Chapter 147: Ch 147: Orphan, Huh?

As Su Wanyan and her little family slept in their home, Qin Yuran and Song Meiyu were still walking Leilei home.

The sky had finished its long descent from gold and muted orange into a deeper bluish purple. Village paths narrowed and widened without a pattern visitors could memorize on a first pass. A few windows held squares of warm light. However, most did not.

Song Meiyu wiped sweat from her forehead when she believed neither of the others was looking. The day’s length had finally collected in her calves, the arches of her feet, and the back of her neck. How long have we been walking? She questioned inwardly. But the question had no useful answer. Time had stopped behaving like something that could be counted in minutes and had become only distance.

She glanced at the child settled in Qin Yuran’s arms and exhaled in private relief. Luckily we insisted, she thought. The alternative sat in her mind with sharp edges—Leilei covering this same ground alone after dark, small on paths that offered long gaps without another person in sight, no one to notice if a wrong turn or a wrong stranger intervened.

Song Meiyu nodded once to herself, satisfied with the judgment that had kept all three of them on this road instead of parting at the restaurant’s table.

Pity followed close behind the relief. This thin, delicate child must have walked the same length in daylight—more than once, often—simply to reach friends and a playground. The image of those repeated journeys, undertaken without complaint and without escort, settled heavily for a moment. Song Meiyu folded it away before it could reach her face. Leilei did not need to see pity.

As if cued by the attention, Leilei stretched her neck to check behind them. When she found the nice aunt still there, still following, still choosing the long walk over the easy goodbye, she let out a small breath of her own. Then she patted Qin Yuran’s shoulder with the formality of someone delivering a report.

Qin Yuran looked down. "Hm?"

Leilei pointed past the alpha’s shoulder. "Au-aunt is tired." 𝘧𝓇ℯℴ𝓂

The observation was quiet, almost apologetic. She was still unused to adults who could be spoken to this gently and who might actually adjust themselves because a child had spoken.

Qin Yuran turned. Song Meiyu’s forehead had gathered a clear sheen; her stride had shortened without any announcement that she was struggling. Qin Yuran’s steps stopped at once, guilt arriving faster than excuses.

"Sorry. I didn’t notice you were tired."

Song Meiyu shook her head and patted the alpha’s shoulder, dismissing the guilt before it could take root. The touch was brief and familiar. Then she reached up and gave Leilei’s head a light, gentle pat.

"Thank you for noticing, Leilei."

Leilei offered a shy, soft smile and shook her head. "I didn’t do much, Aunt." The voice was small enough to be nearly lost in the evening air.

Qin Yuran and Song Meiyu looked at each other over the child’s head. The same affection moved through both of them at once, along with something unnamed that neither was in a hurry to examine on a darkening path. Labels could wait. What mattered more immediately was finding a place to sit before Song Meiyu’s stubbornness outran what remained of her stamina.

"Aunt—there’s a bench there." Leilei pointed toward a corner where the path bent around a low wall.

Qin Yuran nodded. Song Meiyu took the lead for the last short stretch, pace steady. They turned the corner and found the bench waiting—plain wood, slightly worn smooth by other resters, and most importantly, empty.

The three of them sat. Leilei remained in Qin Yuran’s arms, making no move to climb down; Qin Yuran made no move to set her aside. The bench accepted their combined weight with a soft creak. For a moment the only sounds were distant village life and the quiet adjustment of breathing.

After a stretch of stillness Qin Yuran let out a short "Ah!" Both Song Meiyu and Leilei looked at her. In answer she dug into her pocket and produced a small sheaf of tickets, edges slightly bent from being carried throughout the day.

"I forgot to give you these earlier." She held them out.

Song Meiyu took them, smiled, and tucked them away with care. "Thank you for entrusting me with this."

Qin Yuran only smiled back. The exchange was ordinary on the surface and quietly weighted underneath: trust passed in paper, received without question, the kind of small logistical intimacy that accumulated between people who had started moving as a unit without formally declaring it.

Leilei watched them. Her head tilted a fraction. Are these two aunties dating? The question formed completely and vividly. She did not have the courage to ask it aloud—some instincts about adult privacy had already rooted themselves even in a child who had not been carefully taught them.

That did not stop the speculation from blooming behind her eyes, bright with the particular interest of someone who had noticed a pattern the adults themselves had not finished naming. The way they looked at each other. The way their hands lingered on each other for a bit. The way neither of them had hesitated to walk this far for a child who was not theirs.

Leilei’s gaze shone with restrained gossip and then carefully blanked when she thought one of them might notice.

While she was still turning the idea over, Qin Yuran’s attention caught on a crepe stand farther down the path—a small light under a simple awning, the faint suggestion of sugar and warm batter carried on the cooling air. She looked at the child in her arms, then at Song Meiyu, a question held in the glance rather than spoken.

Song Meiyu read the signal at once and nodded.

"Hold on, you two."

She stood, smoothed nothing in particular on her clothes, and walked toward the stand.

Left alone on the bench with the child and nothing urgent to fill the wait, Qin Yuran watched Leilei drift.

The girl had gone somewhere inward—nodding to herself in tiny, unconscious motions, a thoughtful crease on her small face as if she were conducting a private meeting with her own conclusions.

Whatever speculation still occupied her from earlier had not fully released its hold. Qin Yuran smiled without interrupting. There was no need. The expression on Leilei’s face was earnest enough to be entertainment on its own.

She simply watched, content, until Leilei finally shook her head and snapped back to reality.

It’s bad to make speculations about others, Leilei scolded herself, guilt flickering for the two adults who had been nothing but kind. She sighed, lifted her eyes—and found Qin Yuran’s smiling gaze already on her.

The inward gasp was sharp. She had been so absorbed she had forgotten she was still sitting in someone’s arms.

"I-I’m sorry, Aunt!" She tried to hop down at once. Qin Yuran only laughed and eased her onto the bench instead, steady hands making the transfer gentle rather than abrupt.

Leilei’s cheeks had gone red. She watched Qin Yuran from the corner of her eye, gauging for annoyance, withdrawal, and any sign that the distraction had been an inconvenience.

Qin Yuran pressed her lips together, then smiled and reached out to pat the child’s head—calm, deliberate, the gesture unambiguous. Not annoyed. Not burdened.

Leilei’s guilty conscience loosened. She allowed herself a small answering smile.

"Looks like you two are getting along," Song Meiyu said as she returned, voice warm with quiet amusement.

Both of them turned. The omega carried three crepes and three water bottles, the paper wrappings still holding a trace of heat from the stand.

"This only cost two points," she reported to Qin Yuran.

Qin Yuran laughed. "It’s yours already—why are you reporting it to me?"

Song Meiyu laughed too and sat on Leilei’s other side, placing the child neatly between them. Leilei straightened at once, posture snapping into careful correctness under the sudden symmetry of adults on either flank. Both women noticed. Both shook their heads fondly.

Qin Yuran ruffled Leilei’s short hair into mild disorder. Leilei tilted her head, puzzled at what she had done to earn the sabotage. Qin Yuran only laughed again and smoothed the strands back into place.

"Sorry." There was no real remorse in it.

Song Meiyu chuckled. "Have the two of you had enough fun? If you have—let’s eat."

They nodded. The three of them ate on the bench in a quiet that was not awkward but settled.

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After a while they set off again. Qin Yuran lifted Leilei back into her arms; the child resumed navigating from that height, pointing turns with small certainty. Minutes later the path delivered them to a stop.

"We’re finally here," Leilei announced.

Qin Yuran and Song Meiyu looked at the building in front of them, and both of them had to work so as to not let their faces change.

The establishment was.. interesting. Its walls had long since lost whatever color they once held; paint peeled in patches to expose aging concrete underneath. The windows were old, the frames worn, but the glass had been cleaned with care.

Above the entrance a modest wooden sign hung on its hinges, lettering smoothed nearly soft by years of rain and sun. It was not a private house. It was an institution that had been maintained by effort rather than money.

They masked the reaction in time. Leilei turned her head at them, and fortunately, did not notice the brief tightness around their eyes.

She jumped down from Qin Yuran’s arms, landed neatly, and faced them with formal politeness.

"Thank you so much for sending me back, Aunts." She bowed from the waist.

"Hey, hey—get up." Qin Yuran stepped in at once. Leilei straightened, a small sincere smile replacing the bow.

Song Meiyu closed the remaining distance and patted her head. "No—thank you for showing us a new part of the village."

Leilei smiled and nodded.

What followed was a dual campaign of safety instructions: do not walk this far alone after dark, do not assume the path is empty, tell someone when you leave, tell someone when you return. They repeated themselves. They checked for understanding. Leilei nodded through all of it. Inwardly she turned a quieter question over and over—why these people, strangers only hours ago, insisted on caring this much. She did not ask it aloud. She only kept nodding until they were satisfied.

When the warnings finally ran out, they waved her off. They did not leave after the wave. They waited through a full minute until she had gone inside and the door had closed on her small figure. Only then did they turn away and start the walk toward their own assigned house.

Half the return passed in silence. Each of them carried private inventory—the cleaned windows, the peeling walls, the bow, the way Leilei had said, "I didn’t do much," as if care were a debt she needed to minimize.

After a stretch Song Meiyu exhaled.

"Orphan, huh."

The words were mostly for herself.

Qin Yuran’s steps slowed. She glanced back once toward the building they had left behind, the worn sign no longer readable at this distance. The child’s small, sincere smile rose in memory—uncomplicated gratitude offered to people who had simply walked her home.

Qin Yuran pressed her lips together. A thoughtful expression settled over her face and stayed there as they continued into the dark, the orphanage falling away behind them and the question of what would come next remaining unanswered between their quiet steps.

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I’m sleepy as hell LMAO!