The day of the Winter Solstice dawned with a veil of pale sunlight. The city had grown quieter under the touch of cold; lanterns with crimson tassels swayed along the streets, and the smell of sesame, ginger, and glutinous rice flour drifted from every corner.
For Lin Qing Yun, the season meant one thing: tangyuan. It was a tradition as old as her childhood, a sweetness she once shared with her sister every year, no matter how small their kitchen or how short their money.
This year, Gu Ze Yan had signed them up for a cooking class.
---
The studio was warm, glass windows fogged from the steam of boiling pots. Inside, the atmosphere was playful: couples laughing, flour dusting clothes and hair, teachers calling out instructions in cheerful tones.
Qing Yun rolled up her sleeves, kneading dough into soft pliancy. Ze Yan stood beside her, pretending expertise as he pinched at a ball of dough and promptly tore it in half.
"Sunny," he murmured, lowering his head near hers, "how many points will you give my craftsmanship?"
She looked at the lumpy, uneven dough between his fingers and burst out laughing. "Zero. No—negative one."
Ze Yan straightened, affronted. "Abstract art deserves higher scores."
"Abstract art doesn't sink in the pot," she teased, slipping a ball of red bean paste neatly into the dough and closing it like a secret.
---
The instructor encouraged them to shape the tangyuan into little animals. Qing Yun's fingers moved carefully, forming two long ears on a round body.
"Rabbit," she announced softly, placing it on the tray.
Ze Yan leaned in, squinting. His lips curved into mischief. "Are you sure it's not a mouse?"
Her hand stilled, and she glared at him. "Rabbit."
"Mouse."
She poked his arm with her flour-covered finger, leaving a white mark. "Say one more word and I'll feed it to you raw."
Ze Yan laughed, catching her wrist and brushing off the flour, his eyes soft as though even her mock-threats were something to treasure.
---
When it was his turn, his creation emerged… shapeless. Uneven. Perhaps a pig, perhaps a cloud, perhaps nothing at all.
Qing Yun's laughter spilled again, bright as silver bells. "What is this supposed to be?"
"Modern art," he said, utterly serious.
"Ugly art," she countered, though her eyes were shining.
The other couples glanced over, whispering, smiling with quiet envy at the ease between them.
---
As the tangyuan slid into the boiling water, little rabbits and blobs bobbing on the surface, Qing Yun leaned against the counter and watched them dance.
She held one palm close to the steam, warmth blooming across her skin. "Si Yao would love this," she murmured. "She'd laugh so hard at these shapes."
Her gaze softened, far away, as if picturing her sister's smile in the rising steam.
Ze Yan heard the note in her voice, a tender longing tucked behind the words. He reached across the counter and folded his hand over hers. "Then we'll make them perfect for her."
Qing Yun's lips curved faintly. "They'll never be perfect. But that's why she'd like them."
---
When the tangyuan was ready, they shared a bowl between them. The sweetness of red bean burst softly under her teeth, warm against the winter chill outside. Ze Yan leaned closer, watching her chew with satisfaction, as though even this simple act of eating was proof that she was his.
Flour still clung to her cheek. He brushed it off gently with his thumb, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
---
After class, they stepped into the street together. The city was darkening, the first snow of the season falling in slow spirals. Qing Yun cradled the small box of tangyuan they had packed to take home. She held it to her chest carefully, like a precious gift.
Snow touched her hair, her lashes. Ze Yan tilted his umbrella over her, but her smile was lit from within.
She whispered, almost to herself, "Si Yao will be so happy."
Ze Yan didn't reply. He only looked at her—the quiet anticipation in her eyes, the fragile hope in her voice—and felt a twist in his chest. He wanted to promise her that joy, that her sister would always be there to laugh at their silly tangyuan. But some promises the world had no intention of keeping.
---
They walked home in silence, their breaths white in the air.
Qing Yun clutched the little box, dreaming of the laughter she longed to hear.