Su Qingci went to the nursing home again.
Even the nurse found it surprising—he used to visit less than once a year, but now he’d come twice within a month.
Su Qingci couldn’t explain it either—she’d just suddenly felt compelled to come. Could it be that with time running out, the dying longed for their mother more intensely?
After the nurse led Su Qingci into the ward, she immediately dashed back to the station to collect her winnings. Mr. Su had visited three days in a row—her bet had paid off.
“How was it?” For three consecutive days, Jiang Seru’s opening line to Su Qingci remained these three words.
On the first day, Su Qingci ignored her as usual. He ignored her again on the second day. On the third day, he gave a short “Mm.”
Jiang Seru’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled, her smile blooming like a flower. “Xiao Ci, school must be letting out soon, right?”
Su Qingci sat across from the woman, her snow-white cashmere sweater layered over the nursing home’s patient gown.
Each time he came, Su Qingci simply sat silently, letting Jiang Seru talk to herself without a word. It seemed he only wanted a breathing companion to sit with for two hours before leaving, only to return the next day.
This time, Su Qingci felt a sudden urge to speak: “How old is Xiao Ci?”
Jiang Seru, perhaps not expecting this “dummy” to respond, lit up with surprise: “Six years old.”
Until he was six and a half, he too had been a happy child in a loving family.
Then his father “fell ill,” his mother “fell ill,” and the entire world changed.
The warm home became a cruel hell, his parents transformed into demons. The swing he often played on shattered under violence, the bread he loved smelled of blood.
His father threw them on the ground, stomping them into pulp, crushing them underfoot. He grabbed his mother by the hair, forcing her to look up at him. Backlit, his father’s face was as grim as a demon: “When did you start messing around with that baker? You slut!”
Mother would kneel begging for mercy, her face streaked with tears and snot. Her cries were so pitiful, her excuses so feeble and powerless.
When Father left, clutching the blood-stained belt, Mother would chain-smoke, filling the room with the scent of mint.
She would seek compensation in the minty scent, pressing scorching cigarette butts into her frail son’s skin—treating the child she bore with his father in the same way he had treated her. As if this could avenge “half” of the demonic husband’s cruelty.
The boy neither begged on his knees nor fled. He stood there, allowing his mother to vent her fury, repeating over and over, “Mom, I’m sorry,” “Mom, I’m sorry,” his voice trembling with fear and heartache.
*
“Mr. Su is leaving? Will he be back tomorrow?” The nurse accompanied him to the staircase with a warm smile.
Su Qingci glanced toward the ward. The door stood open, revealing Jiang Seru standing at the windowsill. Facing outward, she stared intently, as if awaiting someone’s return: “Why isn’t Xiaoci back yet?”
The nurse couldn’t help adding, “Your mother often murmurs these words: ‘Is it beautiful?’, ‘Xiao Ci should be getting out of school soon’, ‘Why isn’t Xiao Ci back yet?’ Always those three phrases.”
The nurse’s intention was simply to convey a mother’s heartfelt concern for her son. Yet upon hearing this, Su Qingci’s face paled, and his body swayed.
The nurse grew alarmed: “Mr. Su, are you all right?”
Su Qingci braced himself against the wall, murmuring to himself: “‘Is it pretty?’ That was for the nanny. That day was my birthday.”
The nurse smiled brightly: “I see! Your mother dressed up so carefully to surprise you.”
Su Qingci gave no clear response.
The nurse then asked if he’d return tomorrow. Hearing she’d made a bet with her colleague, he nodded.
Overjoyed, the nurse smiled as she saw him off.
*
Pei Jingchen entered the street-front private bakery, holding a box of strawberries.
This cake shop had been in business for nearly thirty years, its trade consistently steady—neither making a fortune nor suffering losses. The owner, content with his lot, named it “Always Smiling.” Its logo featured a boy grinning broadly, reportedly drawn by an artist specifically to resemble his son.
Regulars knew owner Pei Haiyang was honest and kind, using only the finest ingredients for his desserts. He guaranteed freshness and health, never overcharging anyone, and set prices well below market rates. This kept profits thin, especially after 8 PM when everything went on sale for half price.
Some customers worried this beloved little shop would eventually close, urging him to raise prices moderately and stop evening discounts—better to throw away unsold items than break his “rules.”
Pei Haiyang immediately protested, “How could we waste food? Even if it’s for cats or dogs, we won’t feed them garbage! We can’t betray Mr. Yuan’s legacy!”
Fellow shop owners stormed in, furious, accusing him of deliberately disrupting the market with rock-bottom prices. They warned that evening discounts were a recipe for disaster—customers would deliberately hold off on buying, waiting for unsold stock to be dumped cheaply at night. “Hmph!” they sneered. “You’ll bleed dry!”
Pei Haiyang greeted them with a smile, completely unfazed. “I like it this way,” he said calmly. “I’m happy with it. My son subsidizes me.”
Pei Jingchen, who indulged his father’s whims while relying on his son’s support, placed the fruit in the refrigerator.
With his son’s assets exceeding a hundred million, Pei Haiyang could easily retire early and enjoy his golden years. But after a lifetime of hard work, idleness felt worse than prison. Besides, after over thirty years in baking, his hands itched if he didn’t knead dough daily, and he felt listless without the scent of butter. Pei Jingchen knew these were all excuses—deep down, his dad just couldn’t let go of his longtime customers.
There’s this tall guy who adores our rich cheese mousse. He moved away but still takes the bus over regularly to buy it. And that sweet old gentleman who loves our egg tarts—I save two for him every night, just in case he comes empty-handed! The girl from the third-floor apartment across the street came every morning for caterpillar bread and blueberry donuts, rain or shine, from elementary school all the way through high school graduation. She was here just yesterday!
Whenever he talked about these things, his father’s face would light up with the most radiant, blissful smile.
“Why are you here alone? Where’s Xiao Ci?” asked Pei Haiyang. “Why didn’t you bring him along? The freshly baked coconut bread smells so good. Take some home with you when you leave.”
Pei Jingchen replied, “He’s not home.”
Pei Haiyang followed up with where he’d gone. Pei Jingchen pursed his lips, but just then a customer entered the shop. Pei Haiyang went to help serve bread and ring up the sale, cutting off the question.
Pei Jingchen tied on his apron, slipped on baking gloves, and carried out a freshly baked old-fashioned cake.
Except for formal occasions, Pei Jingchen rarely wore suits. Now, back home, he was dressed in a powder-blue hoodie—simple and refreshing, like a college student.
Su Qingci had praised him more than once as a natural-born model, saying he could make even the most eccentric fashion pieces look runway-ready. He effortlessly switched between the social elite and down-to-earth commoners, mastering every style with ease.
Pei Jingchen nearly burned himself on the baking tray. Why was he thinking about Su Qingci again? How many times had this happened in the past few days?
Pei Haiyang entered the kitchen from the front hall and asked what he was spacing out about. Pei Jingchen shook his head, handed his father the piping bag, and watched as his father made old-fashioned cream rolls.
Before finishing half of them, a neighbor called out to Pei Haiyang from outside the shop. Pei Haiyang responded loudly and scurried off. Pei Jingchen picked up the piping bag and finished squeezing out the remaining cream.
His father was a warm-hearted, ever-helpful soul. Whenever neighbors needed assistance, he was always the first to lend a hand. This habit of being a living Lei Feng, however, didn’t sit well with his mother. When his parents argued during his childhood, nine times out of ten, it was because Pei Haiyang’s meddling ways had flared up again.
It wasn’t really arguing, though, since his mother did all the yelling and lecturing. His father either stayed silent or grinned and tried to placate her. Gradually, he became the “useless, good-for-nothing, lazy, henpecked wimp” Mrs. Fang described.
Unsurprisingly, they divorced early on.
Young Pei Jingchen, unaware of these details, once believed his father suffered from a common male affliction—having a messy affair with the beautiful woman playing the guzheng in the villa—prompting his mother to storm out in anger and divorce him.
Adults always stood aloof, forbidding children from prying. Questions were met with “Mind your own business,” leaving kids to fill in the blanks themselves. Get it right, and you were called precocious; get it wrong, and you took the blame.
Pei Haiyang returned, washing his hands at the sink. By then, Pei Jingchen had already packed the cream rolls into a box.
Pei Haiyang chuckled awkwardly, teasing that this cake was made by the “hands that typed the $188 million code”—selling it for just five yuan eighty, wasn’t that a loss?
As Pei Jingchen prepared to leave, Pei Haiyang handed him a large bag of sweets: Inside are Oreo towel rolls, strawberry mille-feuille, matcha mousse, and such. Take them home for Xiao Ci to eat.”
Pei Jingchen wanted to say Su Qingci wasn’t home, but he didn’t. He instinctively took the bag.
Pei Haiyang continued, “There’s also iceberg lava cake, dream tornado, and Black Forest. Xiao Ci loves chocolate the most. Don’t you dare sneak any for yourself!”
Pei Jingchen gave an exasperated smile. “Got it.”
“Don’t think I’m nagging,” Pei Haiyang’s gaze suddenly grew distant. Pei Jingchen knew his father was reminiscing about the past again.
Pei Jingchen gave a helpless smile. “Got it.”
“Don’t mind my nagging—I just worry about that kid.” Pei Haiyang’s gaze suddenly grew distant. Pei Jingchen knew his father was reminiscing again.
Pei Jingchen said, “Su Qingci isn’t home. I won’t take these.”
Pei Haiyang urgently asked where she’d gone. Pei Jingchen paused for two seconds before replying, “The client’s bedroom, I suppose.”
Pei Haiyang: “Huh?”
Pei Jingchen snapped back to reality, his tone light and detached: “She went to paint the client’s portrait.”
Pei Haiyang knew nothing about the art world, but something about his son’s tone felt off—his pronunciation and intonation were oddly strained.
Pei Haiyang walked Pei Jingchen to the door. Hesitating, yet unable to stay silent, he said, “No matter what, Xiao Ci saved your life. If he hadn’t given you that blood transfusion back then, where would you be today? So Xiao Chen, remember: one must repay kindness, especially a life-saving debt. There’s no way to truly repay that, you understand? Besides, Xiao Ci is a good kid. I can tell he’s not bad.”
“Dad.” Pei Jingchen patted his father’s shoulder. “I know.”
After bidding his father farewell, Pei Jingchen got back into the car and casually placed the bag on the passenger seat.
The bag?
He said he wouldn’t take it. Why did he bring it back? He must have forgotten in the rush.
The “Su Qingci’s Seat” sticker remained stuck to the dashboard, still tacky and intact.
His mind was swirling with memories, giving Pei Jingchen a headache. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from thinking more and more about it—the more he tried not to, the more it consumed him.
Pei Jingchen glanced at the bag. Inside was a mousse cake requiring refrigeration. The towel roll used animal cream, which would melt quickly. The desserts needed to be eaten promptly—they couldn’t be refrigerated, as they’d lose freshness overnight.
Pei Jingchen gripped the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator.
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