To embroider good work, one must first be able to sit still, be calm in mind, and harmonious in breath. If one is restless and uneasy, it’s basically impossible to produce anything of quality. Ancient won spent years confined within their hos, not stepping out of the inner chambers. Their so-called pastis could hardly involve singing, watching television, or strolling around shopping. What they did most was embroider.
To master a needlework technique, she must spend a long ti practicing without the system unlocking the second one until she feels proficient in the first. Only then would the system enable the next. Since the system began unlocking needlework techniques, she has learned nearly ten different kinds.
The Spring Festival couplets sent out, whether to the Village Chief or Aunt Hua’s family, were very satisfactory, particularly those at the Village Chief’s ho—they felt inevitable pride seeing their own door adorned with the couplets.
This year’s New Year was quite cold, due to a heavy snowfall. On the morning of the first day of the lunar year, every household was out early, shoveling snow. But because of the extre cold, the snow never lted; instead, it ford many ice spires, and long chains of them hung from the eaves.
Sohow, an old woman in tattered clothes appeared in the village.
Her hair was almost entirely frosted over, and her cotton-padded coat was riddled with patched holes, through which tufts of cotton stuffing were visible. The coat, which slled strongly of dust mixed with the snow, emitted an unpleasant odor.
Not many were outside the village. She seed to be searching for sothing, wandering into a narrow alley and then circling back, then lowering her head and continuing her search. She breathed warm air into her hands, which were dry and cracked like bark, and scarred in various sizes.
When she reached the doorway of a house, she did not enter but hid to the side as if waiting for soone.
Qin Pengfei was holding Qin Xiangi’s hand, ready to go out and pick up firecrackers to play with, when they saw a filthy old beggar woman approaching. Her cloudy eyes seed almost predatory upon seeing them.
Qin Pengfei pulled Qin Xiangi and ran. On this festive occasion, a dirty beggar had appeared—was she here to eat people?
"Xiang Yang? Is that you, Xiang Yang? Xiang Yang, I’m your grandmother."
Qin Xiangyang?
Qin Pengfei stopped in his tracks, turned around, and scrutinized the dirty old woman. What kind of clothes was she wearing? Only a beggar would dress in such rags, and these looked as though they could have been picked from a garbage heap. Qin Xiangyang’s grandmother was begging at their door.
And his expression soured. Those siblings, Qin Xiangyang and Chun Xiangnuan, always seed at odds with his family. Had Qin Xiangyang not left, he wouldn’t be doing the work in the fields. He was a student destined for college. How could he be expected to work in the fields?
Now that he was faced with soone related to the Qin siblings, how could he possibly feel pleased?
"Xiang Yang, I’m your grandmother."
The shabbily dressed old woman hurried over, her cloudy tears streaming down her face. She extended her hand but dared not touch anything. She rembered holding little Qin Xiangyang. How many years had passed since then? The children had grown so much. If her daughter Pingzi were still alive, they would have made it by now. But Pingzi was unlucky, passing away before the kids grew up, leaving the grandmother helpless and unable to support her grandchildren.
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