Fingertip Memory
It was a familiar feeling that went deep into my bones.
It was as if a lost ship finally found the lighthouse, or as if a tired bird that had left its nest finally saw the forest it would return to.
Ling Xiuqing's fingertips unconsciously caressed the dirty embroidery cloth. Her movements were slow and reverent, as if she were touching a rare treasure.
Closing my eyes, the scenes of my past twenty years flashed through my mind like a kaleidoscope.
She could hold a needle at the age of three, embroider flying birds at five, and at ten, her carp painting was praised by her father as "capable of luring fish." In the world of silk and brocade at "Ling Family Embroidery Shop," she was a natural-born queen.
She is familiar with the feel of every silk thread, memorizes the formulas for thousands of stitches, and holds in her mind an unparalleled treasure trove of embroidery art. Whether it's the elegance of Suzhou embroidery, the boldness of Hunan embroidery, the brightness of Sichuan embroidery, or the splendor of Guangdong embroidery, she has meticulously studied them all, mastering them by heart.
These were the things she was proud of as the eldest daughter of the Ling family.
And now, these are the only things she has left.
When she opened her eyes again, a sharp and bright light burst out for the first time in the originally dull eyes of the orphan girl Ah Xiu.
Hatred can keep people alive, but craftsmanship can make people live well!
Han Shaoheng, Chuntao, you took away everything from me, but you couldn't take away the memories of my hands! You thought I was dead, but I insisted on blooming the most gorgeous flowers again in this dust!
A strong desire to survive, like dry wood meeting fire, burned fiercely in her dying body.
She struggled, using all her strength, and finally managed to sit up by holding onto the cold wall. The long period of hunger made her dizzy, but she forced herself to stay awake.
She began to search around in the dilapidated temple.
Under the base of the statue, she found a rusty sewing needle left by a pilgrim.
In the garbage pile in the corner, she found a small ball of discarded cotton thread that had been bitten by mice.
The thing was pitifully simple, but in her eyes, it was no different from a magical weapon.
She returned to the haystack and, in the dim morning light that filtered through the broken window, unfolded the stained embroidery cloth. She had no water, so she could only wipe the stains off the cloth with the corner of her tattered clothes.
After wiping it clean, she found that the texture of the cloth was actually quite good, a thick twill cotton cloth, but it looked dirty and hard because it had been abandoned for a long time.
In the center of the cloth, there was a large hole cut by a sharp weapon, and the edges were jagged.
Ling Xiuqing looked at the hole, her eyes focused and calm. In her previous life, she had embroidered works of art worth a fortune. How could she have ever encountered such a "dangling" job?
But at this moment, she felt an unprecedented challenge and excitement.
She unraveled the tangled mass of cotton thread, carefully separating it into strands of varying thicknesses. Then, she began threading the needle. Perhaps it was her body's instinct, perhaps it was a memory deep within her soul, but her movements, though slow due to weakness, were incredibly precise.
The embroidery needle seemed to come alive at her fingertips.
She didn't use traditional mending methods, which would have left unsightly scars.
She concentrated and calmed her mind, and a nearly extinct ancient needlework technique, "Huanzhen Embroidery," emerged in her mind. This needlework can repair the fabric along the original texture, making it look real and seamless.
Her fingers began to fly up and down.
The first stitch falls, precisely securing a piece of yarn at the edge of the hole.
The second stitch, the third stitch... Countless needle shadows flickered on her fingertips. Her movements grew faster and smoother, as if she had practiced them a thousand times. The rusty, blunt needle tip seemed to be imbued with a soul in her hands, pulling the rough cotton thread, weaving through the hole, interweaving, and entwining...
She was completely immersed in her own world.
Forget hunger, forget cold, forget hatred.
At this moment, she is no longer Ling Xiuqing, who died with hatred, nor is she Ah Xiu, who humbly struggled to survive. She is a creator, an artist, repairing a broken work with the utmost devotion, as if repairing her own shattered life.
After an unknown amount of time, when the last stitch was placed, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Looking at the embroidered cloth again, the once hideous hole had vanished without a trace. In its place was a smooth, flat surface, the stitching so fine it was almost invisible. Without careful observation, no one would have been able to tell there had once been a large hole.
Repair completed.
A huge sense of accomplishment and exhaustion came over me at the same time.
Ling Xiuqing leaned against the wall, feeling exhausted, but she couldn't help but smile slightly. She looked at her rough yet nimble hands, and her eyes sparked with an unprecedented light.
These hands can turn decay into magic.
These hands will be her sharpest weapon on the road to revenge.
These hands will allow her to take back everything she has lost, little by little, with her own hands!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
