Yan Tingxu was much taller than Yan Hao. Just standing there made Yan Hao unconsciously lean back.
“Go on, Third Uncle.”
“You’ve been seeking out Qingyou a lot lately?”
The smile on Yan Hao’s face flickered.
“No, no I haven’t. Just happened to run into her and said a few words…”
“Stay away from her.”
Yan Tingxu cut him off. Four syllables — neither harsh nor soft, but each one landed with weight.
Yan Hao froze for a second, then grinned even wider.
“Third Uncle, what do you mean by that? Qingyou is family. Isn’t it only right that I care about her?”
Yan Tingxu looked at him without a word.
The stare made Yan Hao’s skin crawl, but he forced himself to keep going.
“Besides, I’m your real nephew. Why are you siding with an outsider?”
He even laughed as he said it, as if joking.
But the smile didn’t last two seconds.
Yan Tingxu’s gaze turned cold.
Yan Hao’s smile stiffened.
“Real nephew.” Yan Tingxu repeated the three words.
He stepped forward.
Yan Hao instinctively stepped back.
“Yan Hao,” Yan Tingxu said, looking at him, “You know exactly what you’re plotting.”
Yan Hao opened his mouth.
“I-I’m not plotting anything…”
“She’s an old friend’s daughter,” Yan Tingxu continued, ignoring the protest. “Her father entrusted her to me before he died. I took her in, and I’ll protect her.”
He paused.
“Don’t get any ideas.”
Yan Hao’s expression changed.
“Third Uncle, I really don’t…”
“Also,” Yan Tingxu cut him off again, “those rumors you’ve been spreading at school — I’ve chosen to ignore them. But starting tomorrow, if I hear even a whisper of you gossiping behind her back again—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes completed it.
Yan Hao stood there, his face cycling through several expressions.
He wanted to say something, but with Yan Tingxu’s eyes on him, the words wouldn’t come.
After a moment, he forced a tight smile.
“Fine, Third Uncle. I’ll do as you say.”
He turned and walked off.
After two steps, he stopped.
He didn’t turn around — just stood there, his back to Yan Tingxu.
“Third Uncle,” his voice carried back, “you care about her that much. Does she even know?”
Yan Tingxu didn’t answer.
Yan Hao waited two seconds. No reply came. He strode off.
His footsteps faded, disappearing deep into the alley.
Yan Tingxu stood still, unmoving.
The streetlight cast a long shadow behind him.
He stood there for a while, then pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
Smoke curled up, drifting away in the dim yellow light.
He took a drag. And suddenly thought of the way the girl had asked him that question earlier.
She’d stood at the kitchen door, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt, her eyes glistening as she looked up at him.
“Will you… ever get married?”
That look — he still remembered it.
He exhaled a stream of smoke.
Twenty-five years old. It wasn’t that he’d never thought about settling down.
Before, it hadn’t mattered much. Nice to have, fine without.
But now…
Even Yan Hao dared to accuse him of favoring an outsider.
If he did get married — who knew how hurt the girl would be.
Maybe this household didn’t need a wife after all.
…
After Yan Tingxu warned Yan Hao, the latter dared not provoke Shen Qingyou for a long time.
Spring passed, autumn came. Shen Qingyou felt that the carefree days passed all too quickly.
It seemed like just yesterday they were celebrating the Lunar New Year, and in the blink of an eye, the willows had sprouted new leaves.
Then, in another blink, the cicadas were singing.
By the time the leaves turned yellow, fell, and the first snow came down, a whole year had passed.
And Shen Qingyou’s height just kept shooting up, year after year.
When she first arrived at fifteen, standing next to Yan Tingxu, she only reached his shoulder. At sixteen, she reached his ear. At seventeen, his eyebrow.
Li Hongmei once looked at her and said, “Qingyou, have you grown taller again?”
She went home and measured herself. Sure enough, she’d grown another finger’s width.
She ran to tell Yan Tingxu: “Third Uncle, I’ve grown taller again.”
Yan Tingxu glanced at her. “Mm,” he said.
Just one syllable.
But she saw the corner of his mouth curve upward.
……
Life went on as usual.
He went out on business. She went to school. He came home. She cooked.
Sometimes he’d be gone for ten days or half a month. Sometimes two or three months.
She got into the habit of marking circles on the calendar — one on the day he left. She’d count down the days, waiting for him to come back.
On the day he returned, she’d make two extra dishes.
He never said they were good, but he always cleaned his plate.
Seeing those empty plates made her happy inside.
……
In the fall of her sixteenth year, she got into normal school.
In the county-wide entrance exams, she ranked sixth. Her homeroom teacher came all the way to the house to share the good news, saying the girl had a bright future — becoming a teacher meant a steady job, an “iron rice bowl.”
Yan Tingxu happened to be home that day.
He sat there, listened to the teacher’s long speech, and finally said just one thing: “That’s good. Sorry for the trouble.”
After the teacher left, she stood in the courtyard, a little nervous as she looked at him.
“Third Uncle, is normal school expensive? If it’s too much, I—”
“It’s not expensive.” He cut her off. “Go.”
She froze for a moment, then smiled.
That night, she made four dishes and a soup.
He ate. Again, he didn’t say anything.
But while she was washing the dishes, she noticed he’d tucked the acceptance letter under the very bottom of his desk drawer, right next to her report card.
She pretended not to see it — but the corners of her mouth stayed lifted for a long time.
……
In the winter of her seventeenth year, he started going out less often.
Sometimes, when she came home from school, she’d see him wiping down his car in the courtyard. Other times, while she was cooking, he’d stand by the kitchen door for a while, not saying anything, just standing there.
She got used to glancing back at him, then going back to work.
Once, she cut her hand while chopping vegetables and hissed in pain.
He crossed the space in a few long strides, grabbed her hand, and looked at it.
“How did you do this?”
His grip left her a little stunned. She just stared blankly at him.
He’d get hurt out there himself without even furrowing his brow — but here she was with just a scraped finger, and he was studying her hand with his brows knitted tight.
“It’s nothing. Just a little cut.”
He didn’t say anything. He went and got the iodine and gauze and wrapped it up for her.
Even after he finished wrapping it, he didn’t let go.
He just stood there in the kitchen, holding her hand.
The kitchen was small. With two people in it, it felt even smaller.
She stood there, looking at her gauze-wrapped finger — and the little bow he’d tied — and gave a helpless little smile.
……
In the twelfth lunar month, she turned eighteen.
She remembered that day clearly.
That morning, she’d made two extra dishes on purpose, planning to wait for him to come home in the evening to eat together.
But when she came back from school at noon, the courtyard was empty.
The door to the main room was shut.
She paused for a moment, then walked over and pushed it open.
There was no one inside.
On the table sat a new backpack—military green, canvas, thick and sturdy to the touch.
Beside the backpack lay a letter.
The envelope was blank, just sitting there.
She opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
And on the paper, just one line.
“Study hard. I’ll check when I’m back.”
Looking at those words, her nose suddenly stung.
He’d gone out again.
She stood there in the room for a long time, holding the new backpack.
……
Another year, the thirtieth of the twelfth lunar month—New Year’s Eve.
Shen Qingyou was alone in the courtyard.
As the sun set, she went into the kitchen to start making dumplings.
Mix the dough, prepare the filling, roll out the wrappers, fold them.
She worked quickly, making enough for two people all by herself.
When she was done, she arranged the dumplings neatly and covered them with a cloth.
Then she sat in the kitchen, waiting for Third Uncle to come home.
Darkness fell.
Sporadic firecracker sounds drifted from afar.
She sat in the kitchen, listening to the firecrackers, watching the flames in the stove hearth flicker and dance.
Water was boiling on the stove, ready for the dumplings to go in.
The water bubbled and murmured.
She didn’t move.
Wait a little longer.
Maybe he’ll be back soon.
Just as she was thinking that, she suddenly heard the courtyard gate creak.
Ee-ya.
She froze for a second, then shot to her feet and ran outside.
Pushing the door open, the cold wind hit her face, but she didn’t care. She ran into the yard.
There, at the gate, stood Third Uncle. Snow dusted his shoulders, and he was brushing the flakes away.
She stopped short.
Hearing the noise, he looked up.
Moonlight fell on his face—still cool and indifferent, but his bearing had grown even more steady than three years ago.
Shen Qingyou stood there in her apron, flour still on her hands, staring at him.
He spoke.
“Are the dumplings ready?”
Shen Qingyou stood there, looking at him.
For some reason, she suddenly felt like crying.
But she didn’t. She tried hard to curve her eyes into a smile.
“They’re ready,” she said. “I’ll put them in right now.”
She turned and ran toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, she looked back.
He was still standing there, watching her.
“Third Uncle, go inside and warm up!” she called out, then ran into the kitchen.
Yan Tingxu stood in the courtyard, watching her figure disappear through the kitchen door.
He stood there for a while, then smiled slightly.
It was a faint smile, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
He lifted his foot and walked toward the main room.
When he passed the kitchen door, he paused.
The kitchen light was on. Warm steam seeped out through the cracks in the door.
He could see her bustling about inside—flour dusted across her apron, her hair a little messy, but the corners of her mouth curved upward, as if she was very happy.
He stood there and watched for a while.
And then he thought back to three years ago, when she’d first arrived.
Skinny as a kitten, standing in the courtyard, clutching an old wicker suitcase, her eyes glistening.
In the blink of an eye, she’d grown up so much.