Gold Ring

South Town's mornings are damp. Especially in April, when the willows by the river have just sprouted tender, goose-yellow buds, the mist hangs like a thin veil on the treetops and drifts into the windows facing the river.

Old Zhang woke early. He fumbled out of bed, shuffled in his cloth shoes, and went to the kitchen to poke the coal stove. With a "poof," the stove fire leaped up in blue flames, casting a faint glow on his wrinkled face. His wife was still lying in bed. Hearing the sounds outside, she asked lazily, "Old man, what are we eating today?"

"Making a pot of congee, with some leftover pickled radish from yesterday." Old Zhang added water to the pot, the ladle rapping against the rim, "dang, dang."

"Congee again..." his wife muttered, turning over. The quilt rustled.

The people of South Town lived their days unhurriedly. On the streets, fried dough sticks (youtiao) had just hit the hot oil in the breakfast stalls, sizzling noisily; at the river landing, someone was washing clothes, the sound of the laundry mallet hitting the stone slab, "dok, dok, dok," carried far. Life, like the river water, flowed slowly, showing no great changes.

But these past few days, something was different.

The reason was gold. Somehow, word was spreading inside and outside the town: the price of gold had risen, risen ridiculously. If a family had some gold jewelry, it was worth a lot now.

This topic was first brought up by Wang Ersao from next door. She had a loud voice and a warm personality. Holding a chipped enamel bowl, she stood at the doorway chatting with Old Zhang's wife: "Sister Zhang, have you heard? The gold price in the shops changes every day! My husband went to town yesterday and heard people say, my goodness, it's much more expensive than a few days ago!"

Old Zhang's wife sat on a small stool, stitching a shoe sole, without even lifting her eyelids: "Whether it rises or not, what does it have to do with us? It's not like we have a mountain of gold."

"You can't say that," Wang Ersao leaned closer. "Don't you have a gold ring? The one you wore when you got married?"

The needle and thread in Old Zhang's wife's hand paused. There was indeed such a ring. It was part of her dowry from her mother when she married Old Zhang. Bright yellow, not thick, with a small character "福" (Fu - blessing/fortune) engraved on it. For many years, it had stayed pressed at the bottom of a trunk, inside a small red cloth pouch, rarely taken out.

"How much could that little bit of gold be worth?" she said aloud, but inside, her heart felt as if something had gently plucked at it.

In the evening, the old couple sat facing each other, eating dinner. On the table was a small dish of pickled radish, a bowl of green vegetables, and two bowls of thick congee. Old Zhang slurped his congee noisily, but his wife seemed a bit preoccupied.

"Old man," she suddenly began, "about that ring of ours..."

Old Zhang looked up, squinting at her: "Ring? Which ring?"

"It's... my gold ring."

Old Zhang put down his bowl: "Oh, that one. What about it? Feel like wearing it?"

"No," his wife said, a little embarrassed. "Everyone's saying gold prices have gone up. I was thinking..."

Old Zhang understood. He said slowly, "Let it rise then. That ring is a keepsake from your mother. Why sell it?"

"I didn't say I wanted to sell it," his wife quickly added. "Just... thinking about it."

Two days later, the talk on the street grew more intense. Some said someone's bracelet could now be exchanged for a large color TV. Others said gold would rise further; selling now would be a loss. Still others said mysteriously that when gold prices rise, there are three things one absolutely must not do, or face bad luck. What exactly these three things were, was spoken of vaguely. Some said it was not borrowing money to buy gold, some said not showing off heirlooms, and others said not getting angry with family members over gold. As the stories spread, the versions multiplied, making people feel even more uncertain.

The small ripple in Old Zhang's wife's heart was stirred into larger waves by these words. She couldn't sleep at night, tossing and turning, thinking. The ring was indeed a keepsake, but what if it really was worth a lot of money? The roof needed repairing, Old Zhang's legs ached whenever the weather turned cold, they should buy some better medicine...

That afternoon, Old Zhang went out for a stroll. His wife was home alone. As if guided by an unseen hand, she found the small red cloth pouch at the bottom of the trunk. Opening it, the gold ring lay quietly inside, its color still so bright yellow, the character "Fu" still clear. She took the ring out and slipped it onto her rough finger. Her finger was already misshapen, and the ring felt a little tight. She held it up to the light, looking at it again and again.

This ring had witnessed her transformation from a young girl to an old woman. Wearing it for her wedding ceremony, wearing it while bearing and raising children, wearing it while managing household chores, welcoming guests and seeing them off. Later, when times were tight, she couldn't bear to wear it, so she put it away. Putting it on again now, it seemed as if all those past times rushed before her eyes.

Just as she was lost in thought, Old Zhang returned. Seeing the ring on her hand, he paused for a moment, then smiled: "What? You really feel like wearing it?"

His wife's face flushed red, and she quickly pulled the ring off: "No... just looking."

Old Zhang walked over to her side, picked up the ring, looked at it too, then placed it gently in her palm: "Put it away safely. This thing isn't about money. It's about life, about affection."

His wife looked at the ring in her palm, then looked at Old Zhang. The old man's hair was white, his back slightly hunched, but his eyes were still so steady, so warm. She suddenly felt that all the chaotic thoughts in her mind instantly dispersed.

Yes, what did the rising price of gold have to do with her? And those three things one shouldn't do? What were they really? Life had to go on as usual, the congee still needed to be cooked. If the roof leaked, they'd slowly save money to fix it; if his legs hurt, they'd apply more folk remedies. This ring, it wasn't just gold; it was half her life.

She carefully wrapped the ring back in the red cloth and placed it back at the bottom of the trunk.

Outside, the river water still flowed slowly. On the streets, people came and went, some discussing the price of gold, excited, calculating. But in most households in South Town, the evening meal still consisted of ordinary dishes and ordinary talk.

At the Zhangs' home, dinner was, as usual, a pot of congee and a dish of pickles. The warmth of the stove fire, the aroma of the food, mingling with the faint sound of flowing water from outside the window, made one feel grounded and at peace.

"Tomorrow," Old Zhang said, "the crucian carp in the river should be plump. I'll go catch a couple."

"Alright," his wife replied, putting a piece of pickled vegetable into his bowl with her chopsticks. "Use plenty of scallion and ginger."

The matter of the gold seemed to have passed just like that. It had come, cast a small ripple on the waters of South Town, and then calm was restored. Only the gold ring lying at the bottom of the trunk remained silent, guarding its own unchanging value.