He'd only gone up to call Si Yuan down for dinner. Instead, the boy reached back without looking, caught him by the arm, and pulled him—still not quite back to himself—downstairs to the table.
The food was hot, the table full. Yu Hao ate his rice the usual way, bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other, while Si Yuan and his grandmother worked through their coconut rice with small dishes and spoons, scooping slowly, unhurried. They always said that was the only way to really taste it—the Southeast Asian way.
Alongside the rice: curry beef, stir-fried pork with chillies, fish in pickled broth, Hakka stuffed tofu, a plate of greens.
Her mother was one of those people who made graciousness look entirely natural, in the way she kept her home, in the way she received people. Day to day the family ate simply, but whenever her son-in-law came, she put together a proper Hakka spread and added a dish or two with a gentle heat, a small, wordless way of saying she had thought of him. From the very first time Si Chen had brought him here, she had never once shown him a difficult face. Even through the years of cold silences between him and her daughter, she had never spoken a harsh word to him—just the same steady warmth, visit after visit. That composure, that unspoken grace, left him with a feeling he couldn't quite resolve: gratitude, or something closer to guilt.
After the wedding he'd sent her a monthly allowance without fail, and covered her younger daughter's overseas tuition year after year. They had refused, more than once. He had done it anyway, quietly, without making anything of it. Si Yuan had told him once that his grandmother had a sizable trust fund from her family abroad—enough that money was not a concern. But to Yu Hao, being the only adult man in this family, shouldering it was simply the right thing to do.
She had never looked down on him for coming from nothing. She had treated him, from the start, as her own. His wife used to say, half joking, half complaining about it: "You're clearly her real child. She never picks on you—only ever on me."
Just then, she reached over and set a piece of stuffed tofu in his bowl. He came back to himself and said quietly, "Thank you, Ma."
The heaviness in his chest didn't lift. The food was good; he couldn't taste any of it. She was perceptive; she would have noticed he wasn't himself the moment she looked at him. And she might be the only person he could actually say it to.
He hesitated, then finally said:
"Ma… Nine years ago, Chen got into university. She never once mentioned it to me."
The spoon in her hand paused. A breath left her—barely a sound.
"Yes."
A silence. Then a faint smile found its way to the corners of her eyes—barely there, but there.
"She said… sitting the self-study exams here would do just as well."
After seeing Si Yuan downstairs, Yu Hao didn't stay. He drove straight to the office.
The building that was usually lit and busy around the clock was empty tonight—quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar. Outside the window, the last orange light of the sunset was giving way to dark blue. Yu Hao sat at his desk, staring at the screen he hadn't turned on, not entirely sure why he'd come.
That evening again—the one from memory.
She had been running toward him through the crowd, through the blaze of late-afternoon light, an elegant blue-and-white dress, a playful ponytail, a neat little black bag bouncing at her side. That clear, bright smile stopped him where he stood.
The crowd pressed in from every direction. He'd gone straight into it, reached through, found her hand and held on, drawing her in behind him as they pushed through together. They crossed the iron bridge and came out into the quieter stretch by the river.
She caught her breath. Glanced at her wrist. Let out a small, soft exhale: "Just made it."
Then her eyes dropped to their hands—his still wrapped around hers. She shifted, almost imperceptibly. The signal registered; he let go immediately, heat climbing the back of his neck. The colour in her cheeks—was that from running, or from something softer she couldn't quite name?
They walked on. A brief silence fell between them. Yu Hao hesitated, afraid the atmosphere might turn awkward, not sure where to find a way in. Those bright eyes of hers landed on the crumpled flyers in his other hand, and she smiled—a brief, apologetic smile.
"Sorry for making you wait so long."
"No—not at all." He shook his head quickly, flustered. Without quite meaning to, he moved a little closer, letting his height shelter her from the last of the sun.
They wandered the commercial street. She stopped at stalls selling small handmade things, crouching down to look properly; she stood for a while in front of an artist sketching portraits, watching the faces come alive on the paper. he didn't have much experience with this sort of thing, but he knew enough to know what he ought to do—ask if she liked something, offer to buy it. But each time he was ready, she'd already moved lightly on to the next stall.
She mentioned a congee shop nearby, a century-old place with a good name. They went. She said it was her first time, but when the menus came she talked through the dishes like someone who knew them well—this was the signature, this was worth trying. Yu Hao had never cared much about food; he nodded along without strong opinions. Then the dishes arrived, and everything she'd pointed to was exactly as good as she'd said.
When she excused herself to the bathroom, he made for the counter. The bill was already settled. She'd moved faster than him, and came back smiling: "Thank you for coming with me today."
Later he insisted on dessert—a small shop she'd mentioned in passing, known for its red bean soup. She didn't argue, just nodded and fell into step beside him as they turned into a narrow lane strung with soft light.
The warmth of that early summer evening worked its way into him. But eventually he had to see her to her stop. The bus was coming in. And in that last moment, it suddenly struck him that if he let her board and said nothing, there might not be a next time.
He asked for her number, half afraid she might hesitate.
That night, the first message:
"Home safe?"
"Yes. Today was really lovely—thank you."
"Let's do this again sometime."
"Yes, let's stay in touch."
And so it started, back and forth, a message at a time. Not many—he preferred seeing her in person.
He found reasons to be near the convenience store where she worked. The store manager, perpetually short-staffed, was always glad to see him show up to help move stock. Not that there was much conversation—those evenings had a particular quiet to them, as if that night at the bridge had been just a passing thing, already almost behind them. He'd wait outside until her shift was done, then walk half a step behind—always half a step, always the right distance—until she was on the bus.
Summer nights, stars out, a light wind.
It was, in that particular way, almost too good to be real.
He had thought, back then: she was a regular girl, working a regular part-time job, probably in high school. And he was two years into his first real job after college, a junior sales rep in FMCG—nothing much to speak of, but not out of her league either. They felt matched.
Sometimes he'd suggest a film; sometimes she'd pull him toward a gallery or an exhibition he'd never have found on his own. The outings were occasional, not planned, but each one stayed with him. The feeling between them grew the way these things do when nobody is forcing them—slowly, without announcing itself.
There was a stretch when she looked worn. Pale, head down, something sitting on her that she wasn't saying. He started to wonder if he'd been too much—if she'd grown tired of him. Then one evening she texted and asked if he'd come to the river. He'd gone half-ready to hear her end it.
Instead, she told him: exams coming, pressure building past what she knew how to carry.
"Don't worry. We'll take it one day at a time. I'm not going anywhere."
He put his arms around her carefully. After a moment, the crying she'd been holding back finally came—quiet and contained, but real.
In the days that followed, she studied and worked and kept both going at once. He couldn't do much. He could be there. She started sending messages at odd hours—seven in the morning, four in the afternoon, two in the morning with a photo of the moon and a single line: "The night is so beautiful." He picked up every one the moment it arrived, terrified of being a second too slow.
By autumn, the results came. She mentioned them once, lightly: "Not bad."
They went to the night market to celebrate. He held her hand all evening and didn't let go.
He had thought it was just another exam. Only today did he understand what it had actually been—an international qualification, entirely in English, sat against students from across the world.
She had scored full marks across the board.
She had never been an ordinary girl.
He simply hadn't known it yet.