Bamboo, Wood, Wolf, Horse - Chapter 1

The snow had been falling everyday after school, as if it had made a habit of it. Today was no different. Fu Kun crouched beside his bicycle, yanking the zipper of his down jacket all the way up and clamping it between his teeth, a makeshift shield against the relentless northern wind slithering down his neck.

The younger kids poured out of the school gate in orderly rows, their little boots stamping patterns into the fresh snow. Fu Kun, now a proud fourth grader, was free form such childish processions. Just last year, he had trudged along with them, but now, he stood apart, reveling in the silent privilege of the older and wiser. He was no longer one of those runny-nosed little brats.

As the line of the kids shuffled past, their gazes flickered toward his right arm- one after another, like a chain reaction. Then, a voice rang out, high pitched and gleeful, “Hey look! His arm’s broken!”

Fu Kun shot the kid a glare, baring his teeth in a savage grin. “Say that again, and I’ll snap your thigh in half.”

Silence fell over the line of children like a gust of wind snuffing out candle flames. Heads ducked, shoulders hunched, and they hurried along, each nudging the one in front to move faster. Fu Kun was the infamous troubkemaker of Third Elemntary. To these younger kids, he wasn’t just an upperclassman- he was something to be feared.

He lowered his head and rapped his knuckles against the splint on his right arm, then blew warm air onto his fingers. He didn’t bother sparing another galnce at the kids. He was waiting for Sun Wei.

Sun Wei had been draggged off to the tescher’s office after school by Mr. Hu, and it had been ages without a sign of him.

The line of students had long since disappeared when Fu Kun finally spotted him. Sun Wei came bolting out of the school building, swinging his backpack wildly. Halfway through his mad dash, a few books went flying. He skidded to a halt, scrambling to scoop them up with frantic hands.

“What took you so long?!” Th Kun slowly stood up, his joints stiff from crouching in the cold. He had been sitting there so long that he half expected his body to creak and crack like a frozen robot the moment he moved.

“Old pepper was chewing me out.” Sun Wei stuffed his books back into his backpack and jogged over. “Oh, and your homeroom teacher, Ms. Yang, told me to go to your house.”

“My house?” Fu Kun frowned., stomping his feet to shake off the cold. “She wants to see my mom?”

“Yep. Said she needs your mom to come to school tomorrow. I don’t think you’re getting out of this one.” Sun Wei slung both their backpacks onto the bike’s handlebars. “Want me to give you a lift?”

“Try not to dump me in a ditch this time.” Fu Kun swung onto the back seat.

Sun Wei didn’t have a bike, so Fu Kun usually gave him a ride. But ever since Fu Kun hurt his arm, the roles had reversed. In just four days, Sun Wei had somehow managed to crash into a ditch once a day—an impressive failure rate, considering Fu Kun could ride no-handed better than Sun Wei could steer with both hands.

Today, at least, wasn’t too bad. The snow had slowed Sun Wei down, and though the handlebars trembled in his grip the whole way, they miraculously stayed upright.

As they neared home, Fu Kun spotted a group of fourth-graders up ahead, messing around as they walked. Just then, someone called his name.

“Fu Kun!”

He didn’t turn his head for he was no stranger to that voice—Xu Jiamei. The prettiest girl in their school. Rumour had it she had relatives in Taiwan, which was probably why her parents gave her a name that set her apart from the usual Lily’s and Dan’s.

“Fu Kun!” Xu Jiamei called out again when he didn’t react.

That was all it took to set off the fourth-grade peanut gallery.

“Fu Kun! Your wife’s calling you!”

“Hurry up and take your wife home!”

Sun Wei glanced back, suppressing a grin. “Stopping?”

“If you wanna stop, get off and walk home yourself.” Fu Kun mumbled around the zipper he was biting.

Sun Wei didn’t argue. Instead, he hunched over the handlebars and stomped on the pedals with renewed vengeance. The bike shot forward like it had somewhere important to be.

When they finally skidded to a stop near the bus company dorms, Sun Wei hopped off. Fu Kun, still bracing against the seat, gave him a sideways look.

“Are you still planning to come up and rat me out to my mom?”

“Nope.” Sun Wei wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then struck a grand, brotherly pose. “You’re on your own tomorrow. Handle it however you want.”

Fu Kun clicked his tongue, “You just flung snot on my face.”

Sun Wei froze, eyes darting to the glistening streaks on his sleeve. “Impossible! I wiped it all on my sleeve!”

“You’re disgusting.”

Fu Kun swung onto his bike, pedalling a few times with one hand on the handlebars before letting go entirely. As he coasted away, he lifted a casual hand. “Go home already.”

The dorm buildings near the bus company were all cramped, communal affairs—no private kitchens, no private bathrooms. By the time Fu Kun rolled into the complex, the shared kitchens were packed. The air buzzed with chatter, and the whole building was steeped in the rich aroma of home-cooked food.

Fu Kun’s family lived on the third floor. He hopped up the stairs, cradling his injured arm, only to run into Auntie Li from next door. She was carrying a steaming pot back to her place, but the moment she saw him, she froze mid-step, raising her eyebrows in a dramatic wiggle. Her face was practically glowing with intrigue.

“Kunzi, someone’s at your house.”

Fu Kun barely spared her a glance. “Evening, Auntie Li.”

Then, without hesitation, he reached out and lifted the lid of her pot. A whole pot of boiled cabbage. He lost interest immediately and let the lid fall shut.

“No meat, no interest, huh?” Auntie Li smirked before lowering her voice again, eyes twinkling. “Anyway, about that visitor at your place—”

“Yeah, all right, got it.” Fu Kun slung his backpack off his shoulder and dragged it along the floor as he walked to his door. “If someone’s here, it shouldn’t be a big deal, would it? People show up at your house too, don’t they?  Always making a fuss out of such petty matters!”

Auntie Li was still muttering behind him, but Fu Kun had already tuned her out. The aunties in this building were all the same—whether it was Auntie Li, Auntie Zhang, or Auntie Chen, they were more invested in other people’s business than their own. If something even slightly interesting happened in the building, they’d dissect it from every possible angle, whispering about it in hallways, stairwells, and the communal kitchen like it was the latest breaking news.

Fu Kun couldn’t care less. So what if someone was visiting his house? Let them visit. The only thing that mattered was that now he had an excuse for tomorrow—he could just tell his teacher, Sorry, teacher, for I surely can’t bring my mom. You see, we’ve got guests.

But just as he was about to push open his front door, Auntie Li’s last words drifted into his ears.

“You’ve got a kid at your place…”

A kid?

A kid!

Suddenly, a long-forgotten memory came rushing back—his parents had been discussing adopting a little sister since summer. They had even taken him to an orphanage once. He never really understood why they wanted to adopt instead of just having another kid, but he had been secretly excited about the idea.

Yet, months had passed with no news, and he had all but given up on it.

But now—now that Auntie Li had mentioned it—could it be? Had they finally brought his little sister home?

A surge of excitement shot through him.

“I’m starving to death—!” Fu Kun burst through the door, tossing his schoolbag inside as he hollered in his usual drawn-out, dramatic fashion.

“Have some water first!” his mother called from the other room. “I’m busy right now!”

Fu Kun didn’t answer. His mother wasn’t in the living room—but someone else was.

Was this the “kid” Auntie Li had mentioned?

A girl?

He stared at the tiny figure standing beside their dining table. She was small—barely reaching his chest. Wrapped in a red padded coat with a hat pulled low over her forehead, only a few short bangs peeked out beneath it. A mask covered half her face, making her look like a little round ball with a backpack strapped to it. It was hard to tell if she was a boy or a girl, but her eyes were large, dark, and striking—somehow, she just felt like a girl.

She neither spoke nor moved, simply standing there, locked in an unwavering stare with him.

Fu Kun narrowed his eyes, then bent down, grabbed his schoolbag off the floor, and casually tossed it onto the table.

“Who the hell are you?”

The small iron clasp on Fu Kun’s schoolbag clattered against the table—not loud, but sharp enough that the kid flinched like a startled rabbit, stumbling a step back. Those already-wide eyes grew even rounder, a flicker of panic flashing through them.

Fu Kun snorted. What a tiny scrap of courage.

Grinning, he turned toward the inner room and hollered, “Mom! Whose little girl is this?”

“What little girl?” His mom finally pushed open the door, poking her head out. “That’s a boy! I’m talking with your Aunt Liu—go knead the dough. We’re having dumplings tonight.”

Fu Kun blinked, glancing at the splint on his right arm. “How am I supposed to knead anything?” Not that he was against dumplings, of course.

“Use your left hand! Aren’t you always bragging about being ambidextrous, claiming you could take on the world? Or just keep your little brother company for a while.” With that, she shut the door again.

A boy? Not a little sister? So… this wasn’t the long-awaited sibling his parents had talked about adopting?

Fu Kun turned back to the kid, squinting at him. He really did look like a doll—small, round, and silent.

Bending down slightly, Fu Kun flashed him a mischievous grin.

“What’s your name?”

The kid stood there like a tiny, mute statue, staring at him with those big, round eyes—dark, glassy, and unreadable.

Fu Kun narrowed his own eyes, trying to gauge whether the silence meant shyness, fear, or just plain stubbornness. Either way, he wasn’t about to waste time coaxing words out of someone who clearly didn’t want to talk.

“I’m Fu Kun,” he said, figuring a proper introduction might loosen the kid’s tongue. Maybe he still wasn’t smiling right, so he forced his lips wider, baring all his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “And you?”

Nothing.

The kid just kept staring, small hands gripping the straps of his little backpack like it was a life raft.

Fu Kun exhaled sharply through his nose. Patience had never been his strong suit, and it definitely wasn’t about to develop now. “Alright, suit yourself,” he muttered, straightening up. “You can stand there like a wooden peg. I’m out.”

He was halfway to the door when—

“…Yijie.”

Soft. Small. Almost swallowed up by the air itself.

Fu Kun stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “Huh?” He frowned, tilting his head. “What was that?”

A pause. Then, barely louder than before—“Yijie.”

Fu Kun blinked. Then snorted. “Yijie? What kinda name is that?” His lips curled into a smirk, amusement flickering across his face. “Sounds like someone forgot to finish naming you. What’s next? I meet a kid called Half jie?”

Fu Kun squinted at him, like he was studying some rare and puzzling creature. The kid’s head was still slightly bowed, long lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks, little hands curling into the fabric of his sleeves like he was bracing for something.

Alright, maybe he had teased him a bit too hard.

Fu Kun exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head. “Fine, Yijie,” he drawled, deciding to go easy on him. The name still sounded weird to him, but whatever. “I’m going to knead the dough. You wanna come mess around?”

What followed again was a gracious silence.

Fu Kun’s patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped. “What is your deal?!” he huffed. First the staring, then the whispering, now the mute act again? This kid was like a broken radio—sometimes static, sometimes sound, mostly nothing.

He had one foot out the door when—

“…Yī Jié.”

This time, the voice had more weight to it.

Fu Kun turned back, narrowing his eyes. “Yī Jié?”

The kid nodded, slow and deliberate, the fluffy pom-pom on his hat bouncing with the motion.

Fu Kun stared for a second longer, then scoffed. “There’s actually a last name ‘Yi’?” He had never met anyone with that surname before. “What kind of ‘Yi’ are we talking about?”

The kid lifted his chin just a fraction. “The ‘Yi’ from one, two, three.”

Fu Kun blinked.

Then he burst out laughing. “No way. Your name literally means ‘One Segment’?!”

“One, two, three—Yi?”

Fu Kun had been prepared to run through his mental dictionary, maybe even scrawl an invisible character in the air with his finger, but it turned out to be ridiculously simple. For someone like him—who, aside from his own name, could barely write a handful of characters without messing up a stroke—this was the kind of name he could get behind. Short. Sweet. Impossible to spell wrong.

The kid’s voice was barely more than a whisper, like he was afraid of disturbing the air itself. Probably because of the mask covering half his face, but still, there was something oddly soft about it. A small, airy sound. Kind of cute, actually.

Fu Kun, suddenly intrigued, took a step closer, tilting his head as if inspecting a rare specimen. “There’s no way someone actually has Yi as a surname. Do you even know how to read?”

The kid shrank back, gaze flickering downward. “…It’s just… the Yi from one, two, three.”

The hesitation, the slight retreat—it made him look even smaller.

Fu Kun let out an exaggerated sigh, then dug into his pocket. If words wouldn’t get him anywhere, maybe food would. He pulled out a bag of crispy Mimi shrimp sticks and waved it under the kid’s nose like bait. “Want some?”

For the first time, the kid’s hands left the warm safety of his coat pockets. He reached out hesitantly, fingertips brushing against the plastic before, just as quickly, withdrawing.

Fu Kun raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I poisoned it?”

“Take off the mask—aren’t you suffocating in that thing?”

Fu Kun clamped the shrimp stick bag between his teeth, using his left hand to tear it open with practiced ease. Then, without waiting for permission, he grabbed the kid’s small, chilly hand and poured the crispy sticks into his palm. “Here, you can have it. Why don’t you try taking a bite?”

The kid hesitated for a second before mumbling, “I have a cold.”

Still, he obediently tugged down his mask, stuffing it into the pocket of his thick cotton coat. Then, as if afraid of wasting time, he pinched a shrimp stick between his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Thank you, gege.”

Without the mask in the way, his voice was clearer now—soft and polite, but with a noticeable stuffiness from his cold. His head stayed down, though, leaving Fu Kun with nothing but a view of his slightly upturned nose.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

Fu Kun crouched down to level their heights, hands on his knees, tilting his head to get a better look. The moment his eyes landed on the kid’s face, he let out a dramatic sigh of admiration.

“Yi Jie’er, you seriously look like a little girl.” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Way cuter than Xu Jiamei, too.”

The kid didn’t say a word, just kept his head down, quietly munching on shrimp sticks like a little squirrel hoarding snacks for winter.

Fu Kun smirked. Time to mess with him a little.

“Hey, do you have a little **?” he teased, eyes gleaming with mischief.

The kid finally looked up, his round eyes blinking once. Then, just as quickly, he ducked his head again. “Do you?”

Fu Kun puffed out his chest like an overgrown rooster and smacked his palm against his pants with pride. “Of course! Right here, safe and sound.”

The kid crunched on another shrimp stick, unimpressed. “I don’t believe you.”

Fu Kun burst out laughing. “What’s not to believe?” With a dramatic huff, he wrestled himself out of his thick down jacket, tossed it aside, and bent his head, fumbling with the button on his waistband. “Alright, alright, I’ll prove it—see for yourself!”

At that exact moment, the door to the inner room swung open.

Fu Kun’s mom stepped out—and immediately froze.

Her eyes locked onto her son, hunched over, fingers on his pants like some lunatic mid-escape from civilization. For a long second, the entire room was steeped in absolute silence.

Then—

“What the hell are you doing?!” she barked. “Are you out of your mind?!”

Fu Kun nearly jumped out of his skin. He straightened up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Then, realizing he’d been caught in a rather, uh, unfortunate position, he scratched his head and let out a sheepish chuckle.

“Hehe… hi, Mom.”

His mom wasn’t alone.

Behind her, Auntie Liu had followed her out of the room, and Fu Kun had no choice but to awkwardly grin at her too.

“Uh… hi, Auntie Liu.”

“Alright, alright, Kunzi, do you think your little brother is cute?” Auntie Liu reached out and gave Fu Kun’s cheek a gentle pat.

Fu Kun scratched his head, casting a sideways glance at the small figure still standing stiffly by the table. “Yeah, I guess… just that, uh, he doesn’t talk much. It took me ages to squeeze a single word out of him.”

Auntie Liu chuckled and walked over, taking the boy’s tiny hand in hers. “Yijie, from now on, this is your new home. Do you like your big brother?”

The little boy didn’t respond. He didn’t nibble on another shrimp stick either. He just stared down at his hand, fingers twitching slightly, as if trying to process the weight of those words.

Seconds stretched like hours.

Then, finally—so small it was almost imperceptible—a tiny nod.

Auntie Liu let out a soft sigh and turned toward Fu Kun’s mother, pulling her aside as they made their way to the door. Her voice lowered, barely above a whisper, a quiet thread of conversation meant to go unheard. But Fu Kun, being the Fu Kun he was-curious as ever, trailed after them with his ears perked.

“Who doesn’t want a baby?” Auntie Liu murmured, the weight of something heavy laced in her tone. “It’s easier when they don’t remember anything… easier to raise them as their own. But this child… when his mother abandoned him, he was already one year old.”

Fu Kun frowned. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Stay out of grown-up talk,” his mother scolded, giving him a light swat on the arm.

But Fu Kun didn’t budge, clinging to the doorframe with stubborn persistence, as if it would spill more secrets if he stood there long enough. Auntie Liu glanced at him, then back at his mother, offering a weary smile before lowering her voice again.

“You know how it is,” she continued. “He’s too quiet. When people come to adopt, they see that little face of his—so sweet, so well-behaved—and they all want to take him home. But no matter how much they coax him, he won’t say a word. And that scares them. They think, what if he never opens up? What if he never sees them as family?”

“I know,” Fu Kun’s mom murmured, her voice carrying that rare, gentle warmth. “Me and Lao Fu, we just felt a connection with this child. Whether he talks or not, it doesn’t change that. He’s a good boy. Quiet, yes, but he’ll adapt. And in our home, he won’t be alone. Kunzi’s got such a good nature—like a little puppy, always wagging his tail at people.”

“I think so too,” Auntie Liu chuckled. “He’s already talked more to Kunzi than anyone else.”

Fu Kun, standing nearby, opened his mouth to protest. Why did his mom always compare him to a dog? But he had bigger questions gnawing at him.

So this kid… was staying?

Not a sister, after all?

A real, actual little brother?

His mind raced, but the conversation between the adults rolled on without giving him room to jump in. He waited, eyes darting between his mother and Auntie Liu, trying to find the right moment to wedge in a question.

But the moment never came.

Before he knew it, his mother was walking Auntie Liu to the door, offering her final farewells. The front door clicked shut. The house settled into a quiet hum, the only movement coming from the little boy now perched on the couch, with those tiny hands resting stiffly on his lap.

And that’s when it hit him.

Fu Kun spun on his heel and bolted after his mother, catching up to her just as she reached the stairs. “Mom—wait! That kid—he’s staying with us?”

His mother turned, amused by his delayed reaction. “Of course. Didn’t we already had a talk about this? You were the one always saying you wanted a little brother. You even joked about picking one up off the street.”

She patted his shoulder, smiling.

“Well, congratulations,” she said. “Looks like your wish came true.”

“I wanted a little sister…” Fu Kun muttered, correcting his mother, though he quickly shrugged it off. A brother, then. Fine. “I thought you guys had forgotten all about it.”

“How could we?” His mother chuckled, tugging him gently toward the dimly lit hallway near the stairwell. “Your father and I have been discussing this for a long time. You were too young to understand all the details, so we didn’t say much before.”

She paused, her voice lowering slightly. “Kunzi, this child… he’s had it rough. His mother abandoned him.”

Fu Kun blinked. His mind immediately conjured up an image of Jiang Xin, that quiet girl from Xu Jiamei’s class. Everyone knew her parents had left her behind, dumping her on her grandparents. She always wore the same tattered winter coat, the colour long faded beneath layers of dirt, the sleeves frayed at the edges. She looked like a tiny street beggar, always shivering, always silent.

Something twisted in his stomach.

“His mom left him?” His voice was quieter now.

His mother nodded, her expression weary. “They placed him in an orphanage, but most families want to adopt babies, little ones who won’t remember anything. He wasn’t small enough, and he didn’t talk much. So, no one picked him.”

Fu Kun’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What? No one?”

He snuck a glance toward the living room. The kid was still sitting there, his tiny frame barely making a dent in the couch. How could no one want him? Sure, he wasn’t chatty, but he wasn’t mute either. And he was cute—absurdly cute, in fact.

His mother sighed. “He’s wary of people. When your dad and I went to visit, he didn’t say a single word the entire time. We tried everything—talking to him, giving him snacks, even bringing toys—but he just sat there, watching us like we were strangers on a bus.”

She hesitated, then added, “He might not remember exactly what happened, but he feels it, Kunzi. He knows, deep down, that his own mother didn’t want him.”

Fu Kun swallowed.

His mother continued, her voice softer now, as if the weight of the words themselves hurt to say. “When he was left at the orphanage, he had nothing but a name. Not even a last name. That year, every child who arrived without a surname was given the same one—‘Fu,’ for ‘fortune.’ That’s why he’s called Fu Yijie.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on his sleeve. “But these kids… they grow up knowing it’s not really theirs.”

No wonder he only called himself “Yijie.”

Fu Kun finally pieced it all together.

The realization settled heavily in his chest, but another thought quickly surfaced, tugging at the edges of his curiosity. He mulled it over for a while before cautiously asking, “So… we’re really adopting him?”

“Mhm!” His mother nodded firmly, her expression resolute.

Fu Kun hesitated again, his brows furrowing slightly. “But… what if he never talks? What if he stays silent forever? Would you—” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “Would you send him back?”

His mother’s expression darkened instantly. “What nonsense are you spouting?” She gave him a light but firm tap on the head. “Your dad and I met him, spent time with him, and we both felt a connection. He’s family now. He just needs time.”

She ruffled his hair, her tone softening. “And besides, he has you, doesn’t he? Our very own little Fu puppy.”

“I’m not a puppy!” Fu Kun bristled immediately, puffing up like an offended cat.

After hearing his mother’s explanation, Fu Kun felt a little dazed, like someone had nudged his world slightly off balance. He trailed behind her as they headed home, still digesting everything.

As soon as he stepped inside, his eyes landed on Yijie, curled up on the sofa, clutching his own school bag like a tiny, self-contained world. The pack of shrimp sticks in his hands was empty now, though he hadn’t made a sound while finishing them. His head remained lowered, the little yarn pompom on his hat drooping forward, mirroring his posture.

His mother walked over and sat beside him, her voice gentle yet firm. “Yijie,” she said, “from now on, this is your home. Your name will be Fu Yijie. We won’t change it. How does that sound?”

The little boy didn’t answer. He stayed hunched over, small hands gripping the straps of his bag. He looked almost like he was trying to disappear into himself, as if staying perfectly still might keep the world from noticing him.

But Fu Kun’s mother wasn’t one to wait on hesitation. She clapped her hands together with a finality that left no room for negotiation. “That’s settled then,” she declared, rising to her feet. “Tonight, we’re having dumplings! I’ll go chop the filling, Kunzi, you knead the dough. Your dad will be home late, so we’ll get things started.”

Fu Kun blinked at her retreating figure, then shifted his gaze back to the silent, unmoving lump on the couch. Fu Yijie, huh? It had a nice ring to it. But would the kid ever start acting like he belonged here?

“Mhm.”

Fu Kun’s eyes never left Yijie. Now that the reality of suddenly becoming an older brother had truly settled in, he finally felt something shift inside him—something unfamiliar but solid, like stepping onto new ground.

He walked over and, in the most serious voice he could muster, called out, “Fu Yijie.”

The little boy sat there, still as stone, staring at his hands for a long moment before slowly lifting his head.

Fu Kun had been prepared for a lot of reactions—confusion, hesitation, maybe even stubborn silence. What he wasn’t prepared for was the raw shimmer of tears pooling in Yijie’s eyes, balancing on the edge, one blink away from spilling over.

His whole body tensed. He hadn’t seen it wrong. Yijie was crying.

Fu Kun had one golden rule in life: avoid making people cry at all costs. It didn’t matter if he’d actually done something or not—if tears fell within a five-meter radius of him, it was always his fault. And the last thing he needed was his mother storming in, pointing a finger, and declaring, “Fu Kun, what did you do to your little brother?!”

His brain scrambled for a solution. Why was he crying? What was he supposed to do?

After what felt like an eternity, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“Do you know how to knead dough? I can teach you.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A distraction. A bridge, however clumsy, from the swelling silence to something lighter.

Yijie blinked, just once, like he was trying to process this sudden change in topic. His fingers loosened slightly around his backpack. The tears didn’t fall.

Fu Kun exhaled, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath.

And just like that, without fully realizing it, Fu Kun took his first step as an older brother.

The little boy didn’t respond. He didn’t nibble on another shrimp stick either. He just stared down at his hand, fingers twitching slightly, as if trying to process the weight of those words.

Seconds stretched like hours.

Then, finally—so small it was almost imperceptible—a tiny nod.

Auntie Liu let out a soft sigh and turned toward Fu Kun’s mother, pulling her aside as they made their way to the door. Her voice lowered, barely above a whisper, a quiet thread of conversation meant to go unheard. But Fu Kun, being the Fu Kun he was-curious as ever, trailed after them with his ears perked.

“Who doesn’t want a baby?” Auntie Liu murmured, the weight of something heavy laced in her tone. “It’s easier when they don’t remember anything… easier to raise them as their own. But this child… when his mother abandoned him, he was already one year old.”

Fu Kun frowned. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Stay out of grown-up talk,” his mother scolded, giving him a light swat on the arm.

But Fu Kun didn’t budge, clinging to the doorframe with stubborn persistence, as if it would spill more secrets if he stood there long enough. Auntie Liu glanced at him, then back at his mother, offering a weary smile before lowering her voice again.

“You know how it is,” she continued. “He’s too quiet. When people come to adopt, they see that little face of his—so sweet, so well-behaved—and they all want to take him home. But no matter how much they coax him, he won’t say a word. And that scares them. They think, what if he never opens up? What if he never sees them as family?”

“I know,” Fu Kun’s mom murmured, her voice carrying that rare, gentle warmth. “Me and Lao Fu, we just felt a connection with this child. Whether he talks or not, it doesn’t change that. He’s a good boy. Quiet, yes, but he’ll adapt. And in our home, he won’t be alone. Kunzi’s got such a good nature—like a little puppy, always wagging his tail at people.”

“I think so too,” Auntie Liu chuckled. “He’s already talked more to Kunzi than anyone else.”

Fu Kun, standing nearby, opened his mouth to protest. Why did his mom always compare him to a dog? But he had bigger questions gnawing at him.

So this kid… was staying?

Not a sister, after all?

A real, actual little brother?

His mind raced, but the conversation between the adults rolled on without giving him room to jump in. He waited, eyes darting between his mother and Auntie Liu, trying to find the right moment to wedge in a question.

But the moment never came.

Before he knew it, his mother was walking Auntie Liu to the door, offering her final farewells. The front door clicked shut. The house settled into a quiet hum, the only movement coming from the little boy now perched on the couch, with those tiny hands resting stiffly on his lap.

And that’s when it hit him.

Fu Kun spun on his heel and bolted after his mother, catching up to her just as she reached the stairs. “Mom—wait! That kid—he’s staying with us?”

His mother turned, amused by his delayed reaction. “Of course. Didn’t we already had a talk about this? You were the one always saying you wanted a little brother. You even joked about picking one up off the street.”

She patted his shoulder, smiling.

“Well, congratulations,” she said. “Looks like your wish came true.”

“I wanted a little sister…” Fu Kun muttered, correcting his mother, though he quickly shrugged it off. A brother, then. Fine. “I thought you guys had forgotten all about it.”

“How could we?” His mother chuckled, tugging him gently toward the dimly lit hallway near the stairwell. “Your father and I have been discussing this for a long time. You were too young to understand all the details, so we didn’t say much before.”

She paused, her voice lowering slightly. “Kunzi, this child… he’s had it rough. His mother abandoned him.”

Fu Kun blinked. His mind immediately conjured up an image of Jiang Xin, that quiet girl from Xu Jiamei’s class. Everyone knew her parents had left her behind, dumping her on her grandparents. She always wore the same tattered winter coat, the colour long faded beneath layers of dirt, the sleeves frayed at the edges. She looked like a tiny street beggar, always shivering, always silent.

Something twisted in his stomach.

“His mom left him?” His voice was quieter now.

His mother nodded, her expression weary. “They placed him in an orphanage, but most families want to adopt babies, little ones who won’t remember anything. He wasn’t small enough, and he didn’t talk much. So, no one picked him.”

Fu Kun’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What? No one?”

He snuck a glance toward the living room. The kid was still sitting there, his tiny frame barely making a dent in the couch. How could no one want him? Sure, he wasn’t chatty, but he wasn’t mute either. And he was cute—absurdly cute, in fact.

His mother sighed. “He’s wary of people. When your dad and I went to visit, he didn’t say a single word the entire time. We tried everything—talking to him, giving him snacks, even bringing toys—but he just sat there, watching us like we were strangers on a bus.”

She hesitated, then added, “He might not remember exactly what happened, but he feels it, Kunzi. He knows, deep down, that his own mother didn’t want him.”

Fu Kun swallowed.

His mother continued, her voice softer now, as if the weight of the words themselves hurt to say. “When he was left at the orphanage, he had nothing but a name. Not even a last name. That year, every child who arrived without a surname was given the same one—‘Fu,’ for ‘fortune.’ That’s why he’s called Fu Yijie.”

Her fingers tightened slightly on his sleeve. “But these kids… they grow up knowing it’s not really theirs.”

No wonder he only called himself “Yijie.”

Fu Kun finally pieced it all together.

The realization settled heavily in his chest, but another thought quickly surfaced, tugging at the edges of his curiosity. He mulled it over for a while before cautiously asking, “So… we’re really adopting him?”

“Mhm!” His mother nodded firmly, her expression resolute.

Fu Kun hesitated again, his brows furrowing slightly. “But… what if he never talks? What if he stays silent forever? Would you—” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “Would you send him back?”

His mother’s expression darkened instantly. “What nonsense are you spouting?” She gave him a light but firm tap on the head. “Your dad and I met him, spent time with him, and we both felt a connection. He’s family now. He just needs time.”

She ruffled his hair, her tone softening. “And besides, he has you, doesn’t he? Our very own little Fu puppy.”

“I’m not a puppy!” Fu Kun bristled immediately, puffing up like an offended cat.

After hearing his mother’s explanation, Fu Kun felt a little dazed, like someone had nudged his world slightly off balance. He trailed behind her as they headed home, still digesting everything.

As soon as he stepped inside, his eyes landed on Yijie, curled up on the sofa, clutching his own school bag like a tiny, self-contained world. The pack of shrimp sticks in his hands was empty now, though he hadn’t made a sound while finishing them. His head remained lowered, the little yarn pompom on his hat drooping forward, mirroring his posture.

His mother walked over and sat beside him, her voice gentle yet firm. “Yijie,” she said, “from now on, this is your home. Your name will be Fu Yijie. We won’t change it. How does that sound?”

The little boy didn’t answer. He stayed hunched over, small hands gripping the straps of his bag. He looked almost like he was trying to disappear into himself, as if staying perfectly still might keep the world from noticing him.

But Fu Kun’s mother wasn’t one to wait on hesitation. She clapped her hands together with a finality that left no room for negotiation. “That’s settled then,” she declared, rising to her feet. “Tonight, we’re having dumplings! I’ll go chop the filling, Kunzi, you knead the dough. Your dad will be home late, so we’ll get things started.”

Fu Kun blinked at her retreating figure, then shifted his gaze back to the silent, unmoving lump on the couch. Fu Yijie, huh? It had a nice ring to it. But would the kid ever start acting like he belonged here?

“Mhm.”

Fu Kun’s eyes never left Yijie. Now that the reality of suddenly becoming an older brother had truly settled in, he finally felt something shift inside him—something unfamiliar but solid, like stepping onto new ground.

He walked over and, in the most serious voice he could muster, called out, “Fu Yijie.”

The little boy sat there, still as stone, staring at his hands for a long moment before slowly lifting his head.

Fu Kun had been prepared for a lot of reactions—confusion, hesitation, maybe even stubborn silence. What he wasn’t prepared for was the raw shimmer of tears pooling in Yijie’s eyes, balancing on the edge, one blink away from spilling over.

His whole body tensed. He hadn’t seen it wrong. Yijie was crying.

Fu Kun had one golden rule in life: avoid making people cry at all costs. It didn’t matter if he’d actually done something or not—if tears fell within a five-meter radius of him, it was always his fault. And the last thing he needed was his mother storming in, pointing a finger, and declaring, “Fu Kun, what did you do to your little brother?!”

His brain scrambled for a solution. Why was he crying? What was he supposed to do?

After what felt like an eternity, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“Do you know how to knead dough? I can teach you.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A distraction. A bridge, however clumsy, from the swelling silence to something lighter.

Yijie blinked, just once, like he was trying to process this sudden change in topic. His fingers loosened slightly around his backpack. The tears didn’t fall.

Fu Kun exhaled, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath.

And just like that, without fully realizing it, Fu Kun took his first step as an older brother.