken to her earlier, but seeing how protective he was of his younger siblings at such a young age was admirable. The kid wasn’t bad at heart—just spoiled, probably because Zhou Pingguo had always been too soft, and maybe the adults in the family had fed him the wrong ideas.

“Fine. Give me money, I’ll go now.” Zhou Ping held out her hand.

Zhou Pingguo hadn’t had a single coin to her name—the household finances had been completely controlled by Zhou Sen. For Zhou Ping, who had already achieved financial freedom in her past life, asking a child for money felt deeply humiliating.

“Wait here.” Zhou Sen slapped his chopsticks on the table, dashed out of the room, and returned after a while, reluctantly handing her two 10-cent bills. He stared at her as if each cent were being carved from his flesh.

“I know exactly how much it costs, so don’t try to trick me. Lao San’s prices are negotiable—make sure you haggle!”

Zhou Ping looked at him, unimpressed.
“Then come with me. If you can’t trust me with a few dimes, what kind of man are you?”