They settled into the courtyard like people who had learned a new lullaby and wanted to try it out together.
"Pass me the bowl," Auntie Qiao said, voice soft, as if asking a favor from the night. Her daughter handed it over with hands that still smelled of starch from the day's cooking. The steam rose in a small white ribbon; the rice in the bowl looked fuller than any of them remembered.
Old Meng leaned forward, spoon in hand. "One scoop, be careful," he said, teasing in a way that had nothing to do with joke and everything to do with kindness. "This is the good stuff."
"It's only a quarter jin," the repairwoman replied, blinking as she tasted the rice. "They measured it before cooking. 0.25 jin—raw rice—but after steam it puffs. It's clean-tasting, not gluey. Each grain stands like it remembers itself."
"Reminds me," Old Meng murmured, "of the spring when rain was on time. No fat, but honest. The roast they gave? That slice—what weight did you say it was?"
"0.3 jin," the woman answered. "Enough to flavor the whole pot." She passed a thin slice of meat around; the fat had been rendered so the broth took it gently. "Not oily—soft, like the memory of summer."
Little Sui, sitting cross-legged with her new lamp by her side, held the metal up to the lamplight. "Two jin," she said proudly, turning the lamp in her hands. "It sits heavy in my palm. It doesn't smell like smoke when you light it. It hums steady."
A laugh went through the group at the word hums, a small, human sound. Qiu Shan, who had mended his child's collar that afternoon, tapped the needle-and-thread case against his knee. ".3 jin for the case," he said conversationally, "eight credits. Worth every stitch. My boy's coat won't let the wind through at night now."
Bao, who had eaten a single purchased meal tonight for one credit, lifted his bowl and ate with an attention that made the adults watch him more than their own food. Between mouthfuls he said, "It tastes like someone said my name before giving it to me." It was a child's way of saying gratitude; it landed without ceremony.
Auntie Qiao set the twenty-jin sack by the wall where it would be safe. "Twenty jin," she said, pressing her hand to the woven cloth, "ten kilograms. Five days for four people if we keep to the ration." She smiled at the practical math. "We'll measure. No wasting."
"Measure how?" the repairwoman asked, half-teasing. "You counted the rations like a magistrate."
Old Meng shrugged. "A bowl in the morning, a good bowl at noon, half at night. And when we have meat, we share a sliver. That way the boy Bao thinks he's eating more than he is—and he is content."
They traded small recipes as if exchanging currency. "A spoon of oil," someone said, "makes the rice sing. They gave the first ladle, for free with the lamp." Little Sui nodded, eyes bright. "Fifty milliliters is small, but it shines the pot. Save it for cold nights."
"Water," Qiu Shan said suddenly, and everyone turned. Water was a name that carried the ache of months. "The well tastes like glass. You can see the pebble at the bottom." He cupped his hands and mimed bringing water to his lips. "No silt. No iron. You can drink straight and know you won't wake up with a belly ache."
A woman who had mended shoes laughed, a small pleased puff. "I drank two ladles today and felt like I could walk farther than yesterday."
Old Meng tapped the rim of his bowl. "You know the difference? This water doesn't jump at your tongue. It lays itself down—like a thoughtful guest."
They spoke of the small practicalities—how many credits a day each could earn if they kept steady, how many notches they had now. Numbers were part of their lullaby too.
"How many credits did you get for the repair today?" Auntie Qiao asked Chen Guo's apprentice.
"Two credits," the apprentice replied. "For my hammering. And a half-credit bonus when Celestial Maiden said it was upgraded."
"Half-credit makes a big difference," said Qiu Shan. "Two weeks of steady work and you can buy a good needle box, mend coats for the winter." He smiled at the thought. "Or you can save for the lamp."
Little Sui held her lamp closer, admiring the way the flame steadied without oil smoke curling into the rafters. "I read tonight," she confided. "I made a small list." She unfolded a scrap of paper and showed them crude writing: stitch, run, water the herbs. "I read the letters by lamp. It felt like learning to hold the world."
The repairwoman reached for another slice of meat, careful to pass it around. "It's strange," she said, "how a small piece like .3 jin can make you feel rich." She smiled, not mockingly. "It's not riches, I know—just enough."
They kept their relief unshowy. A man asked quietly, "But if the house closes or moves, what then?"
Old Meng answered with the same practical steadiness he used on a stubborn root. "Then we have the habit of measuring. We will have learned to mend. We will not be no one again. The lesson is not the house—it's learning to count and to keep."
Auntie Qiao lifted her spoon for a moment and added, "We have little rituals now. Clean the bowl before sleep. Share the first spoon with the oldest. Save oil for the worst night. These are small pieties. They make the days go right."
Bao giggled then, spoon half-filled, and said, "I'm saving three notches to buy two more meals." The group laughed, a warm, unforced sound. Someone clapped his shoulder.
Night softened around them. The lamp threw a good circle of light; the rice steamed like a small promise. The water in their cups reflected the lamp's glow like safe glass. They spoke less of fear and more of plans: who would apprentice under Chen Guo next, who would run for three shifts, how to rotate guard duty so Qiu Shan could rest. Their talk folded into the kind of domestic plotting that had nothing to do with grand ideas—how to keep a child warm, how to mend a seam so wind could not find it.
Before they dispersed, Old Meng stood and looked at the woven sack, the lamp, the needle box. He touched each as if blessing them. "We give thanks," he said simply. "Not shouting thanks—just making sure the next person has what they need too."
They nodded. No celestial pronouncements were made; they kept the reverence small, domestic. Gratitude here was in the chores they promised one another: mend, measure, share.
Later, as the courtyard emptied and the lamps winked one by one, Little Sui tucked her scrap of list into her sleeve and felt the small weight of her choices settle like a coin in a pouch. Outside, the mansion's silhouette watched the ridge. Inside the valley, people slept with water clear in the cup, rice soft in bellies, and the faint, satisfied ache of a day well-counted.