Yan Lie’s intentions were far, far too obvious. Fang Zhuo set her phone face-down on the desk, thinking to herself that this person must have forgotten his own age.

She picked up the notes on the table and flipped through a couple of pages, then realized with a start.

No — he remembered perfectly well that he was not yet twenty years old. That was precisely why he could only sit here dropping increasingly frantic hints.

She had to give him credit for the self-restraint.

She thought it over, then picked up her phone and typed a reply.

Little Sun: Don’t believe rumors. Don’t spread rumors.

You Bear a Fierce Name: [Hmph]

As April approached, the weather turned mercurial again. Time slipped away, unnoticed, in the frequent alternation of cold and warmth.

The stall location was drawing too many visitors who had come specifically to seek them out, and the pushing and jostling scared Xiao Mu, who refused to go out.

Liu Qiaohong swiftly helped them complete all the necessary paperwork and assisted the two of them in moving into the shopping center to begin operating.

When Ye Yuncheng called Fang Zhuo for a chat, there was still disbelief woven into his voice — a floating, effervescent quality, with occasional silences followed by a deeply layered sigh.

For him, having a small business with a roof over it was already lucky. Making it into a shopping center was something approaching a miracle.

He had not experienced many miracles in his life, and he carried a vague, bashful sense of shame, as though all of this might simply be a daydream.

Xiao Mu, on the other hand, was purely, simply overjoyed. He could finally hole up in the back area by himself and concentrate on his work without having to manage customers. And the shop right next door was a small supermarket with every kind of popsicle imaginable — practically paradise for him.

Ye Yuncheng also mentioned that he had recently developed a new obsession: the milk tea at the shop across the way. Unfortunately the prices were steep, so Xiao Mu could not bring himself to spend the money. He would stand there clutching his cash and wrestle with the decision for two or three days before finally daring to buy a single cup.

So lately Ye Yuncheng had been trying to convince Xiao Mu to let him learn how to make milk tea — in the hope of achieving total self-sufficiency.

Fang Zhuo had not yet visited in person. Taking advantage of a weekend with no classes, she caught an early bus and made her way over.

The shopping center had only been open a short while, but it had invested enough upfront in promotion, so while it could not quite be called bustling, it was far from deserted either.

It occupied a sizable footprint with a distinctive, eye-catching exterior — and the sort of style that made it easy to get lost inside.

Fang Zhuo entered through the nearest side gate to her stop, wandered the current path for two full loops, and finally located Ye Yuncheng’s shop by following her maps.

The move had happened so quickly there had been no time for a proper renovation. The walls were freshly painted white, with the most generic dark flooring underfoot.

From a distance, Fang Zhuo scanned the front and confirmed she could see nothing resembling a proper signboard — only a white piece of paper with the menu prices written in marker, stuck up rather crudely on a small chalkboard near the entrance.

Of course Ye Yuncheng had no savings to spare for a renovation, and his shop needed no lavish decoration.

Customers who had come to show their support were plentiful. Even before the lunch rush, a queue had already formed. Compared to the neighboring businesses, the word thriving would not be an exaggeration.

Fang Zhuo threaded through the crowd and moved closer for a full look, feeling that this modest little shop had a kind of lived-in warmth that stood at odds with the rest of the polished shopping center.

This was because Ye Yuncheng had brought along his old pushcart. Between that and a new shelving unit he had purchased to fill the gaps, the space was divided — just barely — into a front counter area and a work area. The mismatched arrangement had an unpolished, casual, almost careless charm.

Ye Yuncheng at this moment was frantically busy. One moment taking payment, the next sorting through orders, and the next washing vegetables or filling drink cups. Fang Zhuo stood in front of him with her bag on her back for a full two minutes and he did not even notice her.

She glanced across at the price list on the counter.

Most of the items had gone up in price — reasonable enough, since even with no rent to pay, they could not undercut the profit margins of the surrounding shops too aggressively. A new item had also been added, which appeared to be the current bestseller.

— Green bean soup. Four yuan for a large cup. Generous portions guaranteed.

Fang Zhuo felt a familiar warmth, like that of a good school canteen — though the pricing was even more generous than a canteen.

She tapped her fingers lightly on the white counter and said, “One bowl of green bean soup.”

“Of course,” Ye Yuncheng said. “Could you please join the queue? We take orders from there.”

He said it, then paused, straightened up, and looked at the person in front of him. His eyes crinkled into a smile.

“Zhuozhuo!”

Fang Zhuo set down her bag strap and said, “I’m here to help.”

Ye Yuncheng hurried her along: “Go wash your hands first. Uncle will ladle you a bowl of soup.”

Fang Zhuo went to the small sink, washed her hands, wolfed down the soup, tied on a face mask, and helped them take payment.

At half past one in the afternoon, Ye Yuncheng hung up a sign indicating a rest break, with operations resuming in two hours.

He stood at the doorway, quietly apologizing and gently steering away the slightly reluctant customers, handing each of them a one-yuan discount voucher.

Xiao Mu could finally rest. Following in the wake of the departing crowd, he slipped away in a flash toward the neighboring supermarket.

Fang Zhuo watched and without mercy reported it at once: “He must be going to buy popsicles again. How many popsicles can he eat in a day? This isn’t okay.”

“He’s not.” Ye Yuncheng pulled a dish towel from nearby and walked to the sink to wash up. “He’s going to buy groceries. Xiao Mu has been really proactive about that lately.”

Fang Zhuo was unconvinced. She stretched out her stiff shoulders and said, “There are so many customers.”

“Quite a few internet personalities have come by to post about us, and the videos they’ve shared have been bringing in more traffic.” Ye Yuncheng was efficiently tidying the counter while stealing a glance at the time. “We’ve hired a helper — she should be arriving soon.”

The words had barely left his mouth when a middle-aged woman appeared in the shop doorway, lugging a large woven sack.

She was slight and lean, wearing a floral dress a size too large. Her skin was dark, and along one arm, exposed below her sleeve, ran a deeply uneven scar — as she moved, the muscle beneath it flexed with visible definition.

The woman hesitated in the doorway, glancing in. Her eyes met Fang Zhuo’s, and she stepped forward with a tentative manner. She came to stand before Fang Zhuo, but did not address her — instead her gaze traveled past her until she found Ye Yuncheng, and in a quiet voice she called out, “Teacher Ye? I’m the one — the one who’s here about the job. Are you still looking for people?”

Ye Yuncheng came forward to greet her. “Hello. Please come in.”

The woman let out a breath of relief.

She acknowledged him and immediately began producing tangerines — opening the large woven sack, pulling out several bright orange tangerines, and pressing them into both their hands with shy, courteous formality, saying, “Please, have a tangerine — you too, young lady. These are from our own family’s trees. Safe. Sweet.”

Fang Zhuo accepted one and thanked her. She did not quite catch everything the woman said, though, since she was speaking half in dialect and half in Mandarin.

The woman, remembering her purpose, wiped her hands and reached into her side pocket to produce an official document, which she held out: “This is my food handler’s certificate.”

As Fang Zhuo listened to her account of herself, piecing things together through context and guesswork, she gathered a rough understanding of her situation.

Domestic violence. No formal education. The year before last, her husband, having had an affair, had demanded a divorce — and she had had no choice but to return to the countryside, struggling to get by. Then her mother was diagnosed with diabetes, and the family had no money. She had considered remarrying to collect a bride price, but Liu Qiaohong had talked her out of it and helped arrange work for her elsewhere.

The plan had originally been to place her at a hotel making dumplings — labor-intensive, but with decent wages. But the hotel had been closed for restructuring, leaving her without work, and it just so happened that Ye Yuncheng needed someone, so she had come.

While the two of them were discussing wages and responsibilities, Xiao Mu came back carrying a large bag.

He really had gone to buy groceries — though he had also picked up three popsicles along the way, and cheerfully distributed one to Fang Zhuo and one to Ye Yuncheng. Noticing there was now an extra person on the scene, he sighed and turned back to buy another.

It was getting late, and Fang Zhuo got ready to head back to school.

She retrieved her bag from the corner and was about to leave when Ye Yuncheng, who was in the middle of showing the new employee how to use the equipment, turned around and stopped her.

“Oh, right — Zhuozhuo, do you know what this shop is called?”

Fang Zhuo looked at him curiously. “What is it called?”

She thought this small, not-yet-named shop was both peculiar and endearing. Built on opportunity seized at the right moment, raised layer by layer on the goodwill of others, it had brought a handful of lost souls to a place of settling.

Fortune had not looked on it kindly — but the tide of the times had paused here.

She hoped it might grow into a small but solid wall, offering shelter to more people.

“It’s called Xiangyang — Facing the Sun.” Ye Yuncheng gestured to indicate the size, then smiled. “I had someone paint a picture of sunflowers for me. Once it arrives, I’ll hang it on the opposite wall. I’m also having a new stamp mold made — in future, every rice ball will be pressed with a little sun mark as our logo. Once we hire one more person, we might even be able to start taking delivery orders.”

Fang Zhuo thought it was wonderful. Not quite sure how to express it, she cooperated with a: “Wow.”

“Tomorrow will be better.” Ye Yuncheng smiled and said, “All right — head back to school. Stay safe.”