It took great effort for Fan Changyu to endure that wave of smoke. She blinked, forcing out the tears stung from it before she felt a little better. Looking up, she saw Xie Zheng staring at her with an inexplicable expression. She patted the top of her own head.

“Is there ash on my hair?”

The wind was strong at the moment; indeed, a good amount of spirit paper ash had fallen onto her head and shoulders.

Xie Zheng withdrew his gaze, lowered his eyes, and nodded.

Fan Changyu brushed herself off haphazardly, but the ashes only smeared into sticky gray streaks when she patted them.

Changning saw this and ran over on her short legs, puffing her cheeks.

“Ning-niang will blow it away for you.”

Fan Changyu bent her head down, letting her younger sister blow the ashes off the top of her hair. Yet, Changning was still small and didn’t have much strength; she couldn’t blow them clean. So Changning tugged at Xie Zheng’s sleeve and looked up.

“Brother-in-law, blow it away for me.”

Xie Zheng looked at her. She was half-squatting on the ground, letting her little sister tend to her hair. From his angle, he could see a stretch of her fair nape and half of her delicate profile. Because she was speaking to her sister, there was still a faint, serene smile at the corner of her lips.

The moment Fan Changyu heard Changning asking Xie Zheng to help blow the ashes off her hair, she had already lifted her head.

“It’s almost done, let’s go ba—”

The last syllable caught in her throat.

Xie Zheng raised his hand and lightly brushed the soot and ash from the top of her hair. His touch was gentle—almost barely grazing her strands—but the faint ticklish sensation of his fingers through her hair still made Fan Changyu stiffen for a moment.

It felt completely different from when she did it herself, though she couldn’t say exactly how.

When he pinched away the final trace of ash between her locks, Xie Zheng withdrew his hand.

“All done.”

Fan Changyu met his dark, unreadable eyes and dryly said, “Thank you.”

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the time they returned home from the ancestral rites, it was already near noon. Fan Changyu stewed a pot of pork trotters, sliced a plate of cured sausage, reheated a dish of previously steamed braised pork, and lastly stir-fried a plate of dried greens to cut the grease. The three of them made do with that for lunch.

The dried greens were made from leafy vegetables harvested in season—boiled, dried, and stored away. Every household in town knew this skill. It was said to have originated during years of famine, as a way to preserve as much food as possible.

Compared to fresh greens, the dried ones had a stronger, richer aroma. After soaking in water and cutting into thin pieces, they were stir-fried with ginger and garlic, becoming even more fragrant than meat.

By the end of the meal, half the meat dishes were still left, while the plate of dried greens was completely gone.

The large bowl of minced meat mixed with offal by the cage of the gyrfalcon was also scraped clean. The bird was now squinting its beady eyes as it used its beak to preen its feathers, which had turned dull and gray from being placed too close to the fire pit.

After tidying up the bowls and chopsticks, Fan Changyu took out the red paper for Spring Festival couplets and the lanterns she had bought earlier, preparing to get to work.

It was custom on New Year’s Eve to paste couplets and hang big red lanterns—an indispensable part of the celebration.

The brush, ink, paper, and inkstone were all in Xie Zheng’s room. Carrying a stack of couplet paper, Fan Changyu knocked on his door.

On the desk lay spread paper, and in the chipped inkstone, the ink had already been ground. As expected, he was once again seated before the wobbly desk, writing something.

When his cool gaze swept toward her, Fan Changyu scratched her head and thickened her skin to say,

“Um… do you know how to write Spring Festival couplets?”

Changning, like a little tail, poked half her head through the doorway, her eyes curving into crescent moons as she smiled.

“Brother-in-law is writing Spring Festival couplets!”

Xie Zheng put aside the sheet he had been writing on halfway through, cleared a space on the desk, and said, “Bring it here.”

So Fan Changyu came in with the couplet paper—along with Changning, her little tail trailing close behind.

After Xie Zheng spread the red paper on the desk, he dipped the brush deeply into the thick ink. The inkstone was nearly empty afterward, so he tilted his head slightly toward Fan Changyu.

“Help me grind some more ink.”

Fan Changyu hesitated, wanting to say something, but seeing that he had already begun writing the first bold, flowing character on the paper, she didn’t dare interrupt. She glanced at the piece of aged ink, picked up the ink stick, and began grinding it hard in the inkstone.

When the ink on Xie Zheng’s brush began to thin and he reached to dip it again, he saw the thick, tar-like pool that had accumulated in the inkstone. After a brief silence, he said, “Too much.”

It was far more than too much—she had nearly ground half the ink stick just for one pair of couplets.

He couldn’t help glancing at her hands.

Then, recalling the strength in them, he felt it made sense.

Fan Changyu gave an embarrassed laugh.

“I was going to ask how much to grind before I started…”

She could read—her mother had forced her to learn, switching her with a rattan cane until she barely managed to write. But her handwriting was truly unbearable to look at. Ink, paper, and brushes were precious, so she rarely practiced. Back when her mother made her, her mother would grind the ink and watch her write; she never really knew how much ink was supposed to be ground.

Xie Zheng seemed quite used to such things.

“It doesn’t matter if you grind too much—just a bit of a waste if we don’t use it all.”

Fan Changyu looked at the half-eroded ink stick and felt a pang of regret.

Then, thinking that Aunt Zhao’s family probably hadn’t bought couplets either, she said,

“Then let’s write a pair for Aunt Zhao’s house too! If there’s still ink left, we can write a few more and paste them on each door—it’ll look festive!”

It was the first time Xie Zheng had ever heard of posting couplets like that. His well-shaped brows drew together, then relaxed slightly, a faint amusement flickering in his chest along with a brightness he couldn’t quite name.

When they first met, he had only found her coarse. But now, within that coarseness, he saw a kind of vibrant, upward-pushing life force.

Like wild grass in an open field—unattended, yet growing by its own fierce vitality. It could break through frozen earth and split stones, surviving harsh winters and enduring blazing summers. No matter the frost or rain that battered the budding shoots, the roots below only burrowed deeper into the soil, feeding those fragile tips with steady strength.

He glanced at the woman propping her chin with one hand, sitting at the side of the desk watching him write. Dipping his brush once more into the thick ink, he continued with the lower line of the couplet.

Snowflakes drifted through the half-open window lattice. The wind stirred his wide sleeves and also lifted Fan Changyu’s long hair. As he finished the stroke, she leaned closer to read the words he had written—just as a loose strand of her hair brushed lightly across the back of his hand.

His movement paused, and a drop of ink fell onto the bottom of the couplet paper.

Fan Changyu let out a small “Ah,” and said with some regret, “Did I disturb you?”

Xie Zheng withdrew his gaze.

“No, I just dipped the brush in too much ink.”

Fan Changyu looked at the couplet with a touch of pity.

“What a shame, the handwriting’s so beautiful. But it’s fine—let’s paste it on mine and Changning’s door!”

Xie Zheng raised his eyes.

“You like it?”

Fan Changyu nodded, studying the pair of lines, and read aloud, “‘Ice melts, spring veins flow; snow thaws, grass buds grow.’ When the ice and snow melt, spring grass begins to sprout—I like that meaning.”

Then she turned to him with a smile.

“When my mother used to write our couplets, she never liked the store-bought ones full of words like ‘prosperity’ and ‘good fortune.’”

Xie Zheng was momentarily dazzled by her smile. Without answering, he lowered his gaze and lifted his brush, sketching a few casual strokes over the spot where the ink drop had fallen. What had ruined the couplet a moment ago now transformed into an evocative image of wild grass.

Fan Changyu and her younger sister both let out a soft “Eh?”—their eyes alight with delight.

Fan Changyu picked up the couplet and examined it repeatedly.

“You can paint too?”

Xie Zheng replied,.“I know a little.”

Fan Changyu stared at the lively cluster of wild grass beneath the couplet’s lines.

“That’s more than enough.”

Then she lifted her gaze, studying him several times before saying, “If you went to the street to sell your calligraphy and paintings, I think you could make a lot of money!”

With his looks and brushwork, there would surely be flocks of young ladies eager to buy his art!

At first, Xie Zheng’s lips had curved slightly at her praise, but the last part made them flatten again.

He said, “I don’t paint what doesn’t please me.”

Fan Changyu, long familiar with his ill temper, wasn’t surprised by that reply. She simply kept her eyes on him as he continued writing the horizontal scroll.

He wrote the four characters “Endure, and Spring is born” (忍得春生)—the strokes square and vigorous, carrying the same resilient vitality of grass breaking through the soil.

Fan Changyu already liked the couplet very much; upon seeing this horizontal scroll, she was even more satisfied.

To keep the look harmonious, Xie Zheng also added a few strokes of wild grass to the upper couplet and the scroll above it.

Fan Changyu cheerfully placed the finished couplet on the nearby cabinet to dry.

Since this pair was already free of ink stains and the red paper she had bought was only enough for three sets, Fan Changyu—still wanting to make a pair for Aunt Zhao—decided that this set would go on the main gate.

The couplet Xie Zheng wrote for the two elders was a traditional one, wishing for blessings, longevity, peace, and health.

When he was writing the last pair, Changning leaned against the desk with both hands, standing on tiptoe and craning her neck.

“Ning-niang wants to write too!”

Fan Changyu thought that this one would only be posted inside the house anyway, so she found a sheet for the horizontal scroll and asked Xie Zheng to come up with a matching couplet. After he wrote it down, she guided her younger sister’s hand to copy over it.

Once they finished the scroll, she used her own chicken-scratch handwriting to write the upper line.

Though the characters were ugly, Fan Changyu still looked rather pleased.

She shoved the brush back into Xie Zheng’s hand.

“You write the lower line.”

Xie Zheng looked at the enormous characters—so large they nearly overflowed from the paper—and was silent for a moment before finishing the lower line in wild cursive, making it look less out of place.

He avoided using his usual calligraphic style, ensuring no one who recognized his handwriting could ever identify it as his.

Fan Changyu was ready to call it a day, but at some point Changning had slipped out of the room. She soon came back carrying the gyrfalcon from the cage in the main hall, her eyes sparkling.

“Let’s stamp Sun-sun’s footprints on it too!”

She held the bird quite skillfully—one chubby hand gripping its belly, the other clutched firmly around its neck, as if warning that any resistance would result in being lifted by the throat.

Xie Zheng met the gyrfalcon’s terrified, helpless gaze and felt… complicated.

These two sisters were unmistakably of the same blood.

Fan Changyu stroked the feathers on the gyrfalcon’s head, thought for a moment, and said, “All right.”

She brought the inkstone over, lifted one of the bird’s talons, dipped it into the ink, and pressed a claw print after the horizontal scroll that Changning had written.

Still traumatized by being smacked on the head earlier, the gyrfalcon kept its wings tucked tightly, not daring to move. Only its pair of beady eyes stared wide—bewildered and pitiful.