In Xijiang Qianhu Miao Village—where wooden stilt houses cling to hills like mushrooms after rain—there lives a boy who's part sunflower, part tornado.
Twelve-year-old Mu Xiao He, nicknamed Ah-Xiao, is the village's human compass: tourists flock to him for directions, grannies slip him candied plums, and even stray dogs trot behind him like loyal disciples. Right now, he's sprawled on his bed, knees grass-stained and nose buried in Fundamentals of Music Theory, when his mother's voice slices through the afternoon haze.
"Ah-Xiao! Grandpa Lin's in the backyard! And he brought a—" A dramatic pause. "—fiancée!"
The book slides off his chest. 'Fiancée? Since when do I have—?'
He scrambles up, tidying his quilt with the enthusiasm of a cat batting at yarn. 'Should I bring the book?' He eyes the dog-eared pages. 'Nah. Might need both hands to escape if this fiancée has claws.'
Downstairs, his mother giggles with Auntie Li, their laughter bubbling like the river outside. Ah-Xiao tiptoes past, his sandals slapping against wooden stairs.
In the backyard, Grandpa Lin stands beside a girl. Her back is turned, ponytail sharp as a bamboo shoot. When she spins, her eyes—brown and blazing—scan him head to toe like he's a suspicious stain.
"Is this my fiancé?" When Ah-Xiao asked abruptly, the girl closed her eyes in irritation, then fixed him with a gaze as icy as a winter stream.
Grandpa Lin flicks Ah-Xiao's forehead. "Nonsense! This is Yún Xīngyuè. Xingxing, meet Ah-Xiao. You two are the same age, and I want you to get along—I don't want to hear a fight, understand? Ah-Xiao, show Xingxing around the village so she won't be bored, and let her see the new years preparations. I've got things to do, so I'm leaving her in your care." Before Ah-Xiao could protest, Grandpa Lin hurried out, leaving a silence as thick as congee.
Ah-Xiao rubs his forehead. "So… what should I call you?"
"My name," she mutters, glaring at a chicken pecking nearby.
"Okay! Call me Ah-Xiao. Everyone does—except Mom when I track mud inside."
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Yún Xīngyuè
'Grandma promised "fresh air and culture." Lies. It's just mud, noise, and a human cricket who won't stop chirping.'
"Where are we going?" she demands as Ah-Xiao bounces ahead like a rabbit on tea leaves.
"Tour time! Oh, and stick close, folks—tourists disappear here faster than steam off a rice pot," he chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially.
The village thrums with festivals colliding like clumsy dancers. A woman in a silver headdress jingles toward them, thrusting a clay cup at Xingxing. The liquid inside reeks of danger.
"Rice wine," Ah-Xiao whispers. "Just pretend to sip. Grandpa Lin's brew could melt iron."
Xingxing fake-sips, scowling. "Why give kids poison?"
"It's not poison—it's rice wine! We're celebrating the Miao New Year, right now. You'll see lots of tourists here. For us, this wine stands for good luck, hospitality, and celebration—it's part of who we are. We offer it to guests as a warm welcome, but hey, no pressure at all if you don't want any! It's just our way of saying 'happy to have you here.'" He grins. "Relax, the red egg she gave you isn't a marriage contract. Probably."
She glares at the egg staining her palm crimson, her fingers trembling as if she's fighting the urge to hurl it at his smug face. "I really can't stand you."
"Thanks! I've been practicing since breakfast."
She direct her glare at Ah-Xiao and crashed the egg in her hand that made Ah-Xiao gulped.
Ah-Xiao drags her relentlessly throughout the village, her sandals kicking up dust then she saw a boy with rolled-up pants splashes in the shallows.
"That's Little Luo! This is why we banned tadpoles in soup—he's been rescuing them all summer!" As Ah-Xiao said this, Xingxing's expression twisted in disgust, her nose wrinkling at the thought of slimy creatures squirming in what should've been a perfectly good broth.
They walked down a narrow alley, the afternoon sun dappling the cobblestones as he gestured toward a faded mural of dragons coiled around a gate. "That's where Old Li claims he once fought a real dragon," he said, grinning. "Spoiler! he never even seen a lizard." She laughed, the sound dissolving into the hum of cicadas as they turned a corner.
When they reached the weathered blue gate of a courtyard, he paused, mischief flashing in his eyes. "Wait here—trust me." Before she could protest, he slipped inside. Moments later, he reappeared, triumphantly clutching two sun-warmed plums, their purple skins dusted with a silvery bloom. "Grandma Tang's secret stash!" He tossed her one. "Eat fast—she chases thieves with a broom!"
She caught the fruit, its faint sweetness already tickling her nose. "You stole these?" Xingxing narrows her eyes. 'What a little thief!' She bites the plum, her face puckering. "This is sour! Tastes like regret!"
"Acquired taste!" He swallows his whole and grins. "Just like your charm."
As dusk bleeds into the sky, they climb a hidden path. Below, the village plaza erupts with dancers, their silver headdresses clattering like wind chimes. Drums thump like a giant's heartbeat.
"Mom made those," Ah-Xiao says, pointing. "They're heavier than guilt, but she says silver scares ghosts." He side-eyes Xingxing. "You'd look like a steamed bun in one."
"You'd look like a steamed bun without one," she fires back angrily, but her scowl falters as lanterns bloom across the village.
Golden light spills over rooftops, the river mirroring the glow until the world seems dipped in honey. In the Miao village, the night comes alive with activity, as villagers gather to sing traditional songs, embroider intricate patterns under the soft glow of lamplight, and celebrate the close of day.
"See?" Ah-Xiao whispers. "The sky's playing dress-up."
Xingxing stays silent. For once, her sarcasm sleeps.
Then—
"You've got plum guts on your cheek."
"Where?!"
As Ah-Xiao scrubs furiously, Xingxing hides a smirk. Maybe this dump isn't all that bad.
Maybe.
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Miao New year is also known as the Lunar New year or spring festival.