Chapter 6: Home wasn't always built in brick and beauty

The door clicked shut behind the two shop hands. Their footsteps faded down the alley, swallowed by the coming night.

Gu Mianmian stood in the center of her freshly scrubbed shop, surrounded by the scent of vinegar, soap, and faint jasmine oil from her scarf.

The wooden counter gleamed, the floor was no longer sticky underfoot, and even the dusty windows allowed a little moonlight to peek through.

She sighed, stretching her arms until her spine popped. She had barely slept, barely eaten but it wasn't over yet.

The apartment upstairs waited.

She trudged up the narrow staircase, each step creaking beneath her weight. The door opened with a soft groan, revealing the little space that would be her home.

Inside, it was… better than the shop had been, but not by much.

The air was stale.

Cobwebs clung to the corners.

The single window was grimy, letting in just a faint outline of streetlight.

Her suitcase still sat unopened by the sleeping area, and a few bundles of old rags were pushed into a pile in one cornernleft behind by the previous tenant, no doubt.

Mianmian rolled up her sleeves again.

She started with the window, scrubbing until her cloth came away black with grime.

Then she wiped the cabinet handles, the legs of the lone armchair, and the tiny kitchen tiles until they stopped sticking.

She lit a stick of sandalwood incense she'd kept from her mother's things and let it burn in the window, letting the scent drive out the damp.

The bathroom was last.

She boiled a pot of water downstairs and carried it up carefully, steam fogging her glasses as she scrubbed the sink and wiped down the little mirror that hung askew. It was crooked, but when she looked into it, she could finally see her face clearly, tired, flushed, but... standing. Then she cleaned the toilet and then the floors.

She used the last rag to wipe the floor of her sitting area and then pulled her scarf off, tossing it gently onto the arm of the chair.

The space still looked worn. The cabinet was chipped. The floor was scuffed. The walls needed repainting. But they were hers now.

Home wasn't always built in brick and beauty.

Sometimes it was scrubbed into place with sweat and vinegar and the ghost of sandalwood.

Mianmian sat down slowly on the edge of the low wood table, resting her chin in her hands.

There were still a hundred things left to do.

Still a thousand yuan worth of repairs to figure out.

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't thinking about Feibai. Or Yuying. Or the recipes that Xuelan stole.

She was thinking about salt.

Soy sauce.

A menu that hadn't been written yet.

And a man with a cane, whose smile had reached his eyes.

Gu Mianmian woke with a stiff neck and a numb arm.

The old armchair had not been kind to her spine, and the cold hadn't helped either. The scarf she used as a blanket had slipped off sometime in the night, and now lay pooled near her feet like a crimson petal on the floorboards.

She blinked blearily at the sunlight pushing through the window, rubbing her hands together to bring warmth back into her fingers. The scent of vinegar still lingered faintly in the air.

Her stomach growled.

She glanced toward the sleeping corner and winced. The bedframe was warped and the straw mat sagged like a forgotten hammock.

No amount of patching would save it. It wasn't just uncomfortable, it was unsanitary. She needed a new one. Mattress, at the very least.

And bedsheets.

And pillows.

Her eyes drifted toward the narrow kitchen. There were no pots. No bowls. Not even a cup to drink water from.

Her gaze moved downward to her worn shoes. She needed to buy tablecloths for the restaurant. Some wall hangings. A menu board. And new signage out front to replace the sun-bleached lettering. Maybe some potted plants to soften the corners. At least one working ceiling lamp.

There was also the matter of fixing the restaurant's plumbing.

She went to the drawer and pulled out her coin pouch.

Inside were two five-yuan bills.

Ten yuan. That was it.

Her savings were tucked in a cloth envelope under her suitcase lining. She opened it slowly. Counted the notes again just to be sure.

Still just one hundred yuan.

Not even enough to buy the cheapest mattress from the street vendor three blocks down.

Mianmian stared at the money for a long time.

Then she rose and walked to her suitcase.

From the bottom, beneath her old recipes and winter socks, she pulled out her mother's jewelry box. It was small, wooden, and scratched on the lid—but the latch still clicked open smoothly.

Inside were the things she hadn't been able to pawn before.

A pair of silver bangles.

Three gold beads on a red string.

The jade hairpin carved like a peony, passed down from her grandmother.

And the moon-shaped earrings her mother only wore on New Year's Eve.

She hesitated for a long time.

The necklace from her grandfather—she wouldn't part with that. It lay tucked against her chest, warm from sleep, a silent promise she had made never to sell it.

But the rest…

Her fingers lingered on the earrings.

"I'm sorry, Ma.." she whispered.

Then she locked the box, wrapped it carefully in cloth, and slid it into her satchel.

By the time she stepped out of the apartment, the market was already waking up. Vendors setting up stalls. The steam of fresh baozi floating through the air. She didn't stop for any of it. Her scarf was knotted tight, her eyes steady.

She didn't want to cry over jewelry.

She wanted a clean stove. Working taps. Bowls to serve her food in.

And for her restaurant, her dream, to open with pride.

The pawnshop on East Alley was familiar now. Same weathered door. Same wooden bell above the threshold. Same old clerk, seated behind the counter with his reading glasses slipping down his nose.

When Mianmian entered, he looked up with recognition.

"You again," he said.

She nodded. "I have more this time."