Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Two more years passed, and I turned twenty-two.

In the blink of an eye, Fu Gui had been working for me for two and a half years.

During those two and a half years, his frame had filled out considerably. The shop assistant uniform made for him at the beginning of the year no longer fit by the end of it.

Something seemed to have happened at his home, as the number of times he came to help at the shop grew fewer and fewer.

I inquired about it a few times, but seeing how he brushed the questions aside, I stopped asking.

However, when I handed out the year-end wages, his envelope was twice as thick as it had been the previous year.

Fu Gui weighed it in his hand, sensing something was off.

It was the end of the year, and many of the workers were preparing to return to their hometowns for the New Year.

To see everyone off, I went to the kitchen that evening and fried up several dishes. I brought out the best wine in the shop and set a lively, bustling table.

Three years had gone by, and the small tree in the courtyard seemed to have grown much sturdier.

The north wind whistled past, scattering the piles of snow that had accumulated on the branches.

After several rounds of drinks, everyone was feeling drowsy.

Fu Gui tugged at my sleeve and whispered a question, asking if I had given him the wrong amount for his wages.

“It’s not a mistake,” I replied with a smile. “Put your mind at ease and take proper care of your family matters.”

“Just remember one thing: if things take a turn for the worse at home, there’s nothing wrong with coming back here to be a waiter at my wonton shop.”

Previously, there had been a married couple working at the shop. When their hometown met with disaster and they came to me in tears to resign, I had also given them an extra month’s pay.

I told them then that if they ever had nowhere else to go, they could return at any time.

The wonton shop’s business was flourishing; I could well afford to support a few extra workers.

Fu Gui didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “It hasn’t come to that yet.”

Though the seventeen-year-old youth still had a hint of boyishness in his face, his manner had become increasingly decisive and composed.

He asked me for a few months of leave, saying his father was seriously ill and he needed to return home to care for him.