Song Qingya slowly closed the courtyard gate.
With a soft CREAK from the old wooden gate,
she finally shut out the day's hustle and all the clamor of the outside world.
She took a deep breath, and the tension she'd held all day began to melt away.
She lay down gently on her bed, closed her eyes, and entered the mystical space that belonged only to her.
Her eyes opened to a familiar, tranquil scene.
The spring was still veiled in a faint, ethereal mist.
And the black soil had yielded its first harvest.
The vegetables she had planted were now ripe—vibrant green, fresh, and incredibly tempting.
With a flicker of thought, Song Qingya extended her finger and tapped lightly in the air.
As if by magic, the crops scattered across the field immediately arranged themselves into neat rows, eventually forming a small mound.
Then, with another thought, the vegetables obediently moved themselves into the storehouse.
