In the morning, I was taken to a Chinese restaurant that looked as ordinary as it possibly could.
The kind of place you wouldn't remember even if you passed it every day.
The storefront was narrow. The glass panels had fine scratches that caught the light at odd angles, and the red paint on the signboard had long since lost its brightness, fading into a tired, dark hue. The characters were still readable, but only barely—like someone who kept standing upright long after they should have sat down.
When I pushed the door open, the bell rang.
Not sharp.
Not welcoming.
Just a dull, half-hearted sound, as if even the bell itself had given up on announcing arrivals. It felt less like an invitation and more like a reminder: you've entered, whether anyone cares or not.
Inside, there weren't many people.
A couple near the window spoke in low voices. An old man sat alone, slowly stirring his soup. The air carried the smell of oil, heat, and something faintly medicinal, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes without asking for permission.
He led me to a table near the wall and sat across from me. The table surface was clean but worn smooth at the edges, polished by years of elbows and bowls being slid back and forth.
He handed me the menu.
"What do you want to eat?"
His voice was relaxed, almost lazy. Like the question itself didn't really matter.
I lowered my head and stared at the menu.
The layout was simple. Rows of dish names. Clear prices printed right next to them. No pictures, no decoration. Just words and numbers.
Those numbers caught my attention immediately.
They were familiar. Too familiar.
They were lined up neatly, evenly spaced, as if trying to look harmless. But the moment I saw them, my eyes instinctively shifted away, sliding downward as if avoiding eye contact.
At the very bottom of the page, there was a small section.
Vegetarian dishes.
My gaze stopped there.
One line stood out—not because it was special, but because it was the cheapest.
I pointed at it.
"This one."
He glanced at where my finger was pointing.
He didn't say anything at first.
He just shook his head slightly. The movement was subtle, almost absent-minded, as if rejecting something that didn't even require discussion. Then he took the menu back from my hands, flipped through a few pages himself, and spoke to the server.
His order came out calm and steady.
Steamed buns.
Dumplings.
Lamb soup.
A stir-fried meat dish.
And several other items whose names slipped past my ears before I could catch them.
I sat there, hands resting awkwardly on my knees, listening to the sound of his voice fade as the server left.
Soon, dishes began arriving.
One plate.
Then another.
Then another.
They filled the table quickly, the empty space disappearing beneath bowls, bamboo steamers, and ceramic plates. Steam rose in soft, constant waves, fogging the air between us.
He didn't rush me.
Didn't say "eat."
Didn't even look at me expectantly.
But time didn't need encouragement.
Heat rolled off the food, carrying the scent of meat, oil, and soup. It wasn't an aggressive smell. It didn't assault my senses. Instead, it spread quietly, seeping into the air, thickening it, making each breath feel heavier than the last.
My stomach reacted before my mind did.
It growled.
The sound was small. Embarrassingly small.
But in the stillness of the table, it felt loud enough to echo.
I pretended not to hear it.
Lowered my head.
Yet my hand had already moved, reaching for the nearest bamboo steamer as if guided by instinct rather than choice.
The steamed bun was hot.
I could feel the heat immediately, even through the thin paper lining. It pressed against my fingertips, warning me.
I hesitated.
Then I bit into it.
The moment my teeth broke the skin, hot broth surged into my mouth.
I flinched, brows drawing together as the heat spread across my tongue. My first instinct was to pull away, to spit it out—but I didn't.
I couldn't.
I held it there, breathing shallowly, letting the heat fade just enough before swallowing.
The warmth slid down my throat, settled in my stomach, and spread outward.
Warm.
Not sharp.
Not painful.
Just… warm.
I picked up the bowl of lamb soup next.
The soup looked clearer than I'd imagined, almost light. But the flavor was deep, heavy, grounding. I drank slowly, feeling it stack on top of the warmth already inside me.
Then dumplings.
Then vegetables.
Then rice.
At some point, the rhythm took over. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. My hands moved without hesitation now. My thoughts grew slower, softer.
By the time I noticed the bowl of fried rice was empty, its bottom exposed, something unfamiliar had settled in my stomach.
Full.
Not tight.
Not sick.
Just full.
After the meal, he stood and paid without a word.
We left the restaurant together.
Outside, the sunlight seemed brighter than before. Not dramatically—just enough to notice. The street hadn't changed. Same cracked pavement. Same sparse foot traffic.
As we walked toward the park, something slowly clicked into place.
No one was looking at me.
No stares.
No whispers.
No cautious glances.
My hair was dyed red. I was wearing that long, overly flashy coat that usually made people notice me whether I wanted them to or not.
Normally, in places like this, eyes would linger. Some curious. Some judgmental. Some openly wary.
But now—nothing.
I blended in.
I wasn't a spectacle.
I wasn't a problem.
I was just another person passing by.
At the park entrance, he stopped at a vending machine. The machine hummed softly as he pressed a few buttons. Two cans dropped down with a dull clatter.
He took one and tossed the other to me.
The can was cold when it hit my palm, the chill sharp and sudden.
We sat on a nearby bench.
The wind was light. Leaves rustled faintly above us. Somewhere far away, children laughed, their voices drifting through the park before dissolving into the background noise of the city.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he broke the silence.
"Where should I start?"
He didn't look at me when he said it. He lifted his can of black coffee and took a sip. The smell was bitter. Strong.
His expression didn't change at all.
"My name is Seven."
"Seven?"
The word slipped out of my mouth before I could think about it.
"That's right," he said. "The number seven."
There was no hesitation in his voice. No emphasis. Just a statement.
"The reason I looked for you," he continued, "is because I happened to meet your grandfather."
The moment he said it, my chest tightened.
My heart dropped, heavy and sudden.
My throat closed up, like something invisible had lodged itself there.
"Of course, that's not the only reason," he added. "I also knew your parents."
"My parents?"
I looked at him sharply, the words escaping before I could stop them.
A thought flashed through my mind.
How old is this man?
The answer never came.
Instead, a sharp flick landed squarely on my forehead.
Not hard.
Just enough.
Enough to jolt me back into myself.
"We spent more than eight years together," Seven said calmly.
"At first, to them, I was just a teacher."
His gaze drifted across the park, unfocused, settling on nothing in particular.
"Then something changed."
He paused.
"Do you know why?"
I shook my head.
"Their child was born."
He lifted his hand and pointed lightly at me.
"You."
For a split second, my breathing stopped.
"They started showing me your pictures," he said. "Sometimes they couldn't help themselves. They'd brag."
He finished his coffee and tossed the empty can into the trash beside the bench. The metallic clang echoed clearly in the quiet space.
"They said that if there was ever a chance, they wanted me to meet you."
He paused again.
"Until the accident ten years ago."
That was where he stopped.
He didn't explain.
Didn't soften his tone.
Didn't look at me.
His face remained composed, distant—like someone recounting a story that didn't belong to him.
But my vision blurred.
Tears welled up without warning, spilling over and sliding down my cheeks. I lifted my hand to wipe them away, only to realize it was trembling.
So… they loved me.
The thought settled in fully for the first time.
Clear.
Undeniable.
Not because I did something right.
Not because I was useful.
Just because—
I was their child.