The Bigshot's Superstar Wife - Chapter 149

Chapter 149: 1985
In the year 1985, the village nestled in the heart of the mountains was a place of warmth and harmony.

The villagers lived simple yet fulfilling lives, relying on the land and their traditions to sustain them.

Wooden houses with sloping roofs lined the narrow dirt paths, their walls painted in earthy tones that blended seamlessly with the surrounding forest.

Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, filling the air with the scent of burning wood and cooking spices.

The villagers rose with the sun, their days beginning early. Farmers could be seen tending to their fields, their hands rough yet skilled as they turned the soil and scattered seeds.

Women gathered in small groups to weave baskets or embroider fabrics with vibrant threads, their laughter filling the air like the chime of bells.

Children played freely in the open fields, their shrill giggles echoing across the hills.

Even the elderly contributed to the peace, sitting on shaded porches and telling stories to the younger generation.

Life in the village was not always easy, but it was rich in love and cooperation.

Neighbors shared what they had, never hesitating to lend a hand or offer comfort when someone was in need.

Festivals were frequent, with tables piled high with freshly baked bread, roasted meat, and fruits harvested from the orchards.

Bonfires burned bright, and the villagers danced beneath the starlit sky, their faces glowing with joy.

Then one summer afternoon, a group of foreigners arrived. They came from far away, their clothes strange and their language unfamiliar.

At first, the villagers were wary, but their kindness soon took over. They offered the strangers shelter in one of the unused homes near the village square.

The foreigners, in turn, brought gifts, brightly colored fabrics, boxes filled with tools, and strange glass bottles filled with fragrant oils.

Over time, the strangers learned the language of the village, and friendships blossomed. The foreigners were gentle and respectful, never imposing on the villagers’ way of life.

In fact, they became an invaluable part of the community. The villagers soon discovered that one of the foreigners possessed remarkable healing abilities.

Whenever a child fell ill, whether from fever, cough, or mysterious rashes, the healer would step in.

With calm hands and soothing words, he would brew herbal concoctions that seemed to pull the sickness away like a gust of wind.

The children would smile again, their strength returning almost immediately.

The healer never charged for his services, accepting only small tokens of gratitude, a woven basket, a carved wooden trinket, or fresh produce from the villagers’ farms.

“He’s a gift from the heavens,” the elders often said, bowing their heads in thanks.

The healer’s companions weren’t idle either. One of them, a tall man with sun-darkened skin, helped repair damaged roofs and broken fences.

Another taught the village women how to improve their weaving techniques, blending old methods with new patterns.

The last of the group, a quiet woman with warm eyes, spent her days with the children, teaching them songs and games from her homeland.

It seemed as though fate had sent these strangers to bless the village. For months, life flourished.

The crops were bountiful, and the river that snaked through the village remained clear and full.

Children who had once suffered from seasonal fevers now played happily in the fields, their laughter louder and brighter than ever before.

The villagers welcomed their guests into their festivals and family gatherings.

They sang together beneath the moonlight, shared stories over steaming bowls of stew, and exchanged gifts during the winter season.

It was as if the foreigners had always been part of their lives. Yet one thing stood out, the healer only treated the children.

Whenever an adult grew sick, the foreigners would politely step back, offering gentle condolences but never their medicine.

The villagers didn’t mind. After all, adults knew how to care for themselves, and children were more vulnerable.

It seemed fair, even generous, that the healer dedicated his skills to saving the youngest lives. Still, some of the elders wondered quietly among themselves.

“Why only the children?” one had whispered.

“Perhaps it’s a sacred rule of their people,” another suggested.

“Or maybe children are easier to heal,” the village chief concluded, brushing the concern away. “Let’s be grateful for what they’ve done for us.”

The question lingered in the air like the faint scent of rain, but no one dared press the foreigners about it.

They had brought so much kindness, and the village saw no reason to doubt their intentions. Seasons passed, and the bond between the villagers and the foreigners deepened.

The healer’s hut became a place of comfort, where frightened mothers carried their feverish children and left with smiles of relief.

The man who repaired homes had taught his methods to the local craftsmen, improving the strength of their wooden beams and walls.

The quiet woman’s songs had become part of the children’s daily games, their sweet voices echoing along the riverbanks.

The village thrived, its people happier and healthier than ever before.

Fields stretched green and full beneath the summer sky, while winter brought feasts and laughter around warm fires. The foreigners were no longer strangers, they were family.

But something else had changed as well, something quiet, subtle, and easily missed by those who weren’t watching closely. The children who had been healed seemed… different.

They were still bright and playful, but sometimes their eyes lingered too long in the shadows.

At night, their laughter seemed to echo a little too loudly, their footsteps too soft to match their weight.

When they played along the edge of the forest, they no longer seemed afraid, as if the twisted trees and cold wind no longer bothered them.

But no one spoke of it. After all, the children were healthy, stronger than before. Whatever change had come over them, it was surely nothing to fear.

The village remained peaceful, basking in its newfound prosperity. Flowers bloomed along the cobbled paths, and the scent of freshly baked bread drifted through the air.

The mountain winds carried the sound of villagers singing as they worked.

Yet beneath this serene facade, something unseen stirred, something dark and restless, waiting just beyond the trees.