Ma Huimin had very few relatives on her own side of the family; her husband’s side had a few sisters-in-law. But because of Ma Huimin’s infertility and her adoption of Zhou Ya, her relationship with her husband’s family had been poor for many years, and after Zhou Ya’s father passed away, she’d cut off contact with them entirely.
No need to visit relatives all over for New Year’s greetings—Ma Huimin was happy to enjoy the quiet, and so was Zhou Ya.
But every New Year’s Day, there was one place Zhou Ya always had to go.
This day he got up early, before the sky had even fully brightened. He turned on the kitchen’s overhead light, and everything turned a stark white, matching the flour in the mixing basin.
Zhou Ya took the carrot paste he’d prepared the night before out of the fridge and added it little by little into the flour, slowly kneading the two colors together.
The morning air was cold and damp, but he still wore only a tank top on top. Left hand holding the basin, right hand grabbing at the dough—grab, press, grab, press—as his arm exerted force, veins bulged faintly beneath his skin.
He repeated the motion until the dough took shape, its color like a summer loquat.
While the dough was rising, he took out the red bean paste filling he’d also prepared in advance, dividing it into portions. He needed no scale—a pinch between his fingers told him if the amount was right.
Worried about waking his mother and Fang Long, he’d already kept his movements as light as possible, but just as he was about to start adding the bean paste into the dough, he still heard the sound of a bedroom door opening.
Zhou Ya paused, listening to the familiar shuffle of slippers growing closer.
“Starting so early?” Fang Long walked to the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame.
“Wake you up?”
“Not really, drank too much water before bed…” Fang Long yawned, her voice equally lazy. “What are you making?”
“Red bean buns.”
Zhou Ya spread his hand open toward her—in the center of his palm sat a small ball of dough, a tender orange color, but against his wheat-colored palm, it looked strikingly white.
Fang Long blinked. “Red bean buns? Why is it yellow?”
Zhou Ya didn’t answer, cupping the dough loosely, using his other thumb to press gently into the center, quickly forming a small indentation.
He pushed the rolled ball of bean paste into the indentation, and with a squeeze of his palm, the dough sealed shut.
Everything around them was quiet, no one spoke. Fang Long watched silently as the little dough ball quickly turned round and smooth in Zhou Ya’s hands.
Her throat began to itch without her noticing; she scratched at her neck, watching Zhou Ya pick up a large handful of toothpicks from beside the cutting board, holding them loosely, tips pointed at the dough, lightly scoring shallow lines onto its surface.
Fang Long suddenly exclaimed, “Is it an ‘orange’?”
Zhou Ya glanced up at her and nodded. “Mm.”
He set down the toothpicks and picked up chopsticks, pressing a slightly deeper hole into the dough with the tip, then took another toothpick and carved out the pattern of an “orange stem.”
In the blink of an eye, an “orange” had come vividly to life, missing only its leaf.
Just as Fang Long was about to ask, Zhou Ya answered before she could. “I’ll add the leaf on top once it’s steamed.”
Zhou Ya shifted slightly to the side; in the vegetable-washing basket on the counter sat clean, bright green leaves.
He picked up a leaf with its stem, held it up against the dough to gauge it, and said, “Picked a bunch secretly downstairs last night.”
The kitchen window wasn’t large, and outside it was still dark. The energy-saving bulb in the ceiling light, newly replaced before the New Year, was bright, so Fang Long could clearly see the orange-shaped dough, the flour particles drifting in the air, and the smile that unconsciously appeared at the corner of Zhou Ya’s mouth.
Fang Long’s breath quickened slightly, her heartbeat pounding deafeningly.
“…Picked that many, the trees downstairs must be nearly bald from you!” Fang Long quickly turned to leave. “Right, I need to use the bathroom, the bathroom—”
Zhou Ya laughed softly and continued filling dough balls with bean paste.
After using the bathroom, Fang Long washed her hands; the icy tap water made her shiver, chasing away much of her drowsiness.
She’d meant to head straight back to her room, but her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, carrying her back toward the kitchen.
Hearing the sound, Zhou Ya didn’t even turn his head. “Go back to sleep.”
Fang Long still stood in the kitchen doorway. “How many red bean buns do you need to make?”
“Forty or fifty, probably.”
Zhou Ya’s movements were quick; before long, a row of dough balls sat lined up on the cutting board, just not yet patterned.
He said, “These buns aren’t very big, the kids can finish one in a bite. It’s really just a symbolic gesture for the holiday.”
Fang Long, hands behind her back, took a couple steps forward. “You really do care about those kids.”
Zhou Ya glanced sideways at her—the words “I care about one particular kid the most” nearly made it to his mouth, but he forced them back down his throat.
He had to keep playing mute.
Zhou Ya didn’t respond, continuing to knead dough. Fang Long stood watching beside him, and after a while, offered, “Let me help with the next steps? That way you can finish faster, right?”
Zhou Ya raised an eyebrow. “You think you can?”
“It’s just poking with toothpicks, isn’t it? How hard can it be… don’t underestimate me.” Fang Long rolled up the long sleeves of her pajamas. “I want to do something for the kids too, even if it’s just a small gesture of mine.”
Fang Long knew Zhou Ya’s schedule for today—every New Year he made a trip back to the welfare institute.
A while back, Zhou Ya had already bought the kids plenty of gifts; compared to that dazzling array of stationery, toys, and daily necessities, these steamer-bound buns might not be worth much, but they carried Zhou Ya’s genuine care.
Fang Long seriously shaped each dough ball into an “orange,” then arranged them in the steamer. With a helper, Zhou Ya’s pace picked up considerably, and before long, the first batch of buns was steaming.
The two of them rarely spoke, working in silent understanding at their own tasks—no words needed at this moment.
Outside, the sky gradually turned pale; the overhead light was no longer the only source of light, and their shadows shifted subtly along with the morning glow, in position and faintness.
Without either noticing, his shadow had come to cover her body.
Placing the last bun into the pot, Fang Long raised both arms and stretched. “Mission accomplished!”
Zhou Ya moved the steamer tray onto the pot, covered it, and turned on the flame. “Alright, go get some sleep.”
“I’m not even tired…” Fang Long had barely finished the sentence before yawning.
Yawns were contagious; Zhou Ya yawned too.
He glanced at Fang Long, paused, then pointed at his own face and said to her, “On your face.”
Fang Long didn’t understand. “Huh?”
“Something’s stuck on it.”
“Where?”
Fang Long raised her hand to touch her face but couldn’t locate the spot. Zhou Ya, unable to help himself in the moment, reached over with a bent finger and wiped the flour paste off her cheek.
Zhou Ya withdrew his hand. “There, done.”
Fang Long scratched at the spot that had just been touched. “Oh… what time are you heading out later?”
“Eight-thirty.”
Fang Long said “Oh” again.
Their gazes met, then broke apart. Fang Long’s lips felt a little dry; she licked them. “Then I’ll go—”
Zhou Ya spoke almost simultaneously with her. “Do you have any plans today?”
Their eyes met again, and this time neither looked away.
Fang Long shook her head. “No, I was planning to just stay home.”
Zhou Ya braced one hand on the stove, the other on his hip, and asked in a low voice, “Then do you want to come with me to the welfare institute?”
The morning light gave shape to the misty steam swirling in the kitchen, wrapping around the man lightly and warmly, softening him.
It also turned the stones piled in Fang Long’s chest into soft dough that could be kneaded freely, into light balloons that could float up into the sky.
She should have refused, but her lips parted and, as if possessed, she blurted out, “Okay.”