Zhen pushed open the wooden door, stepping inside with Jun trailing quietly behind him.


    The hut was small and cramped, its wooden walls worn with age. The thatched roof had gaps that let in slivers of light, casting uneven patterns on the dirt floor. A few woven mats were spread near the stove, where the family usually ate their meals. In the corner, a clay stove crackled softly, the faint scent of burning wood and steaming rice thick in the air.


    Near the stove, Hui crouched low, fanning the fire with a bamboo fan. She wore a simple, faded tunic, her sleeves rolled past her elbows. Her hands, darkened with soot, moved with practiced efficiency as she adjusted the wood beneath the pot.


    Despite the roughness of village life, Hui carried an understated beauty. Her black hair, tied back in a loose knot, had a few strands falling near her face, unintentionally framing it with a quiet elegance. Her skin, slightly pale like Jun’s, had a softness untouched by powders or adornments. Slim-faced with delicate features, she wasn’t striking, but there was a natural charm to her—a beauty shaped by simplicity rather than embellishment.


    Zhen exhaled as he set his bag down by the door, dusting off his clothes.


    “Hui, is lunch ready or not?”


    Hui stood up, shaking the soot from her hands before dipping them into a clay bowl of water. Without looking at him, she answered, “Zhen.” Her voice carried the familiar warmth of home—unpolished yet steady.


    She wiped her hands dry on the rough cloth hanging from a wooden peg on the wall.


    “The rice is almost ready. I just need you to bring some fish to fry,” Hui said, stepping closer to Zhen.


    Zhen frowned. “Fish? Today?” He started to protest but hesitated when he met Hui’s gaze.


    She didn’t interrupt him, nor did she scold him. She simply frowned—not in anger, but with quiet expectation. A look that said, think carefully.


    And Zhen did. The weight of her gaze lingered, stirring the memory of last night’s dinner.


    He had seen Jun gnawing on fish bones. When asked why—when those needle-like bones could seriously harm him—Jun had looked up with a quiet resignation in his eyes and said, “I like this fish, but we don’t have any left, so I’m chewing the bones.”


    Maybe it was Zhen’s fatherly love. Or maybe it was guilt—guilt that there hadn’t been enough fish to fill his son’s belly. He had patted Jun’s head, promising they’d have fried fish tomorrow, as much as he wanted.


    Jun didn’t look excited. He didn’t have the wide-eyed anticipation of a child looking forward to a promised treat. He only sighed and went back to chewing. When Hui took the bones away, Jun looked like he might protest—but instead, he just washed his hands and went to sleep. Like an old man too tired to argue.


    Zhen exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah… right.”


    Hui turned back to the stove, lifting the lid off the pot to check the rice. “If you go now, you’ll be back before it’s done cooking.”


    Zhen glanced at the door, reluctant. “The harvest festival is tomorrow,” he said slowly, as if trying to reason with himself. “Will the river even have any fish left?”


    Hui didn’t answer right away. She hummed softly, neither agreeing or disagreeing.


    Then, after a moment, she turned her head to look at him and said, “Try the pond in the bamboo forest.”


    Zhen’s expression tightened. “That pond?”


    “It’s a bit far, isn’t it?” His tone was casual, but his expression said I really don’t want to go.


    Hui’s brow twitched. “So?” Her voice rose slightly.


    Zhen sighed, this time in defeat.


    Hui turned back to the rice and added, “And take Jun’er with you.”


    Jun had been standing there the whole time, silent, his eyes fixed on the firewood burning beneath the stove.


    Zhen scratched his head. “Alright, alright.”


    As he moved toward the door, Hui called out, “Don’t forget the bucket and the fishing rod.”


    Zhen, already stepping outside, simply raised his hand—bucket in tow—as if to say, I’m not that unreliable.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Jun took his father’s hand and matched his pace, walking quietly by his side.


    Jun and Zhen made their way towards the pond, nestled deep within the bamboo forest. Though it was considered nearby, the journey still took about an hour on foot. And that wasn’t even counting the time it would take to catch a fish.


    If not for the harvest festival, Zhen would have taken Jun to the river, where most of the village fished together. But with the festival preparations underway, the river was likely empty.


    As they walked, they passed several villagers. Zhen greeted them warmly, exchanging easy conversation. Jun, as always, remained quiet, only speaking when spoken to. He never complained about the long walk, never asked to stop. But even if he didn’t voice his discomfort, his body spoke for him.


    After half an hour, the strain started to show. His pace slowed, his breathing grew uneven, but Zhen, lost in thought, didn’t notice.


    The towering bamboo trees came into view, their tall, slender stalks swaying gently with the wind. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, scattering patches of gold across the forest floor. The rustling leaves whispered above them, and the scent of damp earth mixed with the faint sweetness of bamboo shoots.


    Then, Jun stopped.


    Without a word, he pulled his hand from Zhen’s grasp and bent forward, hands bracing against his knees. His small chest rose and fell sharply, his shoulders trembling slightly. A long walk like this was simply too much for a child his age.


    Zhen finally noticed.


    “Jun’er!” He rushed to his son’s side, bending down on one knee, his other leg pressing into the dirt without care for his now-dirtied clothes. His hands reached out instinctively, steadying Jun as his brows furrowed with deep concern.


    “Jun’er, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with guilt. His face twisted—not just with regret, but with the weight of realization. How could he have been so careless? His son, so quiet, so uncomplaining, had been enduring this alone. Zhen clenched his jaw, his heart aching.


    Jun, seeing his father’s expression, seemed to forget his own discomfort. His small hands reached up, cupping Zhen’s face. “Father, it’s okay,” he said, his voice soft, reassuring. He placed his other hand on Zhen’s cheek, patting it lightly. “If I rest for a few moments, I’ll be fine.”


    Zhen looked at him, his face unreadable for a moment—then, he let out a quiet sigh. His expression, though touched by guilt, remained steady, carrying the weight of fatherly dignity. This child…


    Without another word, Zhen straightened up, then bent down and lifted Jun onto his shoulders.


    Jun blinked in surprise. “Father, what are you doing? I’m not a child—”


    Zhen interrupted, his voice light but firm. “Jun’er, hold onto my head tightly. We’re close to the pond, so let’s hurry and catch some fish. Your mother must be hungry too.”


    Jun hesitated for a moment, then murmured, “Okay.” A faint, shy flush crept onto his cheeks.


    Zhen chuckled softly. He made sure Jun didn’t hear it, but seeing his usually stoic son with such an embarrassed expression was unexpectedly endearing.


    Soon, they reached the pond.


    The clearing opened before them, revealing a serene body of water, its surface reflecting the sky like polished jade. The bamboo trees leaned over the edges, their reflections swaying with the ripples. Birds chirped from hidden perches, and dragonflies flitted across the water, their wings catching the light. The air smelled fresh, carrying the damp scent of water and earth.


    For a moment, both father and son stood there, simply taking it in. The stillness, the quiet beauty—it felt peaceful. Wholesome.


    Then Zhen frowned.


    “…Jun’er,” he said slowly.


    “Yes?”


    “I forgot the fishing rod.”


    A heavy silence fell between them.


    Jun stared at him.


    Zhen stared back.


    Jun sighed, rubbing his forehead with his palm, the motion slow but unmistakable—a silent display of exasperation.


    Zhen, feeling the weight of his son’s unimpressed silence, quickly straightened up. “Hey, don’t worry! I’ll figure something out.” His voice carried an exaggerated confidence, as if this had been his plan all along.


    Without hesitation, he pulled out the small knife he always kept on him and strode toward a bamboo stalk. With a few practiced movements, he cut it down and stripped it, fashioning a makeshift fishing rod with ease. Holding it up, he turned back to Jun with a triumphant grin.


    “See? Your father is a genius,” he declared, giving the rod a small shake as if to show off his handiwork.


    Jun’s expression remained utterly blank. Not narrowed eyes, not annoyance—just a stare of pure, unimpressed neutrality.


    Zhen coughed into his fist, shifting slightly. “…You could at least pretend to be amazed.”


    Jun Jun’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked even less impressed.


    “Ungrateful child,” Zhen muttered under his breath, though his lips twitched slightly in amusement.


    Despite the rough start, they caught enough fish, and with their task complete, Zhen effortlessly lifted Jun onto his shoulders once more.


    “Jun’er, are you ready?”


    Jun, now more relaxed after the tiring trip, gave a slow nod. “Yes.” His voice was calm, his eyes carrying the quiet satisfaction of a child who had accomplished something—but also the slight fatigue of someone resigned to their father’s antics.


    Zhen grinned. “Then hold on tight! Let’s go.”


    Without warning, he started walking fast, almost jogging, the bucket of fish swinging from his other hand.


    They walked out of the forest safely, the golden hues of late afternoon spilling over the landscape. But just as Zhen’s foot left the bamboo-covered ground and stepped onto the open path—


    He stopped.