When the snow stops, I'll find you

Alive

Monday. 7:43 AM. Dumpling stall.

It was closed. Monday mornings always were. But the gate was up.

Gu Yanhuai carried her. Not because she couldn’t walk. She could. Ten steps to the car. Ten steps from the car. Another fifteen from the car to the stall. She’d done them. Slow. Hand on his arm. Breathing hard at the end. But she’d done them.

Because he could.

Because he’d waited ten years to carry her again. And he wasn’t stopping now.

He set her down on the stool. _Her_ stool. From 2014. The wood was worn smooth where her hands used to rest. Mrs. Chen had kept it. In the back. Under a tarp. Like she knew.

Ruan Zhi looked at the sign. _Chen’s Dumplings - Ruan & Gu_.

“It’s crooked,” she said.

“It’s ours,” he said.

Mrs. Chen was inside. Rolling dough. Flour on her forearms. On her cheek. She didn’t look up. “Five minutes. That’s all Dr. Zhang said. Then back to bed. If you bleed, I’m telling her.”

“Five minutes,” Ruan Zhi agreed.

Gu Yanhuai sat next to her. Same as ten years ago. Same side of the counter. But no table between them now. No shyness. No _what if_. Just her hip against his. Her shoulder under his. The scar a thin line under his shirt, and her scar a thick one under hers.

Outside, Port Harcourt was waking up. Rain last night. Pavement wet. Air clean. Smelled like diesel and frangipani and something frying two streets over.

“Balcony was good,” she said. “This is better.”

He took her hand. Tape gone from her knuckles. Just skin. Warm. Bruises fading to yellow. He rubbed his thumb over them. Counting. Not beats. Not breaths. Just freckles.

“Gu Yanhuai,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the 44 hours. For the 10 years. For the 40B.”

“Thank you for the 6mm,” he said. “Woke me up. Took a bullet to figure out soup gets cold.”

She laughed. Winced. Pressed a hand to her ribs. “Don’t make me laugh. It’s still a three. Maybe a four with you being stupid.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t.

A kid ran past. School uniform. White shirt untucked. Late. Book bag bouncing. Mrs. Chen yelled from inside, “Slow down! Soup’s hot! If you fall, your mother will kill me!”

The kid grinned. Kept running. Skidded on the wet pavement. Didn’t fall.

Ruan Zhi watched him go. Her eyes soft. “We’ll have kids.”

He went still. Everything in him went still. The counting. The breathing. The ten years. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She looked at him. Not at the kid. At him. “Not now. Not for a while. When I can breathe without thinking about it. When I can run without a chest tube ghosting me. When I can carry them without… breaking.”

“Okay.”

“But someday.” She laced their fingers. Tight. “With you. Because family stays. Because I want your eyes. Your stupid stubborn heart. Because I want to see you at 7:43 AM, with flour in your hair and a baby on your hip.”

“Family stays,” he said. His voice wasn’t steady. He didn’t care.

At 7:48 AM, Mrs. Chen set two bowls down. No sheng jian bao. Just congee. Soft. Ginger. No oil. No scallions. Doctor’s orders written on a sticky note under the bowl. _One each. Small. If she chokes, he’s banned for life._

“Doctor’s orders,” Mrs. Chen said. “Dumplings next week. If you’re good. If your numbers are good. If he doesn’t let you walk here by yourself.”

Ruan Zhi picked up the spoon. Hand shook. She gripped it harder. He didn’t help. She’d kill him. She’d been clear. _I walked. I eat myself. Or I don’t eat._

She took a bite. Closed her eyes. Steam on her face. “Tastes like alive.”

“Tastes like normal,” he said.

She opened her eyes. Looked at him. At the stall. At the street. “Tastes like home.”

He ate. It tasted like 2014. Like rain. Like _“I’ll wait for you.”_ Like _“I did.”_ Like ten years of cold soup reheated.

At 7:51 AM, Lin Wei walked up. No suit. Jeans. Gray hoodie. Coffee. Two cups. Dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept either.

“Board fired me,” he said. He set the coffees down. “Said I was complicit in the Mad CEO thing. In the 40B Love Story. In not stopping you from tanking the Shanghai deal.”

Gu Yanhuai took the coffee. Didn’t drink it. “Good. You want a job?”

“Doing what?”

“Running a dumpling stall. With us.”

Lin Wei looked at Ruan Zhi. At the sign. At Mrs. Chen, who was now pretending not to listen while rolling dough twice as loud.

He sat down. On the ground. No stool left. “Yeah. Okay. Beats jail. Beats Yun Ding.”

“You’re hired,” Ruan Zhi said. “You get to deal with Aunt Chen. And the 7 AM crowd. And him when he burns the congee.”

“I didn’t burn it,” Gu Yanhuai said.

“You burned the first batch,” she said. “I heard the smoke alarm.”

Lin Wei almost smiled. “I’ll take it. On one condition.”

“What?”

“No more 44-hour vigils. You two sleep. Or I quit. And I’ll take Mrs. Chen with me.”

“Deal,” Gu Yanhuai said.

At 7:52 AM, Ruan Zhi leaned into Gu Yanhuai. Forehead on his shoulder. The weight of her real. Solid. Not a ghost. Not a memory.

“Tired,” she said.

“Home?” he asked.

“Home.”

He stood. Picked her up. She didn’t protest. Didn’t say _I can walk_. Didn’t say _put me down_. Just tucked her face into his neck. Inhaled.

Mrs. Chen waved them off with a floury hand. “Tuesday. Five minutes becomes six. Wednesday, seven. We count up. Not down. You hear me?”

“Tuesday,” Ruan Zhi said.

In the car, she was asleep before they hit the main road. Head on his shoulder. Seatbelt across her chest, carefully under her arm. Not on the incision.

He drove. One hand on the wheel. One hand holding hers. Thumb on her pulse.

At the red light, he looked at her. Scar under her shirt. Breathing even. 97% on room air. 100% his.

Light turned green.

He drove home.

He didn’t count the lights. Didn’t count the minutes. Didn’t count the years they’d lost.

She was breathing. In. Out.

He didn’t count.

He just listened.