The courtyard slowly emptied.
Footsteps faded beyond the gate. The laughter from earlier lingered in the air like warmth after a fire—unfamiliar, fragile, almost unreal.
Mei Lin stood by the doorway for a long moment, listening.
Only when she was sure everyone had gone did she finally exhale.
Inside the house, the oil lamp flickered softly. Shadows swayed along the walls. The table was still cluttered with bowls and chopsticks, remnants of a meal that had quietly changed something fundamental.
Ming Li rolled up his sleeves without a word and began clearing the dishes.
Mei Lin didn't stop him this time.
In her past life, she had always felt awkward around domestic things, as if doing them meant admitting defeat. Now, she understood—these small, ordinary moments were what she had thrown away.
She carried the kettle, poured warm water into a basin, and brought it to the washroom.
"For you," she said quietly, setting it down.
Ming Li paused.
He looked at the basin, then at her. His expression flickered—surprise, caution, something softer he didn't allow himself to name.
"…Thank you."
Their words were few.
But the silence between them was no longer cold.
Mei Lin went to bathe their daughter. She poured warm water carefully, washed the little girl's hair, wrapped her in a towel, and dressed her in clean clothes. The child yawned, eyes already half-closed.
"Mother," she murmured, clinging to Mei Lin's sleeve, "are you really not leaving?"
Mei Lin's chest tightened.
She kissed her daughter's forehead.
"Sleep. Mother is here."
When the child was settled under the quilt, Mei Lin tucked the corners carefully, lingering longer than necessary—memorizing the small, steady rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of a life she had once abandoned.
Outside, water splashed softly.
Ming Li finished washing and returned, his hair damp, sleeves rolled, looking unexpectedly young under the lamplight.
Mei Lin waited until he sat down.
Then she reached into her pocket.
She placed eight hundred yuan on the table.
The money made a soft sound as it landed—but it echoed loudly in the quiet room.
Ming Li stiffened.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Our savings," Mei Lin said calmly. "For the future."
He frowned.
"You should keep it. You earned it."
She shook her head.
"In the past, I spent money carelessly. I treated other people better than my own family." Her fingers curled slightly. "I won't do that again."
She pushed the money closer to him.
"You hold it."
Ming Li stared at the bills for a long moment.
Then he slowly closed his hand over them.
Something in his chest loosened.
"…You've changed," he said quietly.
Mei Lin met his eyes.
"I didn't change today," she replied softly. "I changed too late once. This time, I'm early."
He didn't fully understand—but for the first time, he didn't reject her words.
He stood, hesitated, then reached out.
His arms wrapped around her—carefully, as if afraid she might disappear.
Mei Lin froze for a heartbeat.
Then she leaned into him.
The embrace was not fierce. Not desperate.
It was hesitant. Testing. Two people standing at the edge of a broken bridge, wondering if it would hold.
"I won't let you leave again," Ming Li said, his voice low, pressed near her ear.
Mei Lin closed her eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere."
That night, they didn't rush.
They talked—about small things. About the school. About their daughter. About the garden. About nothing important and everything at once.
When they finally lay down, the oil lamp dimmed, shadows folding inward.
Ming Li reached for her hand.
She didn't pull away.
Their closeness was slow, careful, filled with restraint built over years of misunderstanding. Every touch carried hesitation, every breath carried memory.
But beneath it all, something old stirred again—not passion, but belonging.
When the night deepened, Mei Lin rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Steady.
Real.
She hadn't realized how long she'd lived without that sound.
For Ming Li, holding her like this felt dangerous—because hope was dangerous. But as her breathing evened out, as she curled unconsciously closer, he felt something settle.
Not certainty.
But trust.
A fragile beginning.
---
When dawn crept in through the window, Mei Lin woke first.
She didn't move right away.
She simply lay there, listening to the quiet of the house—her daughter sleeping in the next room, her husband beside her, the faint sounds of the brigade waking beyond the walls.
This is where I should have been, she thought.
And this time… she stayed.