The Yang mansion stood cloaked in stillness as if every part of its walls mourned with the family. Even the faint rustle of leaves outside seemed to hold its breath. The air felt heavier today, like it always did on this date. Eu-Meh had never been born, but her presence still lingered in the home. A child who never had a voice and yet spoke through the ache in her family's eyes this day every year.
Mingshen had returned to his room. But Jia couldn't. She stood in the living room, thinking. She then moved quietly through the kitchen, her sleeves rolled to her elbows and apron tied around her waist. She remembered Yang Bingqing's chirpy chatter of one time and then got to work. The scent of simmering lotus root soup, light soy and ginger, rose with the steam
