No use thinking about it now.
I already ordered it days ago. It should be ready.
I walk straight into the shop, confidence mode on. The owner looks up, recognizes me immediately.
"You came," he says, reaching under the counter.
My heart does a tiny hop.
He hands it to me.
And—yeah.
It's perfect.
Exactly how I imagined it. Neat. Clean. No flaws. The kind of thing you don't second-guess.
He wraps it carefully, layers of paper, ribbon tied just right. I take it with both hands like it's fragile, even though it's not.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely relieved.
"All done," he smiles.
Mission complete.
---
I walk back to the apartment, bag tucked close to my side. I unlock the door and step in—
—and immediately stop.
Jiang is at the counter. Sleeves rolled up. Knife in hand.
Onions.
Many onions.
His eyes are red. Water is straight up streaming down his face like he's watching the saddest drama of his life.
