Side Story 1: Morning Light and Milky Scent · Trilogy of Everyday Life
Part One: 3:30 a.m. in the Dead of Night
Air conditioning set to 26°C, humidity at 50%.
Pei Yuyan adjusted the humidifier for the third time, and Jiang Mian let out a soft laugh in the darkness.
“Stop adjusting,” she murmured, her voice heavy with sleep. “It’s comfortable enough.”
He returned to the bed, instinctively sliding his hand under the covers to rest on her rounded belly. The moment his palm touched, he felt a little push—a small, firm response.
“Still awake,” he said.
“Waiting for you.” Jiang Mian held his wrist and guided his hand to the left side. “Here—he likes to nudge here the most.”
Sure enough, a moment later there it was again. Like a tiny fish blowing bubbles, bumping softly against his palm.
Pei Yuyan counted in the dark: one push, another—steady, like a heartbeat.
“Probably a hiccup,” he concluded.
Jiang Mian laughed: “You even analyze this?”
“Mm.” He answered seriously. “Two less than yesterday.”
Silence filled the room. Outside, the headlights of late-night cars streaked across the ceiling.
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Hm?”
“You’re nervous.”
His hand paused on her belly. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Jiang Mian rolled to face him. Moonlight slipped through the curtains, highlighting his eyes. “Every time you’re nervous, your right fingertips tremble slightly.”
He looked down at his hand. Indeed, under the moonlight, the faint quiver was almost imperceptible.
“Afraid of what?” she asked softly.
He remained silent for so long she thought he had fallen asleep.
“Afraid I’m not good enough,” he finally said. “Being a father… there’s no practice test for this.”
Jiang Mian leaned closer, pressing her forehead to his. Their breaths mingled; she could smell the clean scent of his body, faintly mixed with the paper from his study.
“I’ll teach you,” she said. “We’ll learn together.”
“Mm.”
At 3:17 a.m., Pei Yuyan opened his eyes once more.
Not woken by an alarm, not a nightmare—something deeper, almost instinctive. He turned to look at Jiang Mian sleeping beside him, eight months pregnant, her hand subconsciously cradling her high belly.
Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft silver edge on her face.
He rose quietly, bare feet on the cool wooden floor, and went to the window. He drew the curtain slightly.
The city at night was peaceful. Distant cars passed occasionally, muffled as though through thick glass. Thin clouds floated across the night sky, the moon partially hiding behind, like a shy girl.
He stood there for a long time.
Until a soft hum came from behind.
Pei Yuyan spun around. Jiang Mian, half-asleep, furrowed her brows, hand unconsciously pressed to her belly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, rushing to the bed and crouching.
She blinked awake, murmuring: “He… is kicking hard.”
Before she could finish, her hand clenched tightly.
Pei Yuyan’s palm covered hers, feeling clearly—the little one inside making a big turn. Through the thin sleepwear, he could feel the shape of tiny feet pressing out a small bump.
“This little guy,” Pei Yuyan whispered with a soft laugh. “Wide awake in the middle of the night.”
Jiang Mian smiled, tired and tender: “Just like you. Observers don’t need to sleep.”
“I do now,” Pei Yuyan replied, lying down beside her, his hand still lightly on her belly. “And I need it very much.”
The baby moved a few more times, then gradually settled.
The room was quiet again.
But Pei Yuyan knew—this calm was only before the storm.
Part Two: 365 Steps Outside the Delivery Room
The due date was two weeks away.
But the little one had his own schedule.
At 5:03 a.m., Jiang Mian woke again. This time, not from kicks—but contractions. Regular, growing stronger, rolling in like waves.
She bit her lip, not calling out to Pei Yuyan immediately.
But he was already awake. Even in the lower-dimensional world, his senses as an observer were sharper than most.
“How far apart?” he asked, fully alert.
“Seven… seven minutes,” Jiang Mian breathed quickly.
Pei Yuyan turned on the light immediately. The warm yellow glow revealed tiny beads of sweat on her forehead.
“Let’s go to the hospital,” he said steadily, though his fingers trembled as he put on his jacket.
Jiang Mian noticed. She held his hand: “Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” he said—but he buttoned his coat wrong twice.
The street at 5:30 a.m. was empty. Pei Yuyan drove steadily, yet the knuckles gripping the steering wheel whitened. At a red light, he glanced at Jiang Mian.
She stared out the window. The streetlight flickered across her face; she bit her lip, holding her breath through each contraction, then exhaling slowly.
She was enduring the pain.
The sight made Pei Yuyan’s heart clench sharply.
“If it hurts, call out,” he said.
She shook her head, forcing a smile: “It’s… bearable.”
Pei Yuyan said no more. He only reached out his right hand and held hers tightly.
By 5:50 a.m., they reached the hospital. Nurses offered a wheelchair, but Jiang Mian waved it off: “I can walk.”
She held Pei Yuyan’s arm, stepping slowly, steadily, into the maternity ward. Contractions were now four minutes apart.
Procedures, checks, admission—everything ran smoothly.
But Pei Yuyan was stopped outside the delivery room.
“Family members wait here,” the nurse said, gentle but firm.
The door closed in front of him.
Pei Yuyan began pacing.
Left window to right fire hydrant, twelve steps. Turn, back twelve steps. Again, and again…
He lost count of the repetitions. Only knew that outside, night shifted from black to deep blue, then grayish-white, until the dawn’s golden light spilled into the corridor.
Inside, the delivery room was quiet. Occasionally nurses came in and out, the door opening letting out Jiang Mian’s muffled groans and the doctor’s calm instructions.
Every sound of her, his steps paused briefly.
Then continued.
He remembered three hundred years ago, observing countless birth scenes in his station. He had thought it was just reproduction—a dataset, a phenomenon.
Now he understood—this was war.
A woman fighting with every ounce of blood and courage to bring new life into the world.
And he could only wait outside.
This helplessness was scarier than any dimensional rift.
At 9:17 a.m., the delivery room door opened.
A nurse carried a tiny bundle: “Mr. Pei Yuyan?”
He turned sharply.
“Congratulations, it’s a boy,” she smiled. “Mother and child are safe.”
Pei Yuyan froze.
He looked at the small bundle—so tiny, wrapped in pale blue swaddling, only the wrinkled face visible. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open, red skin like a little old man.
His son.
Their son.
“Do you want to see him?” the nurse asked.
Pei Yuyan reached, then pulled back. His hands trembled.
“I… I should wash my hands first,” he said, voice hoarse.
The nurse smiled: “No need. You can hold him.”
Finally, Pei Yuyan extended both hands. The nurse gently placed the child in his arms.
So light.
Like holding a little cloud.
The little one seemed to sense something, moving slightly, then slowly opened his eyes—deep gray eyes, just like his father’s.
Those eyes looked at him for a long, long moment, and then—
“Waaah—”
A loud, piercing cry erupted down the corridor.
Pei Yuyan panicked: “He… he’s crying…”
“Normal,” the nurse said with a smile. “Maybe he’s uncomfortable being held by Dad?”
Pei Yuyan stiffly adjusted his posture, awkwardly rocking the baby. But the crying only intensified; the tiny face turned bright red.
“I’ll do it,” the nurse said, taking the child gently. Skilled hands patting him, she said, “See? Like this.”
Gradually, the crying subsided.
Pei Yuyan stood there, staring at his now-quiet son in the nurse’s arms, and realized—
He had observed over fourteen thousand civilizations and learned more than thirty thousand skills, but in the matter of “how to be a father,” he was a complete novice.
And possibly, a failing one.
Part Three: Seventy-Two Hours of Being New Parents
When Jiang Mian was brought out, her face was pale but her eyes were bright.
The first thing she asked was: “Where is he?”
Pei Yuyan pointed to the small crib beside the bed. The little one was asleep, tiny fists curled beside his face.
Jiang Mian leaned over, looking at him for a long time.
Then she said, softly: “He’s so ugly.”
Pei Yuyan laughed: “Just like you.”
“Nonsense,” Jiang Mian laughed too. But as she laughed, tears slid down her cheeks. “He clearly looks like you.”
Pei Yuyan held her hand without speaking.
He knew why she was crying—not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from a deeper, indescribable emotion.
The hospital room was a single room, very quiet. The sunlight streamed in, warming the pale floor.
The little one slept for an hour before waking.
And so, the “disasters” of new parenthood officially began.
Lesson One: Feeding
Jiang Mian was breastfeeding. But the first feeding was chaotic.
The baby couldn’t latch on, crying desperately. Jiang Mian’s head was dripping sweat, trying every position in vain. Pei Yuyan stood beside her, wanting to help but unsure how.
Eventually, the nurse stepped in.
“Mom, relax,” she instructed, adjusting Jiang Mian’s posture. “Yes, like that. Dad, hold her waist.”
Pei Yuyan did as told. His hand pressed against her side, feeling the tension in her muscles from nervousness.
Finally, the baby latched on.
The room fell silent, except for the soft sound of swallowing.
Jiang Mian looked down at the little one in her arms, eyes warm enough to spill tears. Sunlight bathed her and the baby in a soft golden halo.
Pei Yuyan looked at the scene and suddenly remembered an ancient low-dimensional civilization mural he had seen long ago—the Madonna and Child.
At the time, he hadn’t understood why such a simple image was considered sacred.
Now he did.
Because life itself is a miracle.
After the feeding, the baby fell asleep again. Jiang Mian, exhausted, closed her eyes.
Pei Yuyan sat by the bed, watching the two sleeping faces—one large, one tiny—for a long, long time.
Then he took out his phone—not a smartphone, but an old flip phone that could only call and text. But it had one excellent feature: a camera.
He captured this moment.
In the photo, Jiang Mian lay on her side, holding the swaddled baby. Sunlight, peaceful faces, quiet.
He saved it in a separate folder, naming it:
“Day One · Morning Light and Milky Scent”
Lesson Two: Diaper Duty
The first diaper change happened at 2 a.m.
The baby cried—not from hunger, but a sharper, more impatient wail.
Pei Yuyan was already awake. Quietly, he got out of bed and approached the crib. The baby’s tiny face was scrunched up, legs kicking wildly in the swaddle.
“What’s wrong?” Jiang Mian asked, half-asleep, voice heavy with fatigue.
“I don’t know,” Pei Yuyan said, carefully unwrapping the swaddle.
Then, he smelled it.
A smell that was hard to describe.
Jiang Mian smelled it too. They exchanged a glance and said in unison:
“Wet diaper.”
What followed was ten long minutes of chaos.
Pei Yuyan went to fetch a fresh diaper and wipes, while Jiang Mian tried to clean the baby. But the little one didn’t cooperate, kicking and squirming constantly. Wipe after wipe, it was never quite enough.
“Hold his legs still,” Jiang Mian instructed.
Pei Yuyan did as told, but cautiously, afraid of hurting the baby. Sure enough, the baby kicked him, scratching a red line across his hand.
“Use more force!” Jiang Mian said.
Pei Yuyan took a deep breath and pressed a little harder. The baby struggled for a few seconds, then went still.
Jiang Mian cleaned him quickly, laid down the new diaper, and gradually, their movements became smoother.
Finally, it was done.
Both of them let out a sigh of relief, exchanged a glance, and suddenly laughed.
“We’re so clumsy,” Jiang Mian said.
“We’ll get smarter,” Pei Yuyan said.
He carefully re-swaddled the little one. The baby no longer cried, staring up at him with deep gray eyes, then—
Let out a tiny yawn.
In that instant, Pei Yuyan’s heart melted completely.
He bent down, gently kissing the baby’s forehead.
So lightly, as if afraid of breaking him.
The baby blinked, then slowly closed his eyes.
As he slept, Pei Yuyan straightened up and saw Jiang Mian smiling at him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just… think you look really good as a dad.”
Pei Yuyan walked back to the bed, planting a kiss on her forehead:
“And you look good as a mom too.”
Lesson Three: Putting the Baby to Sleep
The little one had a tendency to be awake at night and sleep during the day.
On the third night, from 10 p.m. to 1 a.m., he simply wouldn’t sleep. He had been fed, the diaper was dry, no fever—he just stared at the ceiling, occasionally making little “ah” and “oh” sounds.
Jiang Mian was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open.
“Go sleep, I’ve got him,” Pei Yuyan said.
He picked up the baby and slowly walked around the room, softly humming.
Not a lullaby from Earth—but an ancient Observers’ lullaby, long lost, in a high-dimensional language. The melody was simple, yet strangely calming.
He hummed over and over.
At first, the baby’s eyes remained open, but gradually, his eyelids grew heavy. One blink, two blinks, three blinks…
Finally, he closed them.
But Pei Yuyan didn’t immediately put him back in the crib. He continued holding him, continued humming, pacing the room for a long while.
Only when he was certain the baby was in a deep sleep did he gently lay him back down.
He tucked the little blanket snugly and adjusted the baby’s position.
Then he walked to the bed. Jiang Mian was already asleep, eyelashes casting soft shadows, breathing steady.
Pei Yuyan watched her, silently, for a long time.
Then he walked to the window, opening the curtains just a little.
The night sky was clear, stars twinkling. He found Sirius, Vega, and the Big Dipper.
Three hundred years ago, standing in the observation station, he saw these stars as data points, coordinates, cold pinpricks of light.
Now, looking at the same sky, he thought about—
Which stroller to buy for the baby tomorrow, which nourishing soup to make for Jiang Mian, remembering the diaper brand…
Life’s little daily sparks.
This—he realized—this is eternity.
Part Four: First Smile and First Hug
They were discharged and went home on the fifth day.
Room 302, Building 7, Yunqi Yuan had completely changed.
In the living room, there was now a crib. On the balcony, tiny clothes were hanging. The kitchen held a bottle sterilizer, and the study was stacked with parenting books.
When Pei Yuyan carried the little one through the door, the baby was asleep.
Jiang Mian slowly stepped in, looked around this familiar-yet-strange home, and suddenly said:
“We really became parents.”
“Mm,” Pei Yuyan said. “We really did.”
The first night went smoothly. The baby drank his milk and slept, waking only at three in the morning.
Pei Yuyan got up to feed him—some of Jiang Mian’s breast milk had been stored in a bottle, so he could handle it.
Feeding, burping, changing diapers—though still a bit clumsy, he was much more practiced than in the hospital.
After he was full, the baby didn’t immediately fall asleep. Instead, he opened his eyes and looked at Pei Yuyan.
Pei Yuyan looked back.
Father and son stared at each other under the dim nightlight.
Then, the corners of the baby’s mouth slowly, slowly curved upward.
A faint smile—but undeniably real.
Pei Yuyan froze.
He stared at that smile for a long, long time. Then he whispered:
“You’re smiling.”
The baby smiled again, this time a little more clearly.
In that instant, Pei Yuyan’s heart was flooded with warmth. That feeling—surpassing the first time he observed a supernova, the first time he traversed a dimensional rift, the first time he saw Jiang Mian—
Was far more overwhelming.
Because this was a miracle of life.
A miracle he had helped create.
He held the little one and walked to the bedroom. Jiang Mian was asleep.
He gently shook her awake.
“Jiang Mian,” he said softly, “look.”
Jiang Mian opened her eyes groggily. “What is it?”
“He smiled.”
Jiang Mian was instantly awake. She sat up and looked at the baby.
The baby looked at her, the corners of his mouth curving again.
Tears sprang from her eyes without warning.
She reached out, carefully touching his cheek. So soft, so tender, like touching a freshly bloomed flower.
“Hello,” she whispered. “I’m Mommy.”
The baby blinked.
“I’m Daddy,” Pei Yuyan said too.
The baby looked at her, then at him, and then—
Let out a tiny yawn.
They both laughed at the same time.
Jiang Mian leaned on Pei Yuyan’s shoulder, watching the little one slowly close his eyes, and whispered:
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Thank you for being here,” Jiang Mian said. “Thank you for being his dad, for being my—”
She didn’t finish.
But Pei Yuyan understood.
He bent down, kissed the top of her head:
“I’m the one who should say thank you.”
“Thank you for showing me—”
“That life’s little sparks are worth more than eternity.”
Outside, the morning light broke.
A new day had begun.
And their story had only just turned its first page.