By dawn, the news had spread like spilled oil on a hot pan.
The noodle shop that had opened just yesterday, the one the entire street had buzzed about, the one with the warm broth and long lines, had been shut down overnight.
The red notice flapped like a flag of shame on the front wall.
Every passerby slowed down to stare. Some whispered. Some shook their heads. Some, out of petty habit, twisted the truth into something sharper.
"I heard someone got food poisoning."
"No no, I heard she didn't even have a refrigerator. Imagine that."
"She looked like such a proper girl too... what a pity."
Inside the shop, Mianmian sat on the empty stool behind the counter, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes dry now but distant.
She hadn't slept after they left, she couldn't, sleep was the last thing on her mind.
The sun was barely up, yet the street was alive with voices, laughs, murmurs, and curious glances that peeled across her windows like blades.
She had stopped crying hours ago.
