Bai Muwan was late again.
Not five or ten minutes late—the minor kind of lateness—but a full forty-seven minutes late. Even she had no idea how those forty-seven minutes had evaporated.
Her alarm had gone off three times. Big sis Bai Muwei had sent her a voice message in the family group chat, urging her to hurry. She had even already put on her shoes in the entryway.
But before leaving, she happened to glance at the succulent on the windowsill and decided it was leaning. She reached out to straighten it, then crouched down and told it, “Come on, grow big and strong.” That reminded her that she’d forgotten to water it yesterday, so she went to the kitchen for some water. On the way back, she stepped on a cat—there was no cat in the house; it was an experimental observation subject Muze had somehow acquired. The cat, startled, leaped onto the table and knocked her phone over. The phone fell into the gap between the couch cushions, and she spent ten minutes lying on the floor fishing for it.
By the time she got it out, the family group chat had exploded.
“Bai Muwan, are you talking to plants again?” Big sis.
“Wanwan, second brother’s braised pork belly is getting cold.” Second brother.
“You idiot, get out the door. If you don’t show up soon, I’m eating your portion.” Third brother.
“Little sis~~~ I miss you so much~~~ Come here already~~~” Fourth brother, followed by a wall of twelve hug stickers.
Big brother hadn’t sent a message. He never urged her in the family group chat. His method was to call directly, let it ring once, and hang up. The message was: I know what you’re doing, but I’m not going to say it. Figure it out yourself.
Muwan glanced at her call history. Big brother had already called three times.
She was so startled she nearly put her shoes on backward. Grabbing her backpack, she dashed out the door.
She didn’t realize it was Sunday until she reached the end of the lane.
Sunday. The Bai family Sunday.
Every Sunday at noon, the whole family gathered at the old house for lunch without fail. It was a rule their mother had established when she was alive, and no one had broken it in four years. Even if big brother had been on duty until four in the morning, even if second brother had just finished a twelve-hour surgery, even if big sis had worked through the night on a project until her eyes were red as a rabbit’s—at noon on Sunday, everyone would be there around the long table that seated ten.
The two empty places always had bowls and chopsticks set out.
Muwan sat on the bus, panting, her forehead covered in sweat. December wind slipped in through the cracks around the windows, cold enough to make her hunch her neck, but her face was still burning. She looked down at her phone. Second sister Bai Muxue had posted a photo in the family group chat. The dishes were already on the table: braised pork belly, steamed sea bass, garlic water spinach, tomato egg drop soup, and a plate of pickled radish.
Every dish was something their mother used to order.
Second brother had learned to make every one of them.
Muwan stared at the photo for so long that the bus nearly passed her stop. She frantically pressed the buzzer, but her backpack strap caught on the handrail and yanked her backward into an elderly woman behind her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” She bowed three times in a row. The old woman smiled and patted her hand, telling her it was fine.
Muwan jumped off the bus, jogged across two blocks, and turned into the lane lined with osmanthus trees.
The old house stood at the end of the lane.
It was a three-story standalone townhouse with pale gray exterior walls covered in ivy. A faded sticker was stuck to the mailbox out front. Fourth brother had put it there when he was little. Crookedly written across it were the words “the Bai family.” Their mother had said they should peel it off, but she could never bring herself to do it. Eventually, no one mentioned taking it down again.
When Muwan pushed open the door, the sounds inside surged toward her like a wave.
“I told you the reaction conditions were wrong, but you insisted on using that catalyst—” Muze’s voice was arguing with someone.
“You blew up the lab last time. You don’t get to say that.” Big sis’s voice delivered the cold finishing blow.
“That was an accident! And I fixed it!”
“You blew up an entire wall. That’s what you call fixed?”
“The wall can be rebuilt, but scientific truth cannot be compromised.”
“…Just shut up.”
Muwan stood in the entryway, unable to stop herself from smiling.
After changing into slippers, she walked into the dining room. The first person she saw was Muxing. He was carrying out the last bowl of soup from the kitchen, an apron tied around his waist and his sleeves rolled to the elbows. When he saw her, he smiled, warm as winter sunlight.
“Wanwan’s here. Did you wash your hands?”
“I did, I did.” She actually hadn’t.
Muxing looked at her and said nothing. He only tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward the bathroom.
Muwan obediently went to wash her hands.
When she came back, Muyan had already sprung up from the couch and charged at her like a large dog.
“Little sis!” He threw his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head. “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting forever! I’m practically starving to death!”
“You ate an entire bag of chips ten minutes ago.” Muxue’s voice drifted over from the table, as flat as a weather report.
“That was to line my stomach! You know what lining your stomach means?”
“Is your stomach a black hole?” Muwei asked without looking up.
“You—”
“Eat.” Big brother said it again.
Everyone fell silent.
Muxing was the last to sit down. He untied his apron and looked around the table, making sure every dish was there. His gaze finally landed on the other end of the table—the two empty places. The bowls and chopsticks were arranged perfectly. The chopsticks were the pair their mother had always used, and the bowl was the celadon one their father had liked.
No one spoke.
Muwan lowered her head, quietly picked up her chopsticks, and placed a piece of braised pork belly into the celadon bowl on the left.
“Dad, it’s time to eat.”
She picked up another piece and placed it in the bowl on the right.
“Mom, second brother’s braised pork belly tastes just as good as yours.”
The dining table fell silent for several seconds.
Muxing lowered his head, the corners of his mouth twitching, and said nothing. Muze turned his face away, pretending to look out the window. Muyan clenched his hand beneath the table until his knuckles turned white. Muwei lifted her teacup for a sip, but it hid her eyes. Muxue’s expression didn’t change, though the hand resting on her knee tightened slightly.
Muchen stared at the two bowls in silence for a long time.
Then he picked up his chopsticks.
“Eat.”
The third time. His tone was exactly the same as before, steady as a mountain.
But Muwan heard it.
Big brother’s voice was just the tiniest bit lower than it had been.
Just low enough for her to hear.
Everyone began eating. Muze and Muwei continued bickering, Muyan competed to put food in Muwan’s bowl, Muxing reminded her not to eat too much spicy food because the change in seasons made allergies more likely, and Muxue silently pushed the plate of pickled radish—the farthest dish from Muwan—toward her. She knew her little sister loved pickled radish, but was always too embarrassed to reach for it herself.
Muwan chewed on a piece of radish, her cheeks puffed out, her eyes shining as she looked at everyone around the table.
They were noisy and chaotic, but every single one of them was there.
Suddenly, she felt that this was the best Sunday in the whole world.
Outside, at the end of Osmanthus Lane, a black car sat silently in the shadows.
The lights inside were off. The man in the driver’s seat lowered his binoculars and leaned back, silently watching the old house glowing with warm light. A thin knotted rope bracelet circled his wrist, nearly invisible in the darkness.
The phone in the passenger seat lit up.
An encrypted message.
“Zhuyuan has started digging into Bai Logistics’ old accounts. Shi’s side is making moves too. How long are you planning to wait?”
The man didn’t reply.
He only watched the window glowing with warm light for a long time.
Then he started the engine, and the car silently drove away from Osmanthus Lane.
In the rearview mirror, the lights of the old house grew smaller and smaller, until they became a single star in the night.
He murmured something, but the engine swallowed his voice. No one heard it.
“…Wait a little longer.”