In the old alleys of Wan Chai, there were many small shops—selling congee, sweet soups, herbal teas, and wonton noodles—lined up one after another. Their signs extended outward, overlapping and crisscrossing, while clotheslines hung overhead like a sea of international flags. An old woman from an upstairs residence poured a basin of vegetable-washing water down below, but the uncle selling fish balls downstairs didn’t even look up, long accustomed to it.
A young woman in a long skirt and sunglasses walked into the alley from the entrance.
She wore a beige cotton-linen maxi dress, simply cut with no unnecessary embellishments, but the fabric was clearly not something you’d find at a street stall.
On her feet were a pair of white flat leather shoes. Her hair was loose, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Sunglasses covered most of her face, revealing only a fair chin and pale lips.
She passed by a shop selling herbal tea, then a fruit stall, and finally stopped in front of Chen’s Congee Shop.
It was a little past two in the afternoon, not peak dining hours. Inside, only one table in the corner was occupied—two middle-aged men in work clothes, each with a bowl of congee and a plate of fried dough sticks, chatting quietly in Cantonese as they ate. They were likely workers from a nearby construction site, grabbing a bite during their lunch break.
She pushed open the half-closed glass door and walked in.
The shop was small, with six or seven round tables crowded together. The tabletops were covered in red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloths, some bearing small burn marks.
An overhead ceiling fan creaked as it spun, stirring up a lazy breeze.
A menu was pasted on the wall, offering more varieties than she remembered. But the signature chicken offal congee still topped the list, its font larger than the others, with a red star drawn beside it.
Standing at the entrance, she glanced around, her gaze lingering on that red star for a moment.
From the kitchen came the clanging of a spatula against a wok, mingled with the bubbling sound of congee simmering over the fire.
A figure emerged from behind the kitchen curtain—a man in his fifties, of average height and slightly plump, wearing a white short-sleeved undershirt and a gray apron stained with stubborn grease spots. His hair was already mostly gray.
“Miss, take a seat and look at the menu,” Uncle Chen greeted her with a smile, speaking in standard Hong Kong-style Cantonese.
Gu Wangshu took off her sunglasses.
She looked at Uncle Chen but didn’t speak immediately.
“Uncle Chen,” she called softly.
Uncle Chen had been holding a rag, about to wipe an empty table nearby. At the sound of her voice, his hand froze.
He turned around, scrutinizing the young woman before him carefully.
He had seen this face on the television news a few days ago, never expecting her to appear here so soon.
“Second Miss…” Uncle Chen’s voice was slightly hoarse, his hand unconsciously tightening around the rag.
Second Miss.
In the days since Gu Wangshu had awakened, almost everyone around her had addressed her as “Eldest Miss.” But Uncle Chen called her “Second Miss”—a term only used by the older generation of the Gu family.
“It’s been a long time, Uncle Chen,” Gu Wangshu said.
Uncle Chen set down the rag, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked over to her.
“Indeed,” he said with emotion, his voice carrying a complex mix of joy and sorrow. “It’s been quite a few years since I last saw you. The last time you came to my shop for congee was when you were studying at the University of Hong Kong years ago. You brought a friend along—two young ladies sitting right over there in that corner—”
He pointed to the table by the window. “Each had a bowl of chicken offal congee, loaded with pepper, eating until they were sweating all over…”
Gu Wangshu knew Uncle Chen was referring to her cousin Gu Xihe.
She smiled but didn’t pick up on the topic, instead walking over to the table by the window and sitting down.
Sunlight slanted in through the window, falling onto the tabletop and making the red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloth look especially warm.
“One bowl of chicken offal congee for me,” she said.
Uncle Chen responded, “Coming right up!”
He turned to head toward the kitchen but heard another sentence from behind—
“No pepper.”
Uncle Chen’s footsteps paused.
He didn’t turn around but stood still for a moment before saying, “Alright.”
Uncle Chen walked into the kitchen, scooped a large ladleful of the thick, simmered congee base from the pot, added shredded chicken, chicken liver, gizzard, and intestines, and let it boil rapidly over high heat for two minutes.
His movements were practiced, with decades of skill evident in the flick of his wrist and the control of the heat. The congee bubbled in the pot, the aroma of rice and chicken broth mingling as it wafted from the kitchen to the front.
When ladling the congee, he habitually reached for the pepper shaker. His fingers had just touched the container when he pulled them back.
The second young lady doesn’t like pepper anymore either.
He remembered how, in the past, she would always add a lot of pepper whenever she came—so much that a layer of grayish powder floated on the surface of the congee. She’d take a sip, cough, then keep drinking, saying the spiciness warmed her stomach.
People always change, Uncle Chen thought to himself as he poured the congee into a bowl, neatly arranging a few side dishes before carrying everything out.
When the chicken offal congee was served, steam rose gently. The congee was thick to just the right consistency, the shredded chicken hand-torn, the gizzard thinly sliced, and the chicken liver tender and smooth. A few simple side dishes were placed alongside, each detail reflecting care and thoughtfulness.
Gu Wangshu scooped a spoonful of congee into her mouth.
The fragrance of rice, wrapped in the savory richness of chicken broth, was smooth and velvety, melting on the tongue and warming her all the way down to her stomach. She closed her eyes slightly.
This taste was exactly the same as she remembered.
“How is Auntie Chen doing?” she asked, setting down her spoon.
Uncle Chen had already sat down across from her, his hands folded on the table.
“It’s kind of you to still remember her,” Uncle Chen said with a smile. “She still comes to the shop occasionally to help me out—washing vegetables, chopping ingredients, things like that. But she’s been coming less lately. The family just welcomed a grandson—a chubby little boy, seven pounds and six ounces. He just turned one month old last month.”
“Her son and daughter-in-law are both very busy. One works as an electrician in Kowloon, the other at a textile mill. No one can look after the child during the day, so she stays home to help take care of him.”
Speaking of his grandson, Uncle Chen’s wrinkles smoothed out, and his eyes crinkled with joy.
“That’s wonderful news,” Gu Wangshu said, smiling along. “Congratulations to you both on the new addition to the family.”
“Yes, it’s a blessing,” Uncle Chen nodded, smiling for a while before the smile gradually faded.
He straightened up in his seat across from Gu Wangshu and let out a soft sigh.
“These days, I still find myself thinking about your grandfather sometimes.”
His voice lowered, “If it weren’t for Old Master Gu, where would Auntie Chen and I be today? Back when I came from Chaozhou, I only had a few dozen yuan in my pocket and nowhere to sleep. It was your grandfather who took me in, cleared a space for me in his warehouse, and later lent me money to open this congee shop. This kindness, we old folks will remember for the rest of our lives.”
At this point, he looked into Gu Wangshu’s eyes, his gaze turning serious, carrying a kind of concern and caution unique to elders.
“Second Miss, don’t mind my rambling. I’m already over fifty, halfway through life, and I feel some things need to be said.”
He paused, weighing his words carefully. “Nothing in this world is more important than living. You’re still young, with many days ahead. Even if there’s something you can’t see through for a while…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Gu Wangshu knew what he was referring to. Uncle Chen had probably heard about Gu Xihe’s situation, and now that they’d met, he couldn’t help but offer a few words of advice.
“Thank you, Uncle Chen. I understand.”
She paused, placing the spoon on the rim of the bowl, facing Uncle Chen directly. “Perhaps you don’t know, but after I woke up, I forgot many things.”
Uncle Chen was stunned. “Forgot many things?”
“Yes,” Gu Wangshu lowered her gaze, her eyes fixed on the congee in the bowl. “I only remember some things from childhood. The later ones…”
She didn’t continue.
Uncle Chen remained silent for a long while.
“Ah,” he finally said, “Forgetting those unhappy things might be for the best.”
“Yes,” Gu Wangshu responded softly.
The two fell silent for a moment.
The ceiling fan in the shop creaked as it turned. The two workers in the corner had finished eating, left money under their bowls, and walked out.
Just as Uncle Chen was about to stand up to clear the table, he remembered something and sat back down.
He hesitated, his expression turning cautious as he lowered his voice. “By the way, recently someone approached Auntie Chen, trying to inquire about the past affairs of the eldest young lady.”
Gu Wangshu’s hand holding the spoon paused slightly.
The “eldest young lady” Uncle Chen referred to was none other than herself, Gu Wangshu.
And Auntie Chen was precisely the person her grandfather, Gu Shiyong, had personally arranged to care for her after Gu Wangshu moved from Beijing to Hong Kong eleven years ago.
Auntie Chen had accompanied Gu Wangshu for a long time—from when they first moved into the house in Repulse Bay, through the years when her health grew increasingly poor with repeated hospital visits, all the way to the final days.
During the last stretch of Gu Wangshu’s life, Auntie Chen was the one who accompanied her the most.
Someone was inquiring about her affairs.
“Do you know who it was?” she asked, her tone sounding no different from before, but her fingers gripping the spoon tightened slightly.
Uncle Chen shook his head. “I don’t know that. But Auntie Chen didn’t say a word—she directly chased them out.”
He patted his chest, his tone firm. “Don’t worry, we know the rules. No matter who comes asking, they won’t find out anything.”
Gu Wangshu nodded slightly.
But who could be inquiring?
Were they investigating Gu Wangshu’s cause of death? Or something else?
These thoughts quickly circled in her mind, but nothing showed on her face.
“Are you still living at the same place?” she asked.
“We moved,” Uncle Chen said, “to Tsuen Wan, last year. The old place was going to be demolished—the government said they were building a road—so they gave us some compensation money, and we bought a small unit in Tsuen Wan. It’s not big, but it’s enough.”
Gu Wangshu made a mental note of this information; she needed to find time to visit Auntie Chen.
She nodded, her gaze drifting unintentionally toward the doorway.
Just then, a figure appeared outside the glass door.