Chapter 144

The setting sun cast its final golden glow over the blue-gray tiles of the courtyard. I sat motionless on the threshold of the main hall, my hands folded neatly in my lap, fingers absently tracing the hem of my skirt.

The old locust tree in the yard stretched its mottled shadows across the ground, swaying gently in the breeze. Distant barks of dogs only deepened the quiet that enveloped the space.

"Young Mistress, you've been waiting for hours," whispered the maid, Xiao Cui, carefully offering a cup of tea.

I shook my head, my gaze still fixed on the courtyard gate. "Just a little longer."

The steam from the tea gradually dissipated, much like the fragile hope in my chest. As dusk settled, the distant sound of the night watchman's clapper echoed through the air.

Creak—

The gate finally swung open. I shot to my feet, my skirt knocking over the teacup beside me. The shattering of porcelain rang sharply through the twilight.

"You're back," I murmured, my voice trembling.

The figure stood silhouetted against the fading light at the gate, his expression unreadable. The night wind lifted the edges of his robe, carrying with it the scent of dust and fatigue.

"Hm." His reply was low and brief.

My fingers tightened around the handkerchief in my hand, knuckles whitening. This single word—was this all my day-long wait had earned me?

"Let's talk inside." He stepped forward, his boots striking the flagstones with deliberate clarity.

I didn’t move. As he passed me, a faint metallic tang—blood—lingered in the air.

"You're hurt?" I seized his sleeve abruptly.

Moonlight finally illuminated his face. The fresh scar running from his brow to his cheekbone sent a sharp pang through my chest.

"Stop that crying!" Captain John Stone Sr. barked, slamming his pipe onto the table. If this were his son bawling like this, he'd have whacked him with the pipe already.

But these were his two little grandsons.

"Grandma, I want Mommy..." Little Tommy sniffled, tugging at Mary Stone's sleeve.

Mary sighed and took both boys by the hand. "Come on, let's wait at your house."

As dusk fell, the village grew quiet. Most households had already eaten supper and retired early to save on kerosene. Mary led the children through the deserted lanes, unseen by anyone.

"Where's the key?" Mary crouched down to ask.

David fished out a red string from his padded coat, a brass key dangling from it. His small hands were red with cold, but he clutched the key tightly.

"Are you hungry?" Mary ruffled their hair.

"Not hungry," the brothers chorused, though their eyes remained fixed on the courtyard gate.

Without another word, Mary grabbed two enamel mugs from the table and mixed powdered milk. "Come drink this!"

Seeing their grandmother's stern expression, the boys obediently took the mugs. The warm, milky aroma was a small comfort against the winter chill.

Meanwhile, Emily Johnson and Michael Stone were rushing home. Their bus had broken down halfway, delaying them for hours. By the time they reached town, the last oxcart had long departed.

"Let's borrow a bicycle!" Michael decided instantly.

Emily clung to the backseat, the icy wind stinging her cheeks. She tightened her scarf, her thoughts fixed on the children.

"Mommy!" Two small figures barreled toward her the moment the gate opened.

Emily gathered them into her arms, their cold cheeks pressing against her neck. "Let's go inside, sweethearts."

Mary finally relaxed when she saw them return. "Your father's waiting for supper. I should head back."

"Mom, take this." Emily pressed a bag of malt extract into her hands.

With Mary gone, the house was quiet again. Michael rolled up his sleeves. "I'll make dinner."

After settling the children, Emily discreetly tucked the money from selling watches into the bottom of a chest. Today's trip had been fruitful.

"Mommy brought treats." She unwrapped a packet of egg cakes.

The boys' eyes lit up as they nibbled at the delicate pastries.

Soon, the kitchen filled with savory aromas. Michael worked efficiently, and before long, he brought out four steaming bowls of noodles with shredded pork.

"Meat!" Tommy cheered.

Emily's heart ached when she saw the generous heap of pork in her bowl compared to Michael's nearly bare noodles.

"Eat some too." She transferred a portion of meat to his bowl.

Under the dim glow of the kerosene lamp, the shadows of their little family stretched across the wall—warm and content.