In 19217, during the continuous rainy season deep in the Shiwanda Mountains of Guangxi, seven-year-old Zhao Qinglan followed the fleeing people through the muddy mountain roads. The hunger in her stomach was more piercing than the cold air in the mountains. After a high fever, she was dragged to the Song family'ao by her grandfather in a daze, and exchanged a bag of life-saving rice for the child bride of the Song family's only son, Song Mingzhang.
From then on, Zhao Qinglan's world shrank into the Song family's low adobe house and the ever-burning stove. Before dawn, I would carry a bamboo basket to the stream to beat clothes, stand on a small bench to cook for the whole family, and twist twine under an oil lamp at night. If I was not careful, I would be slapped by Granny Song. She looked at Song Mingzhang, who was half a head taller than her, and went from being timid at first to getting used to the half piece of sweet potato he occasionally secretly stuffed her into.
The days in the deep mountains are like the smoke in the stove, lingering endlessly, but Zhao Qinglan looks at the clouds floating outside the mountains, always quietly looking forward to in her heart: Maybe one day, she can step on the mountain road, get out of the "stove front" that traps her, and find her own life.
