On the third day after I transmigrated, I discovered there was a supermarket inside my head.
The shelves were always full, and the pharmacy lights never went out. But it took me a whole year to dare take a second item. The first had been a packet of salt, to replenish the crock for pickling vegetables.
Later, I used it to save lives, make ends meet, and bring warmth and good food to a life that had started with nothing.
No one ever found out.
Except Shen An.
That year, his fever hit 104 degrees. With no other choice, I took a fever-reducing pill.
Before swallowing it, he gave me a look heavier than any words.
Later came the college entrance exams, our wedding, and our child. He never mentioned that pill again.
Until our son turned eighteen and found the tin box. He held up a white capsule and asked, “Mom, what’s this?”
Before I could answer, Shen An poked his head out of the kitchen:
“Your mom used that medicine to save your dad’s life back then. I swallowed it with cold water. It was horribly bitter.”
He paused, then ducked back inside. “That was the only time. After that, whenever she stole something, I covered for her.”
