Cracks in the Illusion
In a cramped, slightly worn apartment in a dusty corner of the city, Liu Fenfang wiped the sweat from her brow as she came home from the factory. Her hands ached from sealing packages, her clothes were damp with the scent of machine oil, and her patience had worn thin. She looked around at the peeling walls and heard her neighbor's radio playing off-key tunes—so different from the peaceful courtyard homes she'd imagined city elites to live in.
This wasn't what she had envisioned.
For years in the village, she had been someone. Liu Fenfang was praised for her diligence, envied for marrying Shen Yimin, and admired for landing a job in the city. They had been the pride of their community, the so-called golden couple with dreams of rising together. But here, among indifferent neighbors and cold stares from city folk, her illusions had begun to crumble.
Their apartment building was loud and narrow. The neighbors were shrewd, the kind who only smiled when they wanted something. There were no warm greetings or neighbors dropping by with fresh vegetables, as there had been back home. The woman next door once scolded her for hanging clothes in the wrong spot. Another time, she watched someone snatch a delivery parcel that wasn't theirs. This place wasn't just unfamiliar—it was unwelcoming.
She sighed, placing a cold towel on her neck. Across the small dining table, her husband Shen Yimin looked equally worn, shoulders slumped from a long shift at the factory. "The supervisor said I was too slow today," he murmured.
"They expect us to be like machines," Fenfang muttered bitterly.
He didn't respond. Instead, he sipped plain tea and stared into the cup.
That night, as she lay staring at the ceiling fan, thoughts swirled.
She had heard the neighbors gossiping again—about the Jia family.
"Have you heard of Jia Lan? From the elite community. Works at the Youth Arts Bureau. Such a young girl and already doing so well."
"She's the granddaughter of Jia Yuming, you know! War hero. That family is unmatched in the city."
"Her mother, Lin Shunhua, used to be in the cultural department. The whole family's got pedigree."
Fenfang had smiled tightly then, not wanting to seem jealous.
But inside, she burned.
She remembered old stories. Jia Yuming had been from their village long ago. A quiet, serious man who left for the military and rose to greatness. People always spoke of his bravery. Yet, she had never imagined his family would rise so high. Compared to her own—a life rooted in safety, but never sacrifice—the Jia family had paid for their success in blood and hardship.
Still, a small voice inside her said, But why not us? Why should Jia Lan live in a mansion with a garden courtyard, wear fine fabrics, and get an easy job? Was it fair?
"Maybe we should visit her grandfather," she whispered.
Yimin looked over. "Why?"
"Back in the village, people helped us. No one refused. Maybe he'll help us too. He's from the same place. There's connection."
"But we never even met him personally," he said, frowning.
"Still, we have roots. He might remember our elders."
Yimin didn't agree. But he didn't disagree either. And Fenfang held on to that hope. She thought of Jia Lan's position, her office, the admiration she received, and something in her chest twisted.
She told herself it wasn't jealousy. Just frustration.
But late into the night, she kept replaying the image of that serene girl from the gossip—Jia Lan, laughing gently in an office with lace curtains and framed calligraphy.
How could a girl like that, with nothing but a name, have such a life?
She must be a stepping stone, Fenfang thought. She must be.
But what she didn't know—what she couldn't possibly understand—was that even without her family's prestige, Jia Lan was never someone who needed stepping stones. The girl she envied had her own fire, one that didn't rely on borrowed embers.
Jia Lan's family had faced storms—war, reform, revolutions. Her grandfather, Jia Yuming, bled for the land. Her grandmother, Madam Qiao Meiyun, stitched wounds and fought illness on warfronts. Her parents, Jia Chenghai and Lin Shunhua, had paved every inch of her path with hard work, sacrifice, and a legacy earned the hard way.
Even the former Jia Lan had been brilliant—a top scholar doted on by her entire family not out of blind love, but earned pride. Her position at the Youth Arts Bureau was recommended because she was qualified. And the new Jia Lan, with her transmigrated soul, carried both memory and determination. She knew the contrast between her life and Fenfang's. She didn't need to look down on them. Because in her world, there was no comparison.
Still, Fenfang's bitterness lingered. The village had never prepared her for a world where effort alone didn't always equal reward.
A week later, as Fenfang walked past the Youth Arts Bureau, her eyes widened. She spotted Jia Lan from afar, exiting a car with her satchel in hand. The girl's blouse was pristine white, her pleated skirt swayed with poise, and her voice—though soft—was respected by the staff around her.
Fenfang ducked behind a tree, hiding like a child caught misbehaving. Her heart pounded.
Is that really Jia Lan? That elegant figure… She didn't even look like a girl from the village.
For a moment, Fenfang hated how graceful she looked. Her jealousy turned sour.
Later that night, the envy reached its peak. Fenfang sat in their apartment, turning over a wrinkled newspaper. Jia Lan's name appeared in a cultural article praising young talents in the bureau.
"She doesn't even look that special," she mumbled, voice low.
"Who?" Yimin asked, eyes heavy.
"No one," Fenfang replied quickly.
But her mind screamed: She must've used connections. That's all.
Yet a sliver of doubt slipped in.
If that were true, why did even city elites respect her? Why did her reputation stretch so far?
Fenfang didn't want to admit the truth. That the Jia family had paid for their position with more than words. And that Jia Lan—whether born into privilege or not—was standing strong on her own merits now.
She glanced at her cracked mirror one last time that night, adjusting a frayed braid and telling herself that tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.
Even if the world didn't bend the way she wanted, she wasn't ready to stop trying. But the halo of being a village heroine had dimmed. And as she reached for a blanket, a creeping thought slithered in.
What if… the city never accepts me?
The chapter ends with Fenfang staring into the darkness, unaware that her naive hope was about to clash with the reality Jia Lan was more than prepared for.