Shunzi's hands trembled as he accepted the bundle of rice cake, still warm through the leaves.
He hurried to a secluded corner behind the Imperial Kitchen where firewood was stacked high, turning his back to the cutting wind. Carefully, almost reverently, he peeled back the leaves.
The sight struck him at once.
Soft. White. Plump.
And there—right at the center—a single red dot.
His eyes burned.
He lifted the rice cake with both hands and brought it close, breathing in deeply.
It was there.
That simple, honest fragrance of steamed rice—grounded and warm—laced with the faintest tang of fermented fruit. The sour note didn't clash; instead, it sharpened the sweetness, making the rice aroma stand out even more clearly.
Just like he remembered.
He took a small bite.
Warmth spread across his tongue. The cake was soft, gently sticky, yielding without resistance. The sweetness was barely there—light, restrained—but it slipped straight past his senses and struck something deeper.
This wasn't the polished, elaborate sweetness of palace pastries.
This was the taste of childhood.
The kind his mother used to make—lifting the first piece from the steamer, blowing on it once or twice, then pressing it into his mouth with a laugh. Sweetness mixed with smoke, steam, and affection.
He took another bite. Chewed slowly.
The rice aroma filled his mouth, and with it came the memories—overlapping, vivid.
The rainy seasons of Jiangnan.The damp kitchen thick with steam.His mother's face, flushed red from the heat.Her voice, half-scolding, half-laughing:
"Slow down. It's hot."
Before he could swallow the third bite, the tears came.
Large drops fell without warning—onto the rice cake, onto his rough, chapped hands. He clamped his lips shut, refusing to make a sound, but his shoulders shook violently.
He cried silently, fiercely.
As if every grievance since entering the palace—every fear, every night of loneliness, every swallowed sob—was finally pouring out through this single bite of home.
Was it an exact match?
Maybe only five… six parts out of ten.
But that imperfect resemblance was enough.
Like a key turning in a long-locked door.
Within these freezing northern palace walls, this small, warm food—carrying the shadow of his mother's hands—was more precious than gold or silver.
He didn't know how long he cried.
When the storm finally passed, Shunzi carefully wrapped the remaining rice cake back up and tucked it close to his chest, where a trace of warmth still lingered. He wiped his face and returned to the Imperial Kitchen.
His eyes were red and swollen.
But his back was a little straighter now.
And in his gaze—there was light. Faint, fragile, but undeniably real.
He never spoke of what had happened.
But the change in him—the quiet revival of spirit—did not go unnoticed.
A few days later, as Qing Tian went out at dusk to dispose of spent medicinal grounds, she was stopped by Xiang Fu—the elderly eunuch who guarded the back gate of the Imperial Kitchen.
He was over sixty, his back bent nearly double. His complexion carried a sickly gray-blue hue, and his cough—persistent all winter—sounded as though it might tear his lungs apart.
"Girl," Xiang Fu rasped, his voice dry and broken like an old bellows."I heard from that child Shunzi… that you have a kind heart. And skilled hands."
Qing Tian paused. "Eunuch Xiang, do you need something?"
He coughed violently, bending over until the fit passed, then spoke slowly.
"Don't be afraid. I just… cough… wanted to ask—aside from medicine, is there… something I could eat? Something to soothe the breath?"His clouded eyes held both embarrassment and hope."The medicine is bitter. And costly… Granny Chen's prescription is good, but my monthly allowance…"
Qing Tian understood at once.
She looked at his frail frame, worn thin by illness, and thought of the notes in The Miscellany of Ingredients—of foods that moistened dryness, calmed the lungs.
Snow pear: cooling, clear, gently soothing.White fungus: gelatinous, nourishing, restorative.Rock sugar: clean sweetness, light and penetrating.
"Please wait a moment, Eunuch Xiang."
She turned back and soon returned with a small cloth bundle.
Inside were half a snow pear from her own ration—bruised but sound—a pinch of broken white fungus Granny Chen had given her, and a few fragments of rock sugar she'd saved from splashes during sugar-boiling.
"Take this," Qing Tian said softly."Use the small kettle in your room. Add plenty of water, simmer gently—low fire. Cook until the fungus melts and the pear turns soft, then add the sugar to dissolve. Drink a bowl before sleep each night. It should ease your throat and lungs."
"The ingredients are humble," she added. "Please don't mind."
Xiang Fu accepted the bundle with trembling hands.
The weight was light—yet it felt unbearably heavy.
His lips moved, as if searching for words, but none came. In the end, he only looked at Qing Tian for a long moment, then nodded and shuffled back to his tiny gatehouse.
In the nights that followed, a faint, delicate sweetness would drift from the damp little guardroom by the back gate.
A small clay pot bubbled softly over dying embers.
Pear and white fungus surrendered their warmth to time, releasing every ounce of gentle nourishment they possessed.
Xiang Fu's cough did not vanish overnight.
But its violent fits eased. He slept more soundly. His days held a little more strength.
He remained a man of few words.
But whenever he saw Qing Tian, the gratitude in his clouded eyes was impossible to hide.