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In the Han household, dinner that evening was anything but peaceful. As the family sat down to eat, tension hung in the air thicker than the steam rising from their bowls. Madam Wei, already fuming like a mother hen ready to protect her brood, finally lost her patience. For the very first time, she scolded Han Bo sharply, her loud voice slicing through the silence.
Han Bo's eyes welled up with tears as he pushed his bowl away. "The food is too plain," he sobbed, "I want more meat, I want meat!"
Old Man Han said nothing. He simply lowered his head and continued to eat in silence. Across the table, Madam Zhang clutched her son protectively, tears slipping down her cheeks. "He's still growing" she cried, "a child needs more meat to stay strong, you can't scold your grandson!"
Han Qiang remained silent throughout the argument, his face expressionless. Yet the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he avoided everyone's gaze made it clear he didn't like this new arrangement one bit.
The twins sat side by side, their heads bowed low as they stuffed food into their little mouths, too frightened to cry after what happened in the afternoon. The clatter of their chopsticks was the only sound that filled the uneasy silence.
Meanwhile, Madam Liu ate in calm detachment. She didn't seem pleased with the simple meal either, but she didn't complain. Instead, she fed her daughter spoonful by spoonful, watching the family's turmoil unfold with quiet amusement. For her, the lack of flavor on the table was easily compensated by the drama playing out before her eyes.
Han Sheng, on the other hand, sat quietly at the end of the table. He neither spoke nor looked up, simply eating what was in front of him without a word. Whether he was indifferent or merely tired of the endless bickering, no one could tell, and perhaps no one dared to ask.
And so, the Han family's dinner went on bitter words swallowed with plain rice, the taste of resentment lingering longer than the food itself.
The good days of the Han household were not so peaceful after all, and perhaps, before long, they would become much more pitiful than they already were.
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The morning light seeped softly through the paper windows, scattering upon the room like threads of gold. A faint fragrance of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of the sun that crept quietly across the floor. The sunlight, gentle as spring water, caressed Han Yan's face and stirred him from slumber.
He felt something soft and warm pressed faintly against his chest. Half-drowsy, Han Yan instinctively tightened his hold before his consciousness fully returned. As his eyes opened, what entered his sight was Lin Xin's peaceful face.
The youth was nestled against him, breathing evenly, his long lashes casting delicate shadows upon his cheeks. A faint trace of drool glistened at the corner of his lips, dampening Han Yan's outer robe ever so slightly. The sight drew out a helpless chuckle from Han Yan's lips a warmth spreading through his chest that no sunlight could compare to.
Outside, a magpie called upon the eaves, and the faint rustle of bamboo leaves stirred with the morning breeze. Yet within this quiet little room, time seemed to have slowed as if the world beyond the window had been sealed away, leaving only the two of them within their little world.
Han Yan lowered his gaze again. Lin Xin's curly hair, soft as silk, brushed against his arm, and his expression was unguarded, almost childlike. Han Yan's heart softened as he reached out and gently brushed away the stray strands from Lin Xin's forehead.
Han Yan couldn't help himself. His hand moved almost on its own, fingers lightly pinching Lin Xin's cheek.
The youth frowned a little in his sleep, lips pursing as he mumbled something incoherent. A moment later, he shifted and nestled even closer, his forehead brushing against Han Yan's chest as though searching for warmth.
Han Yan's smile deepened, the kind that reached his eyes without a sound. The morning sunlight poured gently through the paper window, tracing soft gold along Lin Xin's hair and the curve of his face. The sight was almost too tender, so peaceful it felt unreal.
If he could, Han Yan wished he could keep this moment forever to capture it somehow, as he once would have, with a single press of a button. But such things did not exist here.
So he simply let his gaze linger, tracing every quiet detail the rise and fall of Lin Xin's breathing, the faint warmth that seeped through their shared stillness, the way sunlight played across his lashes like threads of gold. It was a fragile moment, one that felt as though even a sigh might shatter it.
He wished to hold it close, to keep it somewhere time could not reach. Though he said nothing, the scene was carved into him where no season could fade it.
Outside, a wind stirred the bamboo grove, carrying with it the gentle rustle of leaves and the scent of morning dew and the day continued on as though nothing had changed. Yet within that moment, Han Yan felt a rare sense of peace one he could neither name nor explain.
After a few minutes of silent staring, Han Yan finally moved he gently withdraw his arm, careful enough not to disturb the sleeping youth. Lin Xin shifted faintly, his breath brushing against Han Yan's sleeve before settling once more into calm slumber.
As the sunlight crept further into the room, brushing against the edge of the wooden bed frame and spilling softly across the floor, Han Yan sat upright and reached for his robe, fastening it with unhurried hands.
If he remembered correctly, today marked the second day since he had awoken within this story, a world that was no longer fiction, but his reality.
He sighed as he rose quietly, glancing once more at Lin Xin before stepping away from the bedside. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his feet, and he paused, waiting for the sound to fade before he reached for the door. With careful hands, he slid it open just wide enough to slip through, making sure not to wake the youth still sleeping within.
The corridor beyond was cool, carrying the faint scent of morning dew. Han Yan moved soundlessly, his robe brushing lightly against the wooden floor as he made his way toward the small kitchen tucked at the back of the courtyard. The hinges gave a soft groan as he pushed the door open, and a wisp of smoke from last night's fire still lingered in the air.
The humble kitchen had a few clay jars along the wall, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Sunlight filtered through the paper window, landing on the simple wooden table in the center.
Han Yan's gaze swept across the room. In a woven basket near the corner lay a piece of dried fish and shrimp, its scent faint but still rich, likely left there by Lin Xin before turning in for the night. Near the window rested a bundle of fresh mushrooms, their caps still damp with morning moisture the ones he had gathered along the mountain yesterday.
A faint smile curved his lips when he noticed the rest of the ingredients. The remaining things from their harvest had been carefully kept wild vegetables, roots, and a few tender shoots, all washed clean and set to dry by the window. Their small efforts had filled this modest kitchen with a quiet sense of warmth.
Still, as his gaze swept once more over the shelves and jars, Han Yan realized there wasn't much left to work with. Only half a jar of rice remained, and not a trace of seasoning or even oil could be found. A faint sigh escaped him. He suddenly missed the easy comfort of spice racks and bottled sauces things that had once been ordinary, now felt like luxuries here.
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