Minha Pequena Fazenda de 1995

February 6th, 1995. The day of Awakening of Insects.

As evening fell and the last rays of the setting sun faded, industrious women began to light fires and prepare dinner. Wisps of smoke curled from the clustered chimneys, blending with the sun’s afterglow, the rosy clouds, and the distant mountains, painting the little village nestled among the hills into an oil painting—so beautiful it was intoxicating.

Barefoot, Chen Ling walked along the dam of the reservoir, his eyes continually sweeping over the scenery. This was his third day since arriving here, and he had nearly explored every corner around the village. Forests, reservoirs, wheat fields—his footprints were everywhere.

Though resignation weighed on him, deep down he had already accepted the fact that he had crossed into 1995.

“It’s a pity, really. All the wealth I accumulated over half my life—now, it’s gone.”

Chen Ling sighed in melancholy, squatting beside a pond near the dam to wash the mud off his feet. It was still early February, and after sunset the mountain air grew chilly; the water in the pond was cold. He washed quickly, unable to bear the icy touch for long.

He grabbed a handful of dry grass nearby to wipe his feet, then slipped on a pair of clean cotton shoes, feeling a bit more comfortable. With his shoes on, and the twilight casting a dim glow, Chen Ling could see his tall, upright reflection in the water of the pond—a handsome face, sun-kissed skin, muscles not ostentatious but well-proportioned and strong. Everything about him spoke of a vibrant young man.