Chapter 10

This Awful Signal

Lóu Zhìyún’s words felt oddly familiar.

Hāyuè stared at his figure, which gradually faded into the night, momentarily stunned. Then it hit her—half an hour ago, she’d interacted with Xuējīng in almost the exact same way outside the hotel.

Her wariness toward Lóu Zhìyún eased. It seemed he wasn’t planning some impulsive crime or intending to rob her small shop. Most likely, he had a crush on her.

Thinking along those lines made her feel a little awkward—not because of Lóu Zhìyún, but because she was reflecting on herself: Could her earlier attempt to apologize to Xuējīng have also looked like she was sending romantic signals?

The coin-operated ride outside the store stopped moving. The little girl, not yet satisfied, ran inside to hug her grandmother’s leg and plead, “One more time, just one more time, okay? The ride ended before it even really started!”

The elderly grandmother, both amused and helpless, gently patted her granddaughter’s hair and got up once again to insert another coin. During this brief interval, Hāyuè plugged in her phone to charge it.

On the screen, aside from Lóu Zhìyún’s missed call and his WeChat friend request, there was no reply from Xuējīng.

Hāyuè fidgeted with her toes inside her shoes as she reread the messages she had impulsively sent to Xuējīng. She realized there was a real possibility he might misunderstand her intentions. After a moment of silence, she decided to push those awkward messages out of her mind. Looking up at the ceiling, she sighed internally: Whatever. Let him think what he wants. I wasn’t trying to ask my ex out on a date anyway.

Maybe Xuējīng hadn’t replied because he had a girlfriend and wanted to avoid any misunderstandings. That would actually be better—if he had someone, she wouldn’t have to worry about giving the wrong impression.

The last thing she wanted was to be the kind of “green tea ex-girlfriend” people gossiped about online.

Xuējīng was now something of a public figure, and any slip-up on her part could make her the center of a scandal.

It was just a meal—skipping it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. The past was like dead ashes; there was no need to sift through them for clarity.

She didn’t have the time or energy to waste on mental anguish over an ex.

Half an hour later, the little girl—after riding the coin-operated horse ten times—was finally dragged away from the shop by her grandmother.

This time, Hāyuè carefully checked that all the switches in the store were turned off before calling Zhào Chūnnī to let her know she was heading back home, piglets included.

When she arrived home, dinner was already prepared. To her surprise, the cook tonight was Zhào Chūnnī.

Before leaving, Aunt Sīqín had even taken Hāyuè aside and whispered to her at the door not to stay mad at her mom. Apparently, the moment Hāyuè left the house, her mother started feeling guilty about her outburst. After sitting alone in the courtyard for a short while, she’d rushed over to the stove to start cooking, saying that she needed to make huísháo noodles—Hāyuè’s favorite—before she came back.

Aunt Sīqín was a few years older than Zhào Chūnnī. She had retired early with a buyout of her urban resident pension plan. Having raised her child alone and helped her son get married, she now received nearly 2,000 yuan in monthly pension payments. Her life was comfortable enough, and she didn’t need to exhaust herself doing odd jobs.

But she was a woman used to hard work and couldn’t sit idle. After her son got married, the three of them lived together. During the day, both her son and daughter-in-law were out—her son Jīnzǐ drove for the Cultural Bureau, and her daughter-in-law Cáo Xiǎoyǔ worked as a designer at a print shop in the county. So Aunt Sīqín had volunteered to spend her days helping out with Zhào Chūnnī.

A lunch and a dinner, with two old friends chatting and laughing, and the day passed by quickly.

Hāyuè was happy and grateful. She had once tried to give Aunt Sīqín a service fee, but Aunt Sīqín refused firmly, saying that the two families were already close, so there was no need for that. Instead, Hāyuè exchanged the money for equivalent vegetables, fruits, and supplements, which she regularly sent in boxes to Aunt Sīqín’s home.

After their conversation ended, Aunt Sīqín joyfully carried a large bowl of huísháo noodles packed for Hāyuè and bade her farewell. Watching Aunt Sīqín walk into her own yard, Hāyuè turned back and looked at the warm light spilling from her house, and the smile on her face grew a bit bitter.

Aunt Sīqín didn’t know that Hāyuè hadn’t eaten huísháo noodles since the year her father left home.

Huísháo noodles had never been Zhao Chūnnī’s favorite food, but because both father and daughter liked it, she had started learning to make it. After Hā Jiànguó left, she simply began to view this home-cooked dish as a kind of emotional betrayal.

At that time, the young Hāyuè didn’t understand her mother’s feelings. Once, after getting a stomach infection, she made a fuss because her mother’s cooking didn’t suit her taste, demanding that her mother make her a bowl of the noodles they used to eat at home.

Zhao Chūnnī, in a fit of rage, threw all the food on the table into the trash and punished her by not allowing her to eat for two whole days.

Hāyuè still remembered the fear she felt when she had to rummage through the trash for food in the middle of the night due to hunger.

How could Zhao Chūnnī ever willingly make huísháo noodles for her?

Hāyuè didn’t think it was because her sick mother had started regretting her past actions.

Human nature is hard to change.

Zhao Chūnnī’s temper was like the stone in an outhouse—both foul and hard. Most likely, today’s kindness was because she had forgotten that Hā Jiànguó had left the family. Her mental timeline had suddenly slipped back more than a decade.

After dinner, the mother and daughter washed the dishes together. The weather had gradually turned colder, and in half a month, the outdoor temperature in Suíchéng would quickly drop below freezing.

The piglets, which had only recently been weaned, still needed to stay indoors.

As for the geese in the yard, they needed to be finished off before the first snow. They could be braised, stir-fried, or stored in the freezer for later use. Otherwise, their meat would become tough, but that was secondary. The main issue was that in winter, a special heated greenhouse would need to be built for the geese. It was such a hassle, and Hāyuè really didn’t have the time to raise geese.

Next spring, no matter what, she would never let Zhao Chūnnī go to the market to buy poultry again.

Hāyuè turned on the TV and adjusted it to the program her mother liked, then sat down next to her on the sofa. During dinner, the two of them barely spoke; Zhao Chūnnī kept her head down, quickly eating the noodles. She ate in a hurry and coughed a few times as she choked, prompting Hāyuè to pour her water twice, but she couldn’t find the right moment to strike up a conversation.

The melodramatic soap opera at 8 PM was currently airing a storyline about a husband’s affair. Hāyuè, sitting at the far end of the sofa, glanced over at her mother, who was seated three seats away, trying to gauge her reaction. But Zhao Chūnnī’s face was slack, her expression devoid of emotion, and she just kept nodding slowly while watching the TV, appearing somewhat drowsy.

Under the shifting lights of the TV screen, Hāyuè suddenly had the illusion that her mother’s entire face seemed to be slowly melting away.

Two years ago, when she took Zhao Chūnnī to see a doctor in Jìchéng, the doctor had privately informed Hāyuè about the progression of Alzheimer’s disease.

As the brain deteriorates, the patient not only gradually loses memory but also the ability to understand their surroundings, leading to emotional outbursts, repetitive compulsive behavior, incontinence, and other common symptoms. Meanwhile, the patient’s appetite and libido often increase as well.

It was a one-way street to a known destination, with no turns or opportunities for a reversal.

The doctor had clearly told her this, but for the past two years, Zhao Chūnnī’s condition had remained quite stable, to the point that Hāyuè had almost forgotten those scientific facts.

Perhaps? Maybe Zhao Chūnnī’s mild symptoms could last for another ten years or so.

She was just like every other middle-aged person beginning to grow old—forgetting to add salt to the food, losing track of where she put her phone, occasionally forgetting what she was doing, and sometimes even forgetting the way home when out on the street.

Unfortunately, the miracle she had imagined was never going to happen. At least today, she had clearly realized that once again.

Because outside the window, her mother’s wet pants from the afternoon—after wandering outside for hours—were still hanging there.

The noise from the TV suddenly became unbearable, so Hāyuè clenched her fists and went outside to get some fresh air, checking on the two little pigs who had been running around outside all afternoon to see if they had gotten sick from eating things they shouldn’t.

Due to motion sickness, the piglets didn’t look very energetic, and they hadn’t finished their evening feed. Hāyuè stirred some vitamins and probiotics into their food, added some warm water, then went back inside to fetch her mother’s fresh clothes, waking her up and guiding her to the eastern room to run a bath for her.

Once Zhao Chūnnī had changed into her pajamas and lay in bed with her eyes closed, Hāyuè finally had the time to go to the bathroom and wash up.

The hot water in the heater was used up, and it would take another twenty minutes to heat it up again. So, Hāyuè sat on the edge of the bathtub with a towel in her lap and started scrolling through her WeChat Moments.

The neighbor, Mr. Zhāng, had won thirty yuan in Mahjong this morning, and Mrs. Lǐ, the neighbor in front, celebrated her birthday by eating longevity noodles. Hāyuè’s Moments were now mostly filled with these trivial details about her neighbors’ lives, but she enjoyed reading them and giving them likes.

The bathtub, installed two years ago, was new. Zhao Chūnnī had lived in a single-story house her whole life and had never used a bathtub, but this hadn’t stopped her from gradually growing fond of soaking in the bath to relax. Although when Hāyuè had planned to spend money remodeling the bathroom after returning to Suìchéng, Zhao Chūnnī had initially expressed strong disdain, thinking Hāyuè was wasting money.

After scrolling through her Moments, Hāyuè noticed that there was still a red dot by her contacts. She hesitated for a moment before opening it and seeing Lóu Zhìyún’s profile picture. She paused and didn’t accept his friend request.

If he were just an ordinary customer, it wouldn’t matter. She didn’t mind exchanging contact details with her customers; it was a necessary part of doing business. But after sensing Lóu Zhìyún’s intentions, she knew she had to be cautious.

Although Lóu Zhìyún seemed to meet the criteria she once had for a partner back in Jìchéng, Hāyuè wasn’t in the mood to think about personal relationships now. Moreover, if he knew that she had a mother suffering from Alzheimer’s who required long-term care, he likely wouldn’t want to pursue anything further with her.

If something has no future, there’s no need to start—it’s just a waste of energy.

Besides, in a small town like this, it’s not like in big cities where, after a breakup, you can just disappear from each other’s lives and not see each other for years. Here, with vast spaces and a small population, even the slightest gossip can become a topic of conversation for an entire year.

She had no intention of responding to his feelings, nor did she want to stir up any trouble.

As time passed ten o’clock, the red light on the water heater turned off. Just as Hāyuè was about to put her phone on the small stool, the screen suddenly lit up with a new message.

She opened the message, frowning slightly, and then slowly relaxed her expression, repeating the process a few times.

The message was from Xuè Jīng.

It had been exactly four hours since she had sent him her message tonight.

But it seemed like he didn’t feel the need to explain his delayed response; he simply replied politely: “Of course, I wouldn’t want to disturb you. My WeChat number is the same as my phone number.”