The next morning, Zhao Meilin stands in front of the shopping bags delivered to her apartment; sleek suits, tailored dresses, and accessories that gleam with quiet power. She's heading to the capital soon, and every item is a calculated choice. For two hours, she arranges them in the walk-in closet inside her space, each piece a thread in the persona she's weaving.
Then she changes.
Gone are the silk blouses and sharp heels. She slips into the clothes the old Zhao Meilin used to wear; faded jeans, a stretched-out hoodie, and those thick, ugly spectacles that once shielded her from the world. She clips on the fake bangs, uneven and dull, and stares at her reflection. The transformation is complete. She doesn't just look like the girl she used to be, she feels her.
The email from her elementary school sits open on her newly bought phone. A simple request: collect your transfer and academic certificates. She knows it's routine, but it feels heavier than that. These papers are the last remnants of a life that barely acknowledged her existence.
She walks the familiar road to school, guided by the memories of the girl who used to tread it alone. The neighborhood hasn't changed; cracked sidewalks, rusted gates, the scent of frying dough from the corner stall. Children run past her, laughing, backpacks bouncing. No one looks twice.
At the school gate, the security guard waves her in without a word. She signs the visitor log and heads to the administrative office, where a clerk glances up with a neutral expression.
"You're Zhao Meilin? One moment."
The woman rummages through a drawer and hands her a folder; transfer certificate, academic record, conduct file. Zhao Meilin takes it silently, fingers brushing the edge of the documents that once defined her worth.
"There's also this," the clerk adds, pulling out a yellowing sheet. "Your essay competition certificate. You placed second."
Zhao Meilin blinks. She hadn't known. The essay had been about resilience; written late at night in the orphanage, after the lights were out, when silence felt like suffocation. She'd poured herself into it, hoping someone would see her. No one had told her she'd won. No one had celebrated.
She folds the certificate carefully and places it in the folder.
On her way out, she pauses at the gate. The sun casts long shadows across the courtyard. She looks back once, not with longing, but with quiet resolve.
This place never saw her. But the girl who walked these halls invisible is no longer waiting to be seen.
She's preparing to rise.
Looking at the familiar yet unfamiliar roads ahead, Zhao Meilin's gaze drifts toward a narrow alley tucked between two aging apartment blocks. It's quiet, shaded, almost easy to miss, but she recognizes it instantly.
This alley was once a dream destination for the previous Zhao Meilin.
She steps inside, the air cooler here, tinged with the scent of sesame oil and grilled scallions. At the end stands a small restaurant with a faded red awning and a wooden sign carved with delicate calligraphy: "Hearth & Memory".
The paint is chipped, the windows fogged with steam, but the place hums with life.
Every student from her old school knows this spot. With no cafeteria on campus, this was their sanctuary. Laughter, gossip, and the clatter of chopsticks filled these walls every afternoon. The food, they said, was legendary; crispy dumplings, hand-pulled noodles, sweet soy buns that melted on the tongue.
Zhao Meilin had wanted to eat here too. Desperately. But she never had the money. She'd walk past, stomach growling, pretending she wasn't hungry. She'd made a promise to herself: One day, when I have money, I'll eat here. I'll order everything I want.
But she died before she could fulfill that promise.
Now, standing in front of the restaurant in a borrowed body and a reborn soul, Zhao Meilin feels the weight of that vow. She won't let the wishes of the girl who came before her be forgotten.
She steps inside.
The space is cramped but warm. Wooden tables, mismatched chairs, a wall covered in faded photos of smiling students. Behind the counter, a middle-aged man with flour-dusted hands is kneading dough. His son, maybe twenty three or four, with dyed copper hair and a confident air, flashes her a polite smile. Looking at the pair of father and son, Zhao Meilin is shocked. Both of them have the same red aura around them as Mu Sheng and Ye Wanei which suggest that both of them are highly talented and capable.
"Welcome to Hearth & Memory," he says. "First time here?"
Zhao Meilin nods. "Yes. But I've wanted to come for a long time."
The father looks up, wiping his hands on his apron. His name tag reads Lao Chen. His hands are calloused, his eyes kind. "School girl, huh? You from the elementary nearby?"
"I was," she says softly. "A long time ago."
He chuckles. "Then you must've heard about our dumplings. Want to try them?"
"I want to try everything," she says, voice steady. "Everything I couldn't before."
The son, Chen Rui grins. "Then you're in luck. My dad does the classics, Shandong-style dumplings, red-braised pork, scallion pancakes. I handle the fusion stuff. Want to try my garlic butter bao sliders?"
She blinks. "You do Western food?"
"Sort of," he says, shrugging. "I like experimenting. Dad says I'm ruining tradition. I say I'm expanding it."
Lao Chen snorts but doesn't argue. "We'll make you a sampler. House special."
She sits at a corner table, watching the steam rise from the kitchen, the sizzle of oil, the rhythm of the cleaver against the cutting board. When the food arrives, golden dumplings, fragrant noodles, sweet buns, and a trio of Rui's sliders with pickled daikon and hoisin glaze, she doesn't rush.
She eats slowly, reverently. Each bite is a tribute. To hunger. To hope. To the girl who once dreamed of this moment.
Lao Chen watches her from behind the counter, something soft in his eyes. "You remind me of someone," he says. "There was a quiet girl who used to pass by every day. Never came in. Just looked."
Zhao Meilin whisper slowly in her heart, "Unfortunately she is gone."
As Zhao Meilin finishes the last bite of Rui's slider, a thought stirs in her mind upon remembering the red aura he saw, quiet at first, then insistent.
She remembers the recipe books tucked away in her spatial library. Ancient culinary scrolls, regional techniques, forgotten flavor pairings left by fairy Miling
She wipes her hands, stands, and walks to the counter.
"Uncle Chen," she says, voice calm but clear. "Have you ever thought about opening your own restaurant? Not just this one, but something bigger. A chain. A legacy."
He blinks, surprised. "A chain? Me?"
"You specialize in authentic Chinese cuisine. Your dumplings alone could anchor a brand. I have access to rare recipes, ones that haven't been seen in decades. If you're willing, I can help you build something that honors tradition and reaches every corner of the country. Maybe even the world."
Chen Rui leans forward, eyes wide. "And me?"
She turns to him, lips curving. "You want to experiment. Innovate. I see that. What if you had your own café franchise? A place where East meets West; bao sliders next to matcha tiramisu, fusion brunches with dragonfruit lattes. I can help you design it. Fund it. Launch it."
The room falls silent.
Lao Chen stares at her, flour still dusting his knuckles. "Why would you do that?"
"Because someone once made a promise here," she says. "And I intend to keep it. Not just for her, but for everyone who's ever dreamed in silence."
Chen Rui breaks into a grin. "You're serious?"
"I don't make empty offers."
Lao Chen exhales slowly, then nods. "You know… I've had students come back and say thank you. But no one's ever offered me a future."
Zhao Meilin smiles. "Then let's build one."
"I will come tomorrow again with my friends and we will plan it in detail about where to start and what should be the net step."
They shake hands, rough palms meeting smooth fingers. A quiet pact sealed in steam and memory.
As she steps out of Hearth & Memory, the sun catches her face. The alley feels different now. Not just a place of longing, but the birthplace of something new.
Behind her, Lao Chen and Chen Rui are already talking excitedly, sketching ideas on the back of a napkin. And Zhao Meilin walks forward, knowing this is only the beginning.