Chapter 452: Eternity 13.

the distant noise from the

streets, the backup power unit was running steadily, and the family had

gathered around the table after finishing a small repair to the kitchen

water line. Bai had been explaining why the new seal would last longer

than the old one, while Yan pretended to listen and quietly moved the

bowl of sliced fruit closer to Lili. Mother Yan had been reviewing the

supply sheet, checking what they had used during the previous few days

and what could be stretched a little longer. It was ordinary household

work, the sort of thing they had repeated so often that nobody had to

decide who would do what.

Lili was telling a story about the indoor plants. One of the smaller

leaves had bent toward the window, and she had decided it must be trying

to look outside. She wanted to know whether plants missed the sun when

they had to grow indoors. Yan answered that plants did need light, but

that they did not think about it the same way people did. Bai added that

the little plant was probably more concerned about whether Lili had

poured too much water into its pot. Lili protested that she had been

very careful, and Bai asked whether she had checked the soil before

watering it. Lili paused, thought about it, and admitted that she had

forgotten.

"Then tomorrow we check first," Bai said. "Watering more is not always

helping more. Sometimes it makes the roots unhappy."

"Roots can be unhappy?"

"They can. If they get too much water, they can’t breathe properly."

Lili frowned at the plant’s leaves, looking genuinely concerned. "I

didn’t know."

"That’s why we learn. You didn’t do it on purpose, and now you know what

to do next time."

Yan watched Bai explain this with patient seriousness. She had noticed

that Bai rarely scolded Lili for a mistake once the child understood how

to correct it. The lesson always ended with a practical next step. Bai

did not want Lili to fear being wrong, because fear made people hide

errors, and hidden errors were dangerous. Yan agreed with the principle,

although she occasionally wished Bai would apply it to herself. Bai

could be incredibly patient with a child who forgot to check a plant

pot, yet still act as though taking a break after several hours of work

was a personal insult.

Mother Yan was just about to ask Bai whether the water line would need

another inspection in the morning when her phone rang.

The sound was so unexpected that everyone looked up. There had been very

few calls since the apocalypse began, and most of the ones they received

were brief messages between residents in the building. Mother Yan

glanced at the screen. The number was familiar, though at first she

seemed unable to make sense of it. Then her expression changed. Her

fingers tightened around the phone, and the chair shifted beneath her as

she stood.

Yan Cijin noticed first. She had been beside her mother often enough to

recognize the way she went still when something mattered more than she

wanted to admit. Bai noticed the change a heartbeat later and stopped

speaking in the middle of a sentence. Neither asked who was calling.

Mother Yan’s face had already answered.

The screen showed Aunt Lan’s number.

For several seconds, Mother Yan could only stare at it. She had tried

that number so many times that she knew the recorded message by heart.

Each attempt had ended the same way, with the phone switched off and a

flat voice telling her that the person she was trying to reach could not

be contacted. She had called in the morning, at night, and at times when

she knew the battery in Aunt Lan’s phone would normally have been

charged. She had sent short messages whenever the signal briefly

appeared, though none had shown as delivered. She had told herself that

there could be dozens of reasons for the silence. A broken phone. A dead

battery. A lack of signal. A decision to stay quiet until things were

safer. She had repeated those explanations until they sounded almost

believable.

Now the number was calling her.

Yan moved quietly to her mother’s side. She did not touch the phone or

urge her to answer. She only rested one hand on the back of the chair,

close enough that Mother Yan could reach for her if she needed to. Bai

picked up the empty bowls and moved them away from the middle of the

table, clearing a space without making a show of it. Then she remained

nearby, her posture relaxed but her attention fixed on Mother Yan’s

face.

The phone rang again.

Mother Yan finally answered. "Hello?"

At first there was only static, a soft crackling noise that rose and

fell as though the person on the other end were standing too far from

the microphone. Mother Yan held the phone closer to her ear. Her lips

parted, but no words came out.

Then a woman’s voice said, "Lan speaking. Are you there?"

Mother Yan closed her eyes.

The voice was thinner than she remembered, rough around the edges and

tired in a way no ordinary night’s sleep could fix. But it was Aunt Lan.

There was no mistaking the familiar rhythm of her words, or the small

pause she always left before the second half of a sentence. Mother Yan

had heard that voice across conference rooms, crowded restaurants,

late-night phone calls, and quiet mornings when one of them needed to

complain about work. For a moment, all the fear she had collected over

the past days seemed to loosen at once, leaving only relief so strong

that it almost hurt.

"Lan," she managed. "It’s really you."

Aunt Lan gave a small laugh. "Who else would it be? I hope you haven’t

forgotten my voice already."

Mother Yan tried to laugh back, but the sound broke in the middle. "I’ve

been calling you for days. Your phone was always switched off. I

thought... I didn’t know what to think. Are you hurt? Where are you? Have

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TO BE CONTINUED.