The Boy Who Proposed with a Roast Chicken

The day Little Green left, the weather was beautiful.

At first, I wasn’t worried. I had grown used to his temperament — he loved disappearing without a word. He would always say he was “going out to gather herbs,” and within a few days, he’d return as if nothing had happened.

But this time, he didn’t.

At first, I survived on the food he’d left behind. After a week, I had licked the bottom of every pot and pan until they gleamed. Desperation breeds talent — that’s how I learned the fine art of stealing chickens and sneaking food.

One day, while digging sweet potatoes in the fields, I accidentally burned down Little Green’s cottage. In a panic, I dashed inside and managed to rescue a few items — among them, a painting.

The woman in the portrait looked… familiar. When I compared her reflection to mine in the water, I realized we looked exactly the same.

Ah, so it had come to this after all. I had feared it, and now it was true. To Little Green, I was nothing more than that wooden woman from the story — carved and painted into the likeness of someone he loved. A substitute. A stand-in for a ghost.

A bitterness rose inside me. Back then, I didn’t even know the word for it — jealousy. I only thought the hunger was gnawing at my chest too deeply, until even my heart began to ache.

Still, I remembered how kindly he had treated me — feeding me, clothing me — so I swallowed the urge to tear the painting apart. Instead, I dug a small pit in the earth and buried it there.

My search for food eventually took me beyond the mountain, down into the human villages below.

In five hundred years of life, I’d met very few humans. I knew only this: Heaven was divided into yin and yang, and the mortal world into man and woman. My impression of them came entirely from love stories and romances — where every man and woman, once full, had nothing better to do than fall in love. None of them seemed to have any higher pursuits.

And in those stories, “love at first sight” appeared to be the most common disease of all.

In my private opinion, love at first sight is always love for a face — and the prettier the face, the more hearts it ensnares. Admittedly, the face I now wore seemed to inspire quite a few infatuations.

As I walked down the mountain, villagers of every sort greeted me warmly. Before I even opened my mouth, they filled my basket with food, fruit, and sweets.

The men were overly enthusiastic; the women, much less so. In fact, the wives promptly dragged their husbands home by the ear for a good scolding. After that, every male villager who saw me looked as if he’d seen a demon — eyes down, steps quick, hearts trembling.

I dug myself a small den in the hillside near the village. Each day, I foraged for food and returned by nightfall. It was a quiet, peaceful life.

Until one morning, when I met a little boy — delicate and pretty, carved from jade like a doll.

He looked ordinary enough in dress, but his face was strikingly handsome for his age. The child lingered near my den for several days, timidly leaving a basket of fruit at the entrance before scampering away. I assumed some kind relative had sent him to deliver food, so I didn’t question it and gratefully accepted his offerings.

One morning, just after dawn, I caught him.

“Little one,” I asked, amused, “what are you up to, sneaking around here every day?”

His face flushed crimson. He stammered, “In our Western Han kingdom, when a man has feelings for a woman, he must present gifts at her door for seven days. If the woman accepts, it means she agrees to marry him. So… will you marry me?”

He set down his basket and nudged it toward me, looking both terrified and determined.

For a moment, I nearly fainted. Heaven help me — the folk of Western Han truly had a bold culture. Even children barely tall enough to reach my waist were already planning marriages!

Seeing me speechless, the boy grew anxious. His voice trembled but his tone was solemn: “My mother says every man must marry a wife when he grows up. But I don’t want to marry Little Jade from next door. Everyone says you’re prettier, and that beautiful women have beautiful children. So please… be my wife?”

Before I could react, he darted forward and wrapped his arms around my leg. I was too taken aback — and perhaps a little guilty about all the food I’d accepted — to pry him off.

But alas, I had already promised myself to Little Green. I could not, in good conscience, serve two masters — or two husbands.

After thinking for a moment, I gently patted his head. “You don’t need to worry about such things,” I said kindly. “You’re still far too young.”

He pouted, eyes wide with stubborn righteousness. “Mother says, if I don’t worry today, I’ll be single tomorrow!”

I nearly choked on my own saliva. What kind of mother teaches philosophy like that?

Trying to maintain my composure, I said with my best saintly smile, “Not every boy has to marry a wife.”

The boy gasped and shook his head. “But I don’t want to be a monk!”

I flicked his forehead. “No one said you had to. I just mean—well—why must a boy marry a wife? Marrying a husband works too! People say yin and yang must balance, but two yangs can build a fine home too. Think of your parents — don’t they argue and fight every few days? Isn’t your father happier when he’s out with his male friends?”

The boy blinked, then nodded with sudden understanding.

Encouraged, I explained earnestly that men could love men just as well as women — sometimes even better. After all, people of opposite sexes married to continue the species, but same-sex love, that was pure affection! True, untainted love!

He went quiet for a long moment. “So… it’s really okay for a boy to like another boy?”

I smiled like a proud mother fox. “Of course it is.”

After that day, I never saw another basket of fruit.

A pity, really — free lunch is hard to come by. But I took comfort in knowing I had “guided a child onto the right path.” A noble deed, surely.

I soon forgot the whole incident.

Until one morning, the same boy returned — no longer pink and fresh but bruised and battered, limping toward me. Alarmed, I rushed to meet him.

He threw himself into my arms and burst into tears, nose running, voice breaking. Between sobs, he told me that he had gone home and repeated everything I had said — word for word — to his mother. Then he’d proudly declared that he would never marry a girl, and that he wished to spend his life with the boy next door, Little Gang.

The result? A beating so fierce that several broomsticks died in the process. His tiny backside was now swollen unevenly, and he couldn’t sit at all.

Even as he sniffled, he clenched his little fists, defiant. “But I’ll stay true to my heart,” he said. “You accepted my gifts — that means you have to marry me!”

I was speechless.

He shook my arm with all his might, chanting like a mantra, “You can’t go back on your word! You can’t go back on your word!”

Dizzy and exasperated, I finally sighed, “...A few fruits aren’t enough. At least bring me a roast chicken.”

His eyes lit up like twin stars. He promised to return, triumphant, with the finest roast chicken he could find.

And indeed, on the appointed day, he arrived — clutching a golden, steaming chicken, its scent filling the air. “If you eat my chicken,” he declared solemnly, “then you must marry me.”

My gaze locked helplessly on the bird. My stomach growled. I swallowed hard, nodded weakly, and took a bite.

Just then, the mountain behind us erupted in flames. A rush of heat swept down the slope — my home was burning.

I dropped the chicken and ran, heart pounding. Behind me, the little boy called after me, his voice faint but clear:

“Don’t forget me, Sister! My name is Zhao Xiao!”