Shen Fuling had transmigrated.
The moment she opened her eyes, the back of her head throbbed where it had struck the edge of the stove. Water leaked through the roof, and half a sack of moldy rice sat on the stovetop. She looked down at her hands: callused beyond belief, with black grime embedded beneath her nails that wouldn’t wash away.
These weren’t her hands. The last thing she remembered was poring over reports in a conference room. Her coffee cup had hit the floor, splashing her trousers.
Someone kicked the door outside. “Give it up! The postmaster’s been gone for three months. The post station is closing next month!”
Qingliu Post Station, a relay stop on the imperial highway. Three broken-down rooms, two leaky pots, five skinny horses, and seven postal workers. The former postmaster, Chen Danian, had run off with the funds, and the Ministry of Revenue had rated the station “abysmal.” The closure order had already been approved. The seven postal workers squatted in the courtyard, waiting to die. The youngest, Er Niu, had lost his mother to hunger the year before. He had no idea where he’d go once the station closed.
Shen Fuling braced herself against the stove and stood. She went through four sets of ruined accounts, emptied the stove, and opened the storeroom. Then she squatted down and drew an inventory chart on the wall with charcoal. “Nobody leave. We’ll settle the accounts in three days, and in seven, you’ll all have food to eat.” No one believed her, but by nightfall all seven had gotten back on their feet. Three sacks of coarse grain were stacked against the wall, both pots had been mended, and six quilts had been sewn up. Er Niu sat on the doorstep with a bowl of hot congee. After one mouthful, his eyes reddened. “Sister-in-law... the congee is hot.”
The next day, Wang Wu, a grain transport officer, barged in. “The rain’s too heavy to travel. Do you have anywhere I can rest?” The seven exchanged uneasy looks. The postmaster had run off; who would dare accommodate an official? Shen Fuling stepped over the threshold. “We do.” In the span of three quarters of an hour, she cleared out a side room, mended the bedding, and lit a brazier.
