Chapter 48

📖Tea, Laughter, and the Days After

The following morning dawned clear and quiet, as if the heavens themselves had pressed a soft cloth over the recent tension. Jia Lan rose early, the winter chill nibbling at her toes as she slid out of bed. Her fingers curled into the sleeves of her thick cotton robe, and a smile tugged at her lips. There was no chaos today—only peace.

Downstairs, the kitchen buzzed with light activity. Yao Jing and Xu Li stood shoulder to shoulder preparing breakfast, laughing softly over something trivial. The savory aroma of scallion pancakes wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of fresh soy milk. Mother Jia was in the garden, pruning chrysanthemums with steady hands, and Grandmother Jia hummed a military marching song under her breath while organizing the medicine cabinet.

Jia Lan entered the kitchen with her usual grace. "Morning," she said, voice light. "The house is unusually quiet. Should we worry someone got swapped out in the night?"

Yao Jing grinned. "Don't tempt fate. We just got rid of the walking thundercloud."

Xu Li snorted, gently elbowing her. "Lanlan, come taste this pancake. I added crushed peanuts. Tell me if it's too adventurous."

Jia Lan took a bite and sighed. "Xu Li jie, if this is what you make while pregnant, I fear for the rest of us. You'll outshine all the restaurants in the city."

They all laughed, the sound warm and full. Even Jia Wei wandered in, hair tousled, yawning like a lazy cat. He blinked at the table. "Any of those for me or did I miss breakfast again?"

"If you keep waking up after everyone, you'll have to fight for scraps," Yao Jing teased.

"Don't worry," Jia Lan added with mock solemnity. "We'll leave you a pancake and a prayer."

Grandfather and Father Jia joined them shortly after, both with their newspapers tucked underarm. Grandfather looked over the breakfast spread and nodded in satisfaction.

"The house feels right again," he said simply.

And it did.

Later that morning, Jia Lan changed into her Youth Arts Bureau outfit—a soft woolen skirt in forest green, a cream sweater with embroidered cuffs, and her favorite brown leather boots polished to a gentle sheen. She twisted her hair into a neat low bun and added a brooch shaped like a lily—one of her past rewards from the system.

The walk to the bureau was brisk but refreshing. Her breath misted in the cold air, and frost clung to every fence and lamppost. Inside, the building was pleasantly warm.

Wang Fei nodded at her as she entered. "Morning, Comrade Jia. All's quiet today."

"For once," she replied with a small smile.

She organized a stack of event invitations and checked inventory on calligraphy supplies. The atmosphere was peaceful, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of footsteps or the scratching of pens. Zhao Meiling, as always, was a whirlwind of precision and brisk professionalism, but even she offered Jia Lan a rare smile.

"I like it when it's slow. Reminds me to breathe."

"We need these days," Jia Lan replied. "Life can't be all storm and wind."

By noon, she had completed all her tasks. She bade everyone goodbye and made her way home.

That afternoon, she joined Grandmother Jia in the kitchen. The elder woman sat comfortably, arranging a plate of dried chrysanthemums.

"The season's turned chilly. Let's brew some chrysanthemum tea," she said.

Jia Lan nodded and fetched the kettle. As they brewed the tea together, they shared companionable silence and the occasional snippet of memory.

"Your mother used to sneak dried dates into the jar when I wasn't looking," Grandmother chuckled. "I caught her red-handed once and she said she was helping me flavor it."

Jia Lan laughed. "And did it taste better?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

They sipped tea by the window. The scent of chrysanthemum filled the room like a memory long held.

After tea, the family gathered in the sitting room. Jia Wei and Xu Li played chess while Father Jia read aloud from a newspaper article about a new opera troupe forming in the city. Yao Jing and Jia Lan sat cross-legged on a floor mat, sharing candied peanuts and gently ribbing each other.

"I saw your poetry draft," Yao Jing said. "You write like a lovesick scholar."

"That's rich coming from the woman who cried over a teacup ad."

"It was a beautiful cup!"

Grandfather chuckled. "You two should turn this into a radio skit."

Evening settled softly. The family lit the oil lamp early, more out of habit than necessity. Jia Lan helped Mother Jia fold laundry while Xu Li dozed briefly on the divan, a cushion tucked under her back.

As Father Jia lowered his paper again, he spoke with a furrowed brow.

"Old Zhang told me something troubling. His friend's son, a very decent boy—studious and polite—was sent down as an educated youth even though it wasn't his turn. His aunt submitted his name in place of her own son's."

Mother Jia gasped. "That's terrible. How could any parent allow that?"

"They didn't resist," Father Jia said. "Said it was all family and they needed to help the aunt."

"Shameless," Grandmother Jia muttered. "Using kindness as an excuse for cowardice."

Xu Li frowned. "Is he alright now?"

Father Jia shrugged. "No one knows exactly. He was sent up north, harsh conditions. But Zhang said the boy's spirit never broke. He's still enduring."

Jia Lan sat quietly, her brows slightly furrowed. The name, the circumstance—it sounded all too familiar.

In the book she had read before transmigrating, there had been a side character just like him—kind, obedient, and full of potential, crushed by family betrayal. That version of him hadn't survived the hardship.

But here… this wasn't a book anymore. It was real life. And she had a nagging feeling that his story wasn't over.

"People like him deserve better," she said softly, her voice laced with an emotion even she couldn't name.

Grandfather nodded solemnly. "And sometimes, fate circles back and gives them another chance."

That evening, Jia Lan wandered out to the back garden, drawn by the late golden light and the gentle buzz of bees weaving between the flowering winter camellias. She paused beside the stone bench, inhaling the cool air tinged with the faint scent of pine resin and honeyed warmth. With a knowing smile, she reached into her coat pocket and tapped the hidden button on her system pendant.

Then came the soft chime in Jia Lan's ear.

Ding! Daily check-in complete. Location: Backyard Garden – near active bee hive. Reward: A jar of fresh premium honey and a gentle health boost.

She chuckled to herself. "Not bad. Let's use this to make ginger tea later. Grandma will love it."

In the distance, the faint sound of radio music played. A happy tune, cheerful and clear. Jia Lan closed her eyes and let it soak in.

Home was never perfect—but it was loving, strong, and full of laughter. And that, more than anything, was enough.

She pulled her diary close and began to write.

> "It's easy to be elegant when things go well. But staying graceful in chaos—that's the real challenge. I'll keep trying. For them, for me."

Just as she finished the last line, the door creaked open and Grandmother Jia poked her head in. "Lanlan, your mother's making dumplings. Come help before your father sneaks away with the filling again."

Jia Lan smiled, tucking her diary away. "Coming!"

The kitchen was already a flurry of activity. Flour dusted the counters, and a large bowl of marinated cabbage and pork sat in the center. Jia Wei was trying to shape dumplings but mostly ended up with strange, lumpy creatures. Yao Jing laughed as she attempted to correct his technique.

"You're making battle-ready dumplings, not food," she teased.

"At least they're sturdy!" Jia Wei defended himself. "They'll survive boiling and emotional trauma."

Xu Li was sitting on a cushioned stool, hands busy folding perfect pleats. Mother Jia stood beside her, rolling wrappers with practiced ease.

Jia Lan joined in, quickly settling into the rhythm. Her hands moved on their own—another skill honed by both habit and system perk. As she worked, the conversation flowed.

"Did you all hear the opera on the radio last night?" Grandmother Jia asked.

"Yes," Father Jia said, entering the kitchen with a plate of dried tangerine peels. "Old school charm. It reminded me of the year your mother and I went to the city theatre. She fell asleep in the second act."

"It was boring!" Mother Jia said, laughing. "You promised me romance and excitement and I got a lecture in verse."

Jia Lan watched them with warmth blooming in her chest. This—this was the kind of memory that lingered, gentle and golden.

She slipped a dumpling into the steaming pot and thought, If this is peace, I'll guard it with everything I have.

Later that evening, when the kitchen had quieted and the dumplings were steaming on the table, Jia Lan slipped away and returned with the glass jar of golden honey she'd received earlier.

"I got something special today," she said, holding it up with a glint in her eyes.

"What is it?" Yao Jing asked, leaning forward.

"Fresh honey. Premium kind. Smells like the camellias from the garden." Jia Lan pried open the lid, and a soft floral scent rose with the warmth of beeswax and sweetness.

She dipped a small porcelain spoon into the golden nectar and tasted it first. Her eyes widened.

"Wow… It's rich, smooth—like sunshine in syrup."

She offered the spoon to Xu Li. "Here, jie. Try a little. It's good for you and the baby."

Xu Li hesitated, then accepted the spoonful. A delighted hum escaped her lips. "This is divine. You're right—it's floral, not too sweet, and feels clean."

"Let me try!" Jia Wei reached over.

"Use your own spoon, barbarian," Jia Lan said, laughing.

Everyone gathered around, tasting a little at a time. Even Grandfather Jia, who rarely praised food outside tradition, nodded in approval.

"This is real honey. Not the watered-down kind," he remarked.

"It'll go well with chrysanthemum tea," Mother Jia added. "Or spread on steamed mantou."

Jia Lan smiled and carried the jar to the cupboard, placing it gently in the center of the kitchen shelf.

"We'll all use it," she said. "Especially Xu Li. It'll be a nice way to nourish her without forcing tonics."

Xu Li looked touched. "You're really thoughtful, Lanlan."

"I just like making sure we enjoy the little things," Jia Lan replied.

She paused, watching the golden light of the kitchen reflect through the jar. In this era where scarcity was still a quiet undercurrent, something as simple as honey could be joy.

And Jia Lan, with her secret and her memories, cherished it all the more.

After everyone returned to their evening routines, Jia Lan lingered in the kitchen. She took a clean ribbon from the drawer and tied it gently around the honey jar's lid, attaching a small note: "For good days and tender mornings." Her handwriting was soft, like the sentiment behind it.

She ran a finger along the polished rim of the shelf. Everything in this kitchen told a story—of family, of care, of countless hands making life better in quiet ways. The scent of sesame oil and fresh herbs still hung in the air, anchored in warmth.

From the hallway, she could hear Grandfather softly humming an old war tune. Mother Jia was speaking to Xu Li about baby names, her voice low and loving. Grandmother called from the back veranda for Jia Wei to bring in the laundry before dew settled.

And in that gentle noise, that domestic lullaby, Jia Lan smiled.

She made a silent promise to herself. That no matter how the world turned outside, she would preserve this small haven. Every spoonful of honey, every folded dumpling, every quiet evening—they were more than memories in the making. They were the foundation of the life she now chose to live.