Maybe it was because I’d never slept so soundly before—the next day, for once, I slept until past seven.

The moment I saw the wall clock, my blood ran cold.

After my mother left, it was just me and my father at home.

No matter the season, I was forced to wake at five every morning to finish the housework before school. If I ever slept a little longer, what woke me instead would be fists and curses.

I scrambled into my clothes and rushed downstairs.

Only once I reached the living room did it register—this wasn’t my house.

The tension in my body eased.

The front door downstairs was open; someone was already up, but everything around was quiet.

Thinking back to when I’d left my room, the door to the auntie’s room on the left had been shut, the doormat pressed right up against the gap—she probably wasn’t up yet. But across the hall, Zhou Haiyan’s door had been left wide open.

So it must have been him who was up.

After washing up, I remembered that the dishes from last night probably hadn’t been washed yet.

I walked into the kitchen, but the sink was completely empty, dry without a single drop of water. The dishes were neatly sorted and put away in the cabinet, even the dish towel on the counter folded perfectly.

I went out to the balcony to check for dirty laundry I could wash, only to look up and find the whole family’s clothes—mine included—already hung out to dry.

Refusing to believe it, I grabbed the mop by the door, only to find the floor gleaming, cleaner than my own face.

In this entire household, there seemed to be no place left for “me” to be useful.

Me: “…”

Were street thugs really this diligent and tidy?

“Up this early to play the snail fairy?”

A familiar voice suddenly sounded behind me.

I jumped, letting go of the mop, which toppled sideways to the floor.

Zhou Haiyan walked in from outside, dressed in workout clothes.

He set the breakfast he’d bought down on the table—steamed buns, mantou, soy milk, fried dough sticks, all of it.

“Eat whatever you like.”

Then he walked closer, put the mop I’d dropped back in its place.

And pressed me down into a chair at the table.

From among the various breakfast items, he pulled out a bag that looked oddly out of place—thumb-sized, rainbow-colored little steamed buns.

Casually, he said, “These won’t fill you up much, just eat them for fun. I’ve noticed kids like these.”

The rainbow mini-buns—two yuan for ten.

Parents loved using them to bribe children into behaving.

I’d wanted them so badly as a child, but my mother thought they were a waste of money—even though we passed the stall every day on the way to work and school, she never once bought me any.

By the time I could afford them myself, I’d outgrown the age for wanting them, and it no longer seemed worth it.

That childhood longing was suddenly right in front of me. I reached out and picked up a pink one.

Took a bite.

It tasted exactly the way I’d imagined—faintly sweet.

I tilted my head up to look at him, my eyes curving into a smile.

“Thank you.”

He blinked, startled for a moment, then the corner of his mouth curved up.

I picked up the cutest one, a purple bun, and held it out to him.

“It’s really good, you should have one too.”

He scoffed. “I’m not a kid.”

“Does not being a kid mean you can’t eat rainbow mini-buns?

“I’m not a kid either, you know.”

He said, “Small body, big attitude.”

Then, taking it right from my hand, he swallowed it in one bite.

Not even enough to fill the gap between his teeth.

After breakfast, I had nothing to do.

Zhou Haiyan changed clothes and buried himself in his studio to draw sketches.

He told me to go watch TV; I shook my head, uninterested.

He told me to go do homework; I waved a hand, not really in the mood.

He said, then go mop the floor.

I said, that could work.

He said I was probably running a fever and had gone soft in the head.

“If you can’t sit still, come work alongside me.”

Then he handed me a drawing board and pen, had me sit next to him, and we sketched together.

The moment he picked up his pen, he seemed like a completely different person.

Absorbed and focused—even an amateur like me could tell his skill was excellent.

I, on the other hand, was probably born with no artistic talent whatsoever.

After drawing for ages, all I had were three stick figures, one of them missing an arm and a leg.

He said nothing, just looked at my drawing and laughed until tears came to his eyes.

From that day on, I resigned myself: no more drawing for me.

So the next day, I obediently sat next to him and did homework instead.

The three of us—me, Auntie Zhou, and Zhou Haiyan—kept schedules that overlapped but never quite aligned.

I went to bed early and woke early. Auntie Zhou went to bed early and woke late. Zhou Haiyan went to bed late and woke early.

Auntie Zhou suffered from severe insomnia, so she took sleeping pills every night before bed, usually waking around nine in the morning, then heading to the market to buy groceries and cook when she got home.

For the rest of her time, she liked reading—everything from One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera to Les Misérables and To Live. She’d flip through nearly every book there was. Occasionally she’d watch spy dramas, though she only ever rotated through the same few. She was deeply empathetic, often getting completely absorbed, silently shedding tears.

When she tired of reading, she’d sit by the door and stare blankly at that osmanthus tree. At nine every night, she returned to her room right on schedule to rest.

Zhou Haiyan was a tattoo artist, and his hours were flexible—the right half of the ground floor was his workspace. He got up at six sharp every morning, took care of all the household chores, then went out to exercise, coming back around seven-thirty with breakfast in hand. He spent the rest of the morning either sketching nonstop or organizing his reference material.

From the afternoon into the small hours, clients would come by for tattoos. His skill must have been quite good—even burly, tough-looking men who howled through the whole session like they were being slaughtered would still give him a thumbs-up on their way out, saying they’d come back to him next time.

Of course, on days he worked late into the night, he’d sleep in a bit more the following day.

In this household, I was pretty much idle—they told me kids didn’t need to do chores, my only job was to be bored.

I didn’t like electronics, so I either did homework, sat with Auntie Zhou by the door zoning out, or helped Zhou Haiyan organize his workstation.

I had a good memory—once I watched him put his tools away, I could remember exactly where and in what order they went.

If I had to name any entertainment, it was probably appreciating Zhou Haiyan’s hands.

His hands were good-looking—broad across the back but long and slender in shape, with well-defined knuckles. Especially while working, wearing black nitrile gloves, there was something naturally magnetic about them.

Every meal, he’d ask whether I’d had too much or too little.

At first, it was hard for me to tell the truth—I’d lie out of habit—but what I couldn’t believe was that he could always see through it, every single time, without fail, and then flick me on the forehead as punishment.

Bit by bit, he chipped away at my defenses that way.

He said all the “lessons” my parents had taught me were nonsense—anyone who listened to that kind of thing would end up an idiot going hungry at night, unable to sleep, and stunted in growth.

Once I stopped being an idiot about it, I discovered how good it felt to actually be full—even my sleep improved considerably.

During that time, I took the chance to go home during the day and grab my piggy bank.

My father, as expected, wasn’t home.

The neighbors said he’d had a real streak of luck lately, winning quite a bit of money, and hadn’t been seen around much.

Oh, well, I hoped he kept winning forever, so he’d never remember he still had a daughter to take his anger out on.