Qingya never imagined she’d one day live in a place without convenience stores, where the streets went dark by 8 p.m.
Born and raised in Taipei, she was used to 24/7 convenience and a fast-paced lifestyle. Marrying Ah Xuan was the boldest decision she’d ever made—he was a young farmer she met during a business trip to Hualien. He was gentle yet grounded. During their courtship, she found his world romantic: blue skies, white clouds, and endless green fields—it all felt like a scene from a drama.
But after moving to his countryside village post-marriage, reality quickly hit her hard.
There were no cafés, only roosters crowing at five in the morning. No bus stops—everything required a scooter. No late-night food stalls—dinner had to be homemade. Even the internet was slow and unstable.
At first, she often sat by the wooden cottage window, staring blankly at the vast rice fields outside. She’d pick up her phone to scroll through Instagram, only to find the signal too weak. She craved a latte, but the nearest convenience store was a 15-minute ride away. She even had cold fights with Ah Xuan, accusing him of “trapping” her there.
“This place isn’t for me,” she would often tell herself.
Until one early morning.
That day she woke up unusually early. As she stepped outside, a thick mountain fog blanketed the entire field like a giant duvet. Wrapping herself in a coat, she walked to the edge of the field. In the distance, Ah Xuan was crouched, adjusting the irrigation canal. He turned and waved with a smile, “Morning!”
Something about that moment made her nose sting.
He woke up early every day, toiled hard in the fields—all for this home. He never pressured her to adapt, just quietly supported her. And she had never truly tried to understand this place.
From that day on, she made an effort.
She learned to grow vegetables with her mother-in-law, cook over a wood stove, and read the signs of coming rain. She started slowing down, letting go of the need to rush through every task. She began appreciating the beauty of sunsets over rice fields, the warm smiles from villagers, and the nighttime quiet broken only by crickets.
Eventually, she even started a small handmade market, teaching locals how to make trendy dried flower crafts and desserts. The younger ones teased her as the “city influencer turned villager,” but their laughter, and the applause from the elders, warmed her heart.
One evening, she and Ah Xuan sat together on the porch swing, gazing up at a sky full of stars.
“Do you still want to go back to Taipei?” he asked.
She leaned against his shoulder and shook her head. “No rush. This place… it’s actually kind of nice.”
From unfamiliar to fond, sometimes the only thing you need is a heart willing to stay.
Leave a Reply