Unsurprisingly.
The result of only eating half a meal’s worth was that I woke up starving in the middle of the night.
My stomach ached, acid rising.
I rubbed at my belly with my hand, curling up on my side.
Based on past experience, it would pass if I could just get through this stretch.
I started letting my mind wander, distracting myself.
Today was Saturday, tomorrow Sunday.
National Day break was seven days off; school wouldn’t start again until the Monday after next.
But I didn’t want to go to school. I was afraid of those people, and even more unsure how to face Teacher Li.
The quilt beneath me was soft and comfortable.
I reached out to smooth the wrinkles on its surface, and took a light sniff.
There was no stench of smoke or alcohol on it, no damp mustiness either—it smelled like sunshine.
I couldn’t help the corners of my mouth curling up.
Today, Aunt Zhou had hugged me. She said the moment she first saw me, she liked me right away, thought I was adorable in every way.
She said this morning wasn’t intentional—she was just timid, afraid of ghosts.
She also told me that she and the Zhou family shared some kind of fate with me—that she’d always wanted a daughter, and had planned to name her Zhou Heqing, one son and one daughter, meaning for the rivers to run clear and the seas to lie calm, all things at peace and flourishing.
She just never had that fortune.
When she said this, there was a quiet sorrow in her voice.
I didn’t dare press further, because that would only be salt in an old wound.
In this world, everyone carries their own hidden shadows and their own brightness.
I don’t know if it was heaven taking pity on me, finally willing to spare me a little sympathy.
If it was, then I wanted to beg it—could it spare me just a bit more?
Just a little would be enough.
Let me stay here a few more days.
Let it be, just this once, a brief and beautiful dream.
I turned over again in bed, the wooden bed frame creaking.
This little building had some age to it.
My stomach hurt too much for me to sleep, so I finally just turned on the small lamp by the bed and pulled out my math test paper.
A few minutes after I started writing, there were three light knocks on the door.
I opened it.
The man was leaning against the doorframe.
“Still not asleep?”
“I—I’m about to sleep.”
His gaze was direct, unwavering.
His sharply defined features were half-lit, half-shadowed in the light.
Under that gaze, I felt as if I’d been seen through completely.
He said,
“I’ve never raised a kid before, Zhou Haiyan or not, but I’m not stupid enough to starve someone to death.”
My face flushed instantly, burning hot.
The careful concealment I’d worked so hard to maintain had been torn open in an instant, exposing the most humiliating part of me.
I clutched at the hem of my clothes tightly, not knowing how to cover for myself.
I’d never been caught out like this before.
I didn’t even realize my lips were trembling.
I was afraid—afraid they’d think I was fake, think I wasn’t likable because of it.
I slowly lowered my eyes.
It felt like there was nothing I could hold on to.
A large hand tilted my chin up, and I looked up at him, tears sliding one after another down the corners of my eyes, leaving damp trails.
His dry fingertip brushed across the tear tracks; the man sighed softly.
“Crying again?
“I sat downstairs waiting for you for so long. A normal kid would’ve come down looking for food ages ago. You actually managed to hold out.
“You’re nothing like your father—he’s the type who’s terrified of putting anyone else out, and you’re the type who’s terrified of putting anyone out at all.
“Besides, I already took the protection money—what are you still worried about?”
I sniffled and looked up at him.
But he clearly hadn’t taken it yesterday.
As if to prove it to me, he pulled that same crumpled ten-yuan bill from his pocket and spread it flat in his palm.
Once I’d gotten a good look, he tucked it back into his pocket.
He took my hand and led me step by step downstairs, stopping in the kitchen.
The light was on.
The rib soup in the pressure cooker was still keeping warm.
He said, “My mom left it for you.”
That was when I realized just how poor my acting had truly been.
And yet, for ten years straight, my parents had never once seen through me.
Later I understood—some people look with their eyes, and some look with their hearts.
“My cooking’s limited—rib soup noodles work for you?”
I nodded like a chicken pecking at rice.
He told me to sit and wait.
Since the range hood wasn’t on, white steam filled the kitchen; he reached over and pushed the window open a crack.
The noodles came together quickly.
The bowl of soup he served was huge—clearly too much to finish.
“Can you finish it?”
I said I could.
He asked again,
“Too much, or too little?”
I said it was just right.
The next second, I got a flick to the forehead.
It didn’t hurt, but it was loud.
He narrowed his eyes and asked again, “Too much, or too little?”
Rubbing my forehead, I honestly confessed, “Too much.”
Only then did his expression ease. He moved the bowl of soup away from me and replaced it with a smaller, medium-sized pink handled bowl.
“From now on, if it’s not enough, say so. If you can’t finish it, say so too. Eating too much or too little, either way isn’t good for your stomach.”
I nodded.
The bright noodles were piled with ribs and corn.
I ate small bites.
He sat across from me, eating the larger bowl in big mouthfuls.
He asked, “Good?”
I said, “Good.”
He smiled. “You’re pretty easy to look after.”
The quiet kitchen was filled with the fragrance of food, the night breeze drifting in through the window, filling both stomach and heart, inch by inch.