Sunday mornings were usually slow for me — soft sunlight, quiet air, and the faint warmth of blankets that never made it easy to get up.
But today felt different.
I woke earlier than usual, blinking at the pale light slipping through the curtains. Maybe it was nerves... or maybe the simple fact that today was the start of something new.
My first part-time job.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, letting the thought settle in. A week ago, Dad casually mentioned that an old friend who owned a noodle shop needed an extra hand. I'd said yes without thinking too deeply about it — maybe out of curiosity, maybe because I wanted a small change.
And now, here I was.
After washing up and changing clothes, I headed to the kitchen. A familiar, comforting smell of soy and sesame lingered in the air. Mom was already there, arranging plates on the table.
"Oh? Yuan'er, you're up early today," she said with that gentle smile of hers.
"Mm," I replied, pulling out a chair. "Didn't want to risk being late on my first day."
She poured warm tea into a cup and set it in front of me before taking her own seat.
"So, you're starting at that noodle shop near the market, right? Your father mentioned it yesterday."
I nodded. "Yeah. The owner's an old friend of his."
A soft, nostalgic look appeared in Mom's eyes. "Ah... that must be Old Ye."
I blinked. "You know her too?"
She laughed lightly. "Of course. We used to live in the same old neighborhood. She's one of my closest friends from back then. Her family has always run that little restaurant together — it's a very warm place. You'll be in good hands."
Something inside me eased at her words. The nervousness that had been buzzing quietly in my stomach loosened just a little.
"That's good to know," I murmured.
We finished breakfast quietly. I stood to help her wash the dishes, letting the warm water and steady rhythm calm me. Afterward, I returned to my room, checking over my things one more time — phone, wallet, the small notepad Dad insisted I take "just in case."
I slipped everything into my bag and took a slow breath.
A new place.
A new routine.
A new part of my life quietly beginning.
Somehow... it didn't feel so scary anymore.
******
I spent the rest of the morning trying to read a novel I had borrowed last week, but my focus kept drifting to the ticking clock on my wall.
It wasn't nerves, exactly.
More like... the quiet tension before stepping into something unfamiliar. Dad said the job would be simple — helping out during the busy hours, nothing complicated — but I still didn't want to embarrass myself on the first day.
By noon, I closed the book with a sigh and decided to leave early.
The restaurant was about a twenty-minute walk from home, enough time to settle my thoughts. The sun was warm but gentle, and a faint breeze carried the comforting scent of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor. It made the whole afternoon feel softer than it should've.
As I followed the shopping street, a familiar storefront caught my eye — the small bookstore I'd visited the week before.
I hesitated.
Then pushed the door open.
A soft chime welcomed me, followed by a wave of cool air. The shop was quieter than usual, the kind of calm where you could hear someone flipping a page from across the room. I walked to the fiction shelves, tracing my fingers along the spines without really searching for anything.
Sometimes, just being around books made it easier to breathe.
"Ah, back again?"
I looked up to see the clerk from last week — the middle-aged man with glasses who remembered faces too well.
"Yeah," I said, scratching lightly at my neck. "Just browsing."
He chuckled. "You've got good timing. We just restocked that author you like."
I found the new release easily, thanked him, and paid before slipping the book carefully into my bag. When I stepped back outside, the afternoon light had mellowed into a soft gold.
Plenty of time left.
My stomach growled quietly, so I stopped at a small food stall nearby for a simple meal — fried dumplings and tea. I sat by the window, watching people drift down the street. Some carried groceries, others held hands, and a few hurried by with the look of weekend errands on their faces.
As the steam from my tea curled upward, I wondered about the Ye family.
Dad had called them "good, honest folk."
Mom said they used to be neighbors.
But still, it felt strange — knowing I'd soon be working alongside people I'd never met.
Would they be strict?
Friendly?
Or somewhere in between?
When I finally finished eating, I wiped my hands, straightened my bag strap, and pulled out the small note Dad had written the night before.
"Ye Family Noodle House — Near East Market."
It wasn't far now.
I took a deep breath, stood up, and stepped outside. The little bell above the door chimed softly behind me — a sound that felt like a quiet push forward.
And with that, I headed toward the place where the next part of my day — and maybe something more — was waiting.
******
By the time I reached East Market, the sunlight had softened into a warm amber glow. The narrow street was lined with old-style shop signs, their paint slightly faded but full of character. The air carried the mixed aromas of soup, stir-fry, and spices drifting from nearby food stalls.
It didn't take long to find the place.
Ye Family Noodle House.
The signboard was plain and a little worn, but the thin stream of steam curling from the kitchen window made the place feel alive — like a home that had been feeding people for years.
I paused in front of the entrance, straightened my shirt, then stepped inside.
The familiar sounds of a small restaurant wrapped around me instantly — bowls clinking, chopsticks tapping, and soft conversations blending with the aroma of simmering broth. My stomach reminded me that dumplings at lunch hadn't been much.
Behind the counter, a woman in her forties was arranging bowls with practiced efficiency. She looked up when she spotted me.
"Ah, you must be Tang Yuan?" she said, her face breaking into a warm smile.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied, giving a small bow. "My father told me to come today."
"Good, good. I'm Aunt Ye," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "I've known your parents for ages. Your mother and I were classmates — such a diligent girl. I suppose you take after her."
I scratched my cheek, a little embarrassed. "I'll do my best."
She chuckled. "No need to be shy. We're just a small shop — once you get the rhythm, you'll be fine."
She motioned for me to follow her behind the counter.
The kitchen was compact but neat, every tool in its place. Pots were simmering quietly, the broth bubbling softly, and ingredients were stacked in tidy rows. The whole place had a kind of cozy rhythm — boiling, chopping, washing — all moving together like a quiet heartbeat.
"You'll start with serving and washing dishes," she explained. "Once you're familiar, you can help take orders. Our busy hours are from five to eight, so you'll work from around three-thirty until after dinner. That alright for you?"
"Yes," I said. "That's fine."
"Good." She smiled. "You can rest a bit before the evening crowd. My daughter will show you how we handle orders later."
I blinked. Her daughter?
Aunt Ye laughed softly at my reaction. "She's around your age. Don't worry — she's reliable. And she doesn't bite."
I couldn't help but laugh too. "I'll keep that in mind."
She handed me a clean apron and pointed toward the back.
"For now, help me rinse these bowls. Get used to the flow of things."
I rolled up my sleeves and took my place at the sink. The warm water ran over my hands, and the steady clinking of dishes mixed with Aunt Ye's gentle humming.
Slowly, the unfamiliarity began to ease.
This place...
the warmth,
the rhythm,
the quiet kindness—
Maybe spending my afternoons here wouldn't be so bad after all.
******
Evening arrived gently, settling over East Market like a warm blanket.
Inside the noodle shop, the low hum of chatter mixed with the rhythmic clatter of bowls, creating a steady heartbeat that somehow soothed the nerves racing through me.
Steam drifted from the open kitchen in soft waves, carrying the rich scent of broth and soy — warm, comforting, and strangely nostalgic.
It was my first day.
And already, I was trying to keep up.
Aunt Ye guided me with a patient smile — showing me how to clear tables, balance trays, take simple orders. I held my tray a little too tightly, afraid I'd drop something, but she never scolded, only encouraged.
I had just finished placing chopsticks on a table when the back-room door opened.
Ye Ling stepped out.
She wore a simple white blouse under a dark apron, her hair tied neatly behind her. Seeing her outside school like this — grounded, composed — threw me off for a moment.
"...Tang Yuan?" she said softly, blinking in surprise.
I froze mid-motion. "Ah — yeah. Aunt Ye said I should start today."
For a beat, she looked at me like she wasn't sure what expression to wear. Then something gentle flickered across her eyes, and her lips curved into a faint smile.
"I see," she murmured. "So that's what she meant earlier."
I tilted my head. "What did she mean?"
"She said someone would help today... but she didn't say it was you."
A pause — small, but warm.
"That's... nice."
The silence that followed was awkward in a strangely harmless way — the kind where neither person knows if they should talk more or step aside. I scratched my cheek, looking away.
"Well... I'll try not to get in your way."
She let out a soft laugh — not loud, not teasing, just light enough to calm me.
"I'm sure you'll do fine. If you need help, just ask."
As the night flowed on, I learned something.
Ye Ling was surprisingly steady.
Even when the restaurant grew crowded, she carried bowls with practiced ease, her voice soft but firm as she greeted customers, her smile polite yet natural. She remembered regulars by name, adjusted orders without hesitation, and moved through the small kitchen like it was her second home.
Meanwhile, I fumbled through small mistakes — mixing up two bowls, forgetting chopsticks on one order.
But she always noticed before anyone else.
At one point, she stepped quietly beside me, corrected the mix-up, and gave me the simplest, gentlest smile.
"It's okay," she said. "Everyone starts like this."
Something about her calmness settled me, made my nerves loosen.
Even when I was clumsy, she never made me feel foolish.
When closing time came, the sky outside had turned into deep orange, slowly fading into blue. Most customers had left, leaving only the soft clatter of dishes from the back and the muffled sounds of evening traffic drifting from the street.
Aunt Ye wiped her hands and turned to me.
"You did well today, Yuan'er. From now on, your shift starts at four, ends a bit after eight. Remember that."
"I will," I said. "Thank you for teaching me."
She looked pleased — maybe too pleased. I wasn't sure I deserved her praise yet, but her warmth made it easier to accept.
Ye Ling stood by the counter, drying her hands with a towel. When she caught my eye, she gave me a small smile — quiet, reserved, but undeniably warm.
"You did well," she said gently. "It's not always this busy."
I chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck. "I hope not. I thought I messed up a lot."
She shook her head.
"Everyone does at first. You'll get used to it."
I found myself watching her for a moment longer — noticing how natural she looked here, in this little restaurant filled with steam and warmth.
Quiet but not distant.
Calm but not cold.
Maybe... this place suited her.
And for some reason, that thought stayed with me.
After saying goodbye, I stepped outside. The evening had cooled, a soft breeze brushing past the faint scent of food stalls down the street. The streetlights had begun to glow, casting a warm amber hue on the pavement.
I bought a drink from the vending machine at the corner and leaned against the pole, letting the cool metal press gently against my back. I thought about Aunt Ye's kindness... about Ye Ling's calm smile... and realized I didn't feel nervous anymore.
Maybe it was the people.
Or maybe... I just hadn't realized how much I missed the feeling of belonging somewhere.
Before turning the corner, I glanced through the restaurant window one last time.
Ye Ling was still there.
Wiping the last table, slow and unhurried, the golden light catching in her hair like a soft halo.
For a moment, she paused — lifting her head, looking somewhere far beyond the shop, her expression unreadable in the dim glow.
Then she turned away, disappearing from the window, and the reflection dissolved.
I stood there a little longer than I should have.
Only after the streetlamps buzzed to life did I finally continue home.
That last image — her in the warm light, quiet and calm — stayed with me far longer than it should have.