The final day of the twelfth lunar month arrived, and the Forbidden City lay wrapped in silver.
Lanterns glowed across every palace. From afar came the faint strains of court music from the grand New Year's banquet, drifting through the icy night air. Yet within the newly founded Office of Imperial Provisions, this was the busiest time of all. Not only did they bear responsibility for the magnificent New Year's feast, they also had to ensure that every consort—and even the guards and servants on night duty—received a proper New Year's meal. Not a single detail could be neglected.
By the time the last ceremonial dishes and reward pastries were delivered, it was already deep into the Hour of the Pig.
The night was heavy, the cold biting. Fireworks crackled faintly in the distance, making the kitchens—where the stove fires were finally dying down—feel unexpectedly quiet.
Yet when Qing Sweet changed out of her official robes, slipped into an old padded jacket, wrapped herself in a cloak, and stepped into the largest kitchen hall of the Office…
She froze.
Instead of silence, she was met with warmth and life.
Hardwood logs filled the stoves, flames leaping high and bathing the spacious room in amber light. A massive iron cauldron bubbled merrily, keeping warm a reserved New Year's meal. It wasn't the delicacies served to the nobles—but it was far from perfunctory.
A whole chicken stewed until tender. Thick slabs of braised pork. Bright green seasonal vegetables. And a large pot of milky fish head tofu soup. The aroma—rich with meat, steam, and firewood—was unmistakably human, unmistakably home.
Servants who had finished their shifts had already gathered, sitting or squatting around the heated brick platform. Their faces, young and old alike, wore rare, unguarded smiles—lightness found only once a year.
Someone had brought out New Year treats, smuggled in through familiar suppliers or family connections. Each was only a small amount, yet they came from everywhere: honey dates from Shandong, buttery melon seeds from Suzhou, spicy sausage from Sichuan, candied winter melon from Guangdong. A modest table, scattered with pieces of home.
"Director Qing is here!" someone called out.
Laughter followed. Greetings rang warmly.
Here, she wasn't just the Director—she was Qing Sweet, who had stood shoulder to shoulder with them at the stoves.
She smiled back, squeezed into the crowd, and rubbed her frost-cold hands. Someone passed her a handful of warm melon seeds. She took them without ceremony and started cracking them open.
"Snacking alone won't do," an old master chef laughed. "It's New Year's Eve—we should do it properly. Let's make dumplings!"
"Good idea!" came a chorus.
Flour and minced meat were brought out at once—clearly prepared in advance.
Watching the lively scene, an idea sparked in Qing Sweet's mind. She stood and said, "Let me teach everyone a special kind of dumpling."
She brought out washed copper coins, a few red dates, and several small pieces of rock sugar.
"We'll wrap these inside—just a few. Whoever gets a coin will have good fortune next year. A red date means health and peace. Sugar means sweetness and joy. What do you say?"
"That's fun!""What a great idea!"
Excitement surged.
Soon everyone was busy—kneading dough, seasoning filling, rolling wrappers, folding dumplings. Qing Sweet rolled up her sleeves and joined in, her hands quick and practiced.
As they worked, laughter filled the room. They talked about hometown customs, complained about the year's hardships, and spoke quietly of hopes for the year ahead. Firelight danced over faces lined with fatigue—yet glowing with simple happiness.
The kitchen smelled of flour and meat, echoing with laughter.
For this brief moment, there were no ranks. No rules. Just people who had worked all year, spending the last hours of New Year's Eve together—sharing warmth and easing their longing for home.
The dumplings were finished and dropped into boiling water. The pot roiled as plump white dumplings rose and fell—like hopes surfacing, sinking, and rising again.
Just as the first batch neared readiness—
Creeeak.
The heavy wooden door was pushed open.
A blade of freezing air swept in.
"Hey! Who is it? Come in and shut the door—you're letting the cold in!" a young eunuch shouted without looking up, eyes fixed on the pot.
The person at the door paused… then stepped inside and closed it carefully.
As the hooded cloak was removed, snowflakes shaken loose, and the firelight revealed the newcomer's face—
The kitchen fell utterly silent.
The master chef froze mid-scoop. Someone forgot to close their mouth. Those on the platform went rigid.
It was the Emperor.
Tang Yi wore a plain indigo padded robe beneath a black fox-fur cloak. Weariness lingered in his eyes—the kind left by endless rituals and forced toasts. Yet as he stepped into the warmth, into the living breath of the kitchen, the tightness between his brows eased—just slightly.
His calm gaze swept over the stunned faces and finally settled on Qing Sweet, who was equally shocked.
"Your Ma—" people began, scrambling to kneel.
"Enough," Tang Yi raised a hand. His voice was hoarse but unusually gentle."It's New Year's Eve. Spare the formalities."
His eyes drifted to the bubbling pot. After a pause, he said lightly,"I finished my duties and happened to pass by. Smelled something good."
Qing Sweet understood at once.
There was no "passing by." The Office was far from the palace halls. Just like before, when exhaustion pressed too heavily, he had followed warmth—followed something real.
Her heart softened.
She stepped forward, took the ladle from the dazed chef, scooped a bowl of steaming dumplings, splashed a little vinegar on top, and offered it with both hands. A faint smile touched her voice.
"If Your Majesty doesn't mind… would you like to try some? Fresh from the pot. They're lucky dumplings."
Tang Yi accepted without hesitation.
He didn't even look for a seat—just stood by the stove, took the chopsticks she handed him, lifted a dumpling, blew gently, and ate.
Thin skin. Juicy filling. Comforting warmth.
In the bitter cold of a palace night, beside a humble stove, this ordinary bite was more soothing than any rare delicacy.
He ate quietly.
No one dared move. Yet fear slowly gave way to disbelief—then something softer.
The Emperor… was really here. Eating dumplings with them.
The room held its breath.
Then Tang Yi paused mid-chew.
He frowned slightly, removed something from his mouth, and opened his palm.
Under the firelight lay a small, glistening piece of rock sugar.
Silence crashed down.
Terror flashed through every face. Hard food—sugar—in the Emperor's mouth? This was unforgivable!
Even Qing Sweet's heart leapt to her throat.
But Tang Yi stared at the sugar for a moment. The familiar aloofness on his face melted, just a little.
The corner of his lips curved—barely, but unmistakably.
Then, before anyone could react, he placed the sugar back into his mouth.
It dissolved slowly. Sweet. Cool. Warm.
"Sweet beginnings," he murmured softly, eyes lifting to Qing Sweet with a gentleness no one else could quite understand.
A tiny, uncontrollable chuckle escaped someone.
Then another.
Soon, soft laughter spread through the kitchen—relieved, warm, human.
Even the Emperor smiled. It was faint—but it lit up his tired face.
On this New Year's Eve, the solitary ruler of the realm stood by an ordinary hearth, sharing dumplings with the lowest servants of the palace—and tasted the sweetness meant for hope.
And through that simple bowl, the warmth of ordinary life quietly reached him at last.