Shen Mo was speechless for a long moment.

No wonder his uncle had said there’d been no sound at all — at this rate, they might not produce a single dish even by nightfall.

He finished drying his hands, tossed the paper towel into the trash can, and asked Shen Mo’s father, “What are you making now?”

“Fresh shrimp dumplings.” Shen Mo’s father laid out the dumpling wrappers he’d rolled in front of him, with a certain measure of pride. “Who would’ve thought — I seem to have some talent for working with dough. Look at the thickness of these wrappers — isn’t it remarkably even?”

Shen Mo didn’t respond. He quietly picked up a wrapper, scooped a small spoonful of filling and placed it inside, folded the two sides of the wrapper together, pinched it shut, and then asked, “How many have you wrapped so far?”

“Two,” Shen Mo’s father said.

“…” Shen Mo’s hands faltered — he pressed too hard, and filling leaked out of the wrapper.

Shen Mo felt that this wasn’t so much preparing dinner for them as it was self-indulgent reverie.

It was like before — his father would taste a variety of tea and end up researching the entire life cycle of the tea plant; he’d read a poem and travel to the place where the poet had grown up. In short, the experience always mattered more than the outcome. So right now, he was probably experiencing life in the kitchen.

Shen Mo’s father carefully cradled his two finished dumplings in his palm and held them out for them to see.

Bai Youwei appeared to be possessed by something. She clutched her chest and gasped, “My goodness… they’re exquisite! The size, the shape — absolutely identical, and even the pleats are so beautifully done! Uncle, is this truly your first time wrapping dumplings? They’re so lovely — I almost can’t bear to eat them!”

Shen Mo’s father smiled and set the dumplings down. “I’m still a bit slow. No matter how beautiful they are, if there’s nothing to eat, it’s all for nothing.”

At least he had some self-awareness.

Shen Mo wrapped dumplings quietly, his pace extraordinarily fast. He’d take a wrapper, add filling, fold it with one hand, and pinch the edges shut with the other — one dumpling done.

They naturally couldn’t compare in appearance to Shen Mo’s father’s two “painstakingly crafted” pieces, but they more than made up for it in efficiency.

“I’ll go roll some more wrappers — you two start wrapping.” Shen Mo’s father gave up his spot to the two of them and turned to get more dough.

Shen Mo and Bai Youwei sat down together to wrap dumplings.

Most of them were wrapped by Shen Mo.

At first, Bai Youwei’s dumplings were reasonably presentable. But gradually she became more imaginative — sometimes adding a pair of ears, sometimes pinching out a little tail. By the end, it was impossible to tell whether what she’d made were dumplings, steamed buns, or something else entirely.

Shen Mo dabbed a bit of flour on the tip of her nose, teasing, “Didn’t get enough of playing in the mud when you were little?”

“Not just ‘not enough’ — I never got to play in the mud at all, okay?” Bai Youwei pinched four small feet onto the dumpling in her hands and said with great seriousness, “I want mine to look distinctive — that way when you’re eating them, you’ll be able to tell which dumplings I made.”

Shen Mo laughed. “It would be impossible not to.”

Bai Youwei asked curiously, “You wrap them so fast — did you learn at some point?”

“Never specifically learned.” Shen Mo kept wrapping as he spoke. “Back in the military, there would be various celebrations at the holidays, and they’d organize everyone to wrap dumplings together — it was an activity to build team camaraderie.”

He paused a moment, then said quietly, “Come to think of it, I grew up by my grandfather’s side. This is the first time… I’ve seen my dad prepare dinner.”

“My dad did know how to cook — I remember his skills being pretty good, better than the housekeeper’s.” Bai Youwei said, casting her mind back. “But after I became lame, he seemed to stop making meals for me. During that period he and my mom fought every day — they’d fight, and then he moved out and never came back.”

Shen Mo stopped and looked at her face, asking softly, “Do you miss them?”

Bai Youwei shook her head. “I did for the first few years. Now it’s faded…”

Shen Mo gently patted her head.

Bai Youwei laughed and swatted his hand away. “Hey — now there’s flour in my hair!”

“That was there from when you were wrapping dumplings,” Shen Mo said.

“You won’t even admit it!” Bai Youwei retaliated by dusting flour onto him.

The two of them broke into a playful tussle in the kitchen.

Just as they were at it, a commotion erupted from outside.

Someone suddenly bellowed, “BAI YOUWEI!!!”

—