The little one's purse connects the two worlds, turning a desolate village into a paradise.

Spring in Lotus Village is decadent and desolate.

In early spring, muddy water carrying large stones rolled down, blocking the only mountain path outside the village that had been traversed for generations, and also cutting off the village's livelihood.

The wind swept by, carrying the earthy smell of the soil. It blew the leaves off the old locust tree at the village entrance, leaving large cracks in its trunk, resembling the wrinkled face of the village chief.

Grandpa and Grandma Fang, leaning against the tree, had their legs curled up, their eyelids drooping, and they didn't even have the strength to open their eyes and look at the sky.

Ya Ya knew that they, like her, had empty stomachs and tasteless mouths because they were lacking salt.

When the imperial court came to conscript able-bodied men, all the men in the village who still had some strength were taken away.

More than half a year has passed, and not a single message has been sent back. He's probably long since become a ghost in the wilderness.

Of the remaining twenty-one people, the strongest were Aunt Lin, a widow in her early thirties, and Hunter Zhao, who had crippled his leg three years ago while hunting in the mountains.

The rest were either elderly people with completely white hair or toddlers who had just learned to walk.

Five-year-old Ya Ya is the only half-grown child in the village who can run and walk.

Ya Ya's parents passed away early, and she grew up relying on the kindness of many families.

Grandma Zhang gave her a cornbread, and Aunt Lin stuffed some wild vegetables into her mouth. The whole village doted on this child who had no parents. Later, she went to live with Granny Liu, who had no children of her own. The two of them lived together in a mud house, relying on each other to make ends meet.

Grandma Liu treated Ya Ya well, always giving her the first bite of food. Ya Ya was also sensible; at a young age, she would help Grandma Liu climb the slopes to dig for wild vegetables and pick mushrooms on the back mountain.

Ya Ya is Grandma Liu's little walking stick and also the little girl in the village who is best at finding food.

In previous years, by the beginning of spring, vegetable sprouts would be growing in the gardens of every household in the village, and new wild vegetables would be growing in the mountains, but this year is different.

The mudslide swept in and flooded the vegetable patches at the entrance of the village, making the soil hard and compacted.

Every household in the village has a small plot of land, where they grow millet and buckwheat. However, the crops are harvested in autumn and stored for winter. Last year's harvest was enough to feed the entire village for more than half a year, and seeds were also saved for the following year.

After the men were conscripted, the grandparents were left to manage the granary, but insects and rodents always managed to sneak in, resulting in much greater losses than before. By the time they survived the winter, all that was left was bran and chaff.

The last few radishes and cabbages stored in the cellar were given to the children to fill their stomachs before the New Year.

Everyone was hoping that the melting snow would make the roads easier to travel so they could go out and exchange for food and salt, but now there's no hope at all.

Every household's stove is empty.

This is the most difficult time in the mountains when food is scarce. The wild vegetables near the slopes have long been dug up, leaving only the roots. To find something edible, one has to go deep into the mountain valleys, where the slopes are slippery and the roads are steep, making it impossible for the elderly to go up.

Ya Ya huddled in the corner of the earthen bed, her back pressed against the cool wall, her belly flat against her spine.

Hunger, like tiny insects, crawled around in her stomach, making her feel weak all over.

She pursed her lips; they were dry, covered with hard scabs, and hurt when she moved them. A few tiny red beads of blood oozed out. She carefully licked them, finding only a slight fishy, ​​salty taste mixed with the bitterness rising in her mouth.

She got up, pursed her lips again, and staggered toward Granny Liu.

Grandma Liu leaned against the wall of the kang (a heated brick bed), her eyes closed, her breath coming out softly as if it were about to drift away.

Grandma's face was yellowish with high cheekbones. When Ya Ya reached out and touched it, it was hot, like a small piece of red-hot charcoal on a heated brick bed. Startled, Ya Ya withdrew her hand, and tears welled up in her eyes.

Yesterday afternoon, Grandma developed a fever and started mumbling incoherently. Ya Ya put her little ear to Grandma's mouth and listened for a long time before she could make out a few indistinct words: "Salt... Ya Ya..."

Salt, the sprout knows salt.

Back when the mountain roads were still accessible, Grandma Liu would trade with peddlers from other villages for a little salt. She would sprinkle a tiny bit on the salt when cooking, and even the bitter shepherd's purse would taste delicious.

The last bit of salt in the village was in the village chief's old earthenware jar, only the size of a fingernail. Half a month ago, he diluted it with water for three delirious little children, applied it to their foreheads, and it was gone in no time.

The grandparents searched through the salt shaker, vegetable jars, and even the mud at the bottom of the stove, but couldn't find a single grain of salt.

Without salt, people have no strength.

Little Bean fell a few days ago and scraped his knee. It's all raw and won't heal. He lies on the ground crying every day, his voice is so soft, he doesn't even have the strength to cry.

Ya Ya slowly moved down from the corner of the kang (a heated brick bed), her bare little feet stepping on the cold mud, which made her shiver.

She leaned against the wall and slowly walked to the stove. She lifted the small iron pot with a hole in it. Inside were only a few dry shepherd's purse leaves, yellow and wilted. She had dug them up yesterday by leaning against the wall and moving to the hillside. They tasted bitter.

She took small bites of two sticks, then slowly moved them away.

Beside the stone mill in the village, the old village chief squatted there, his back hunched over like a big shrimp, holding a tobacco pipe in his hand, tapping the millstone again and again.

There was a pile of acorns that had been collected next to the stone mill, which they intended to grind into powder to fill their stomachs, but the old village chief didn't even have the strength to shell them, so they just piled up there, covered in a layer of dust.

His eyes were fixed on the winding mountain road blocked by large rocks. The sky was gray, the road was gray, and there was no light at all.

"Grandpa Village Chief..." Ya Ya's voice was small, soft, and a little hoarse, with a hint of crying.

She moved closer to the village chief and tugged at his sleeve. "Grandma's hot... her stomach is empty... she needs salt..."

The old village chief turned his head, his cloudy eyes looking at Ya Ya. He reached out and touched her head, opened his mouth, and after a long while, managed to squeeze out a few words: "Wait a little longer..."

What are we waiting for?

Ya Ya doesn't know.

She tilted her head and wondered, should she wait for the muddy road to thaw? Should she wait for the uncles in official robes to bring her elders back? Should she wait for Uncle Zhao to come out of the mountains? Or should she wait for salt and food to fall from the sky?

But there were only gray clouds in the sky, and nothing fell.

The village millstone stopped turning, the vegetable gardens were abandoned, the mountain roads were impassable, and even the wind tasted bitter.

Ya Ya loosened the hem of the village chief's clothes and slowly walked to the low mountain god temple at the end of the village. There wasn't even a speck of incense ash on the offering table; no one had the energy to burn incense for a long time, and a thick layer of dust had settled on it.

She slid down onto the dusty offering table.

Around her neck was a small purse tied with a red string, the only thing her mother left her when she passed away.

The fabric had faded so much that its original color was no longer visible. A crooked little flower was embroidered on it, with messy stitches, but Ya Ya kept it close to her chest every day, even clutching it while sleeping.

This tastes like my mother's cooking.

She clutched the small purse tightly in her palm, pressed her face against it, the cool fabric against her burning cheeks, and large tears fell onto the purse.

Ya Ya didn't dare to cry loudly, but buried her face in her knees and sobbed softly, "Mother... Ya Ya is hungry... Grandma is leaving... Mother... please save Ya Ya..."

The little worms in my stomach were gnawing even more fiercely, my vision started to go black, and my ears were buzzing as if little bees were flying around.

Ya Ya's little body was soft and wobbly. She curled up into a tiny ball and fell to the ground.

Just then, the small purse in my palm suddenly became warm.

It felt warm, like a pebble that had been sunbathing at midday.

The purse was still vibrating gently, like the hand her mother used to pat her to sleep, one gentle pat after another.

As the heat intensified, Ya Ya felt dizzy. The old locust tree, the mud wall, and the large millstone all became blurry shadows. She tilted her head to the side and knew nothing more.