Chapter 20: A Needle's Drop Shatters the Old Curtain Like Thunder

Shen Guilan was already holding her daughter, Xiuwei, standing beneath the century-old locust tree at the village entrance.

This spot was the crossroads for all villagers, the hub where news converged and spread.

In her arms, she cradled a neatly wrapped package of bright red cloth—square, solid, and weighty.

Xiuwei’s small hand clenched her mother’s garment tightly, her wide eyes reflecting both anxiety and a resolute determination inspired by her mother.

Shen Guilan took a deep breath. The crisp mountain air filled her lungs, tamping down the last flicker of unease in her heart.

Carefully, she untied the red cloth, revealing a wooden plaque coated with tung oil, the bold characters beginning to take shape: “Shen Family Embroidery Workshop.”

Beside the plaque lay a book, tightly wrapped in oiled paper—the “Women Workers’ Code.”

She stepped onto a prepared bluestone, and with solemnity, hung the plaque—embodying all her hopes—on a sturdy horizontal branch of the ancient locust tree.

Her movements were deliberate and steady, as if she were hanging not just a piece of wood but the very backbone of her future.

A few children who had risen early to play gathered curiously, tilting their heads to peer at the unfamiliar sign.

At that moment, a morning breeze swept by, lifting the bright red cloth as if it were a flickering flame, crackling against the gray mist.

In the sewing basket beneath the plaque, threads of various colors lay quietly, as if awaiting a grand opening.

“Wickedness! Damn cursed jinx!”

A shrill, harsh curse doused the nascent flame of hope like a bucket of ice water.

From the west end of the village, Zhang Shi hobbled forward on her crutch, almost running, her murky eyes ablaze with venomous hatred.

Behind her trailed a few meddlesome gossips and the village rogue, Zhao San.

“Shen Guilan! You shameless wretch! My son’s been gone only a few years, and instead of tending to his spirit tablet at home to honor me, your mother-in-law, you dare to parade yourself here, setting up this ridiculous embroidery workshop! Are you announcing to the whole village that, now unbound by a man, you’re free to seduce any wild man you please?”

Zhang Shi stormed up, her fury ignited by the fresh plaque and the embroidery frame standing nearby. She raised her foot and viciously kicked the frame.

With a crash, the brand-new frame toppled, the stretched cloth tumbling into the dust.

An ever-growing crowd of onlookers gathered, and a few clan elders arrived upon hearing the commotion. Yet they only furrowed their brows and stood silently, saying nothing.

After all, this was the Zhang family’s private matter. A widow setting up her own household had always been considered a disgrace to family honor.

Zhao San grinned slyly, hoping to curry favor with Zhang Shi. He stepped forward, grabbed a long bamboo pole leaning against a wall, and swung it at the fluttering red cloth.

“Come down!”

“No!” Xiuwei screamed, wrenching free from her mother’s grasp. Her small body lunged forward, trying to shield the cloth with her own.

The bamboo swished through the air, tearing the red cloth roughly from its perch. The pole’s tip sliced Xiuwei’s sleeve, leaving a glaring red gash on her tender arm.

“Wah—” Unable to endure the pain and injustice, Xiuwei burst into heart-wrenching sobs, her cries piercing the ears of many women who turned away in sympathy.

Shen Guilan’s heart clenched fiercely, but she did not rush to comfort her daughter.

Her gaze, sharp as ice-forged blades, swept across Zhang Shi, then Zhao San, and finally settled on the silent clan elders and whispering villagers.

She neither wept nor caused a scene. Instead, she straightened her back and stepped deliberately to the fallen “Women Workers’ Code” on the ground. She bent down, picked it up, and dusted it off.

“The Great Qian ‘Women Workers’ Code,’ Volume Three, Article Seven!” Shen Guilan’s voice was soft but crystal clear, each word striking like a nail hammered into every heart present. “Any woman, widowed, divorced, or separated, without a son to carry on the family line—or with only daughters—may rely on a skill to register with the county office and establish an independent female household! Their property, income, and person shall all be protected by law, and clan interference is forbidden!”

She raised the book high, then produced a document stamped with the county’s vermillion seal, unfurling it against the breeze.

“This is the official registration from the county! It permits me, Shen Guilan, to establish the ‘Shen Family Embroidery Workshop.’ From this day forth, it will be publicly announced at the village entrance for three days. If no lawful objection arises within that period, the ‘Shen Family Embroidery Workshop’ shall be a legally recognized enterprise, protected by the law!”

Her declaration stirred a tumultuous uproar.

The villagers buzzed with gossip.

They knew only clan rules and family law. Who would have imagined that a woman—a widow, no less—could invoke the power of the law as her shield?

Zhang Shi trembled with rage, pointing at Shen Guilan and cursing, “You… you shameless woman! How dare you…”

“Why wouldn’t I dare?” Shen Guilan sneered, locking eyes with her. “Mother-in-law, I respect you as an elder, but since my husband’s passing, you have forced my daughter and me out of the main house, seized the support fields left by my husband, and even tried to sell Xiuwei as a servant to pay dowry. Where is the love between grandmother and granddaughter in any of that? If I do not seek a way to live for myself and my daughter, must I be driven to death by you to prove my fidelity as a wife?”

Each word dripped with anguish and cut to the core. The villagers’ gazes toward Zhang Shi began to shift.

At that moment, a tall and upright figure emerged from the forest path outside the village.

He bore a freshly hunted muntjac over his shoulder, a gleaming woodcutter’s knife at his waist. His steps were steady; his gaze sharp as an eagle’s.

It was Gu Changshan, the village hunter.

He strode directly to Shen Guilan. Amid the astonished eyes of the crowd, he pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket and handed it over.

“This is the county’s receipt. Your registration has been officially recorded,” Gu Changshan said in a low, powerful voice. Then, scanning the crowd, his gaze fixed on Zhao San. “I, Gu Changshan, voluntarily vouch for the ‘Shen Family Embroidery Workshop.’ Anyone who causes trouble without reason will have to answer to me.”

Zhao San felt his scalp tingle under that fierce gaze and instinctively stepped back.

He wanted to retort with harsh words but met Gu Changshan’s hand resting on the knife’s hilt.

That hand was knobby, veined, capable of splitting a wild boar’s skull with a single blow.

Swallowing hard, Zhao San sheepishly retreated into the crowd.

Zhang Shi, seeing her protector falter and the elders remain silent, stomped her foot in frustration, spat threats of “We’ll see about this,” and was supported away by several women, leaving in disgrace.

The storm had passed, for now.

Shen Guilan cast a grateful glance at Gu Changshan, then crouched to embrace the sobbing Xiuwei, soothing her gently.

“Don’t cry, Xiuwei. Mother is here. From today onwards, we rely on ourselves. No one will bully us.”

She lifted the fallen embroidery frame, re-stretched the dust-streaked cloth, and carefully folded the torn red cloth, placing it back in the basket.

Then, holding Xiuwei’s hand, she sat before the frame.

Under the watchful eyes of the entire village, she threaded her needle and made the first stitch.

Xiuwei wiped her tears, picked up her own tiny needle and thread, and sat beside her mother, mimicking her with earnestness.

At last, sunlight pierced the morning mist, shining upon the focused profiles of mother and daughter.

Shen Guilan’s embroidery depicted “Two Swallows Leaving the Nest”: a pair of fledglings, wings growing strong, striving to fly away from a dilapidated old nest.

Her stitching was swift and steady, as if she were painting not with thread but with life itself.

The villagers watched, mesmerized. Especially the women who had long done needlework at home—captivated by her exquisite Suzhou embroidery skill.

When the pattern was nearly complete, Shen Guilan inscribed a graceful small script in one corner of the cloth:

“Perch on new branches, not on decayed wood.”

Eight characters, like thunder, like a solemn vow.

Among the crowd, a young woman, often mistreated by her mother-in-law, wiped red-rimmed eyes and was the first to step forward, quietly asking, “Guilan, sister, is your workshop still hiring? My needlework is decent enough.”

“Yes,” Shen Guilan looked up, a warm and resolute smile breaking across her face—the first since the ordeal.

One led to two, then three.

Within moments, seven or eight women surrounded her, eager to join the workshop, learn the craft, and earn a livelihood.

At this moment, the spark of hope was fully ignited.

As the sun set, sending away the last group of inquiring village women, Shen Guilan glanced at the stack of papers on the table, filled with names and embroidered orders, emotions swirling within her.

She gently stroked her daughter’s head, gazing at the “Two Swallows Leaving the Nest” embroidery, feeling an unprecedented sense of peace.

Late into the night, Xiuwei had long since fallen into a deep sleep in her arms.

In the courtyard, only the cold moonlight remained, and she was alone.