The Quiet Algorithm of Us

12 Training Day for Civility

Morning called itself reasonable and meant it. The garden inhaled. The koi rehearsed being coins. Zhou wrote the day on the kitchen in the only language she trusts: hot water, clean counters, bowls waiting like polite planets. The house had a plan and, for once, so did the humans.

It began with a workshop no one asked for and everyone needed.

“Civility,” Miran announced, standing at the kitchen island with a stack of index cards and a label maker, “is just logistics for feelings.”

Bodyguard Chen—tie repentant, spine obedient—stood at parade attention beside Bodyguard Sun, who had perfected the art of existing at ten and a half paces. Aunt Meifang and Aunt Lihua took window seats like judges with floral and jasmine jurisdictions. Kai drifted through clutching a small clipboard that said house style, spoken. Luo Qiang lurked in the doorway making sure no one smuggled in a coup.

Miran set down three cards:

PLEASE (use before verbs; not optional)
EXCUSE ME (doorways, crowded thoughts)
THANK YOU (apply liberally; rinse; repeat)

“Scenario one,” she said, pointing at Chen. “You need to ask a guest to move two steps left because the sun is conspiring with physics to create a glare that would ruin a doctor’s mood.”

Chen breathed like a person hoping not to wake a sleeping dragon. “Move left,” he tried, then flinched as if he’d kicked a shrine.

“Add lubrication,” she said kindly.

“Please move left,” he corrected.

“Now make it human,” she said. “You’re not rearranging furniture. You’re inviting participation in the continued dignity of light.”

He swallowed. “Would you… please move a little to the left? The sun is uncooperative.”

“Better,” she said. “Aunt Lihua?”

The jasmine general inclined her head. “Approved.”

“Scenario two,” Miran said, turning to Sun, “you intercept a journalist near the kitchen. You will not growl. You will not block like a tragic column. You will say, ‘Excuse me, the kitchen is resting.’”

Sun repeated it with the seriousness of a man reciting a vow. He even got the tone right: firm but with the hint of a smile that says soup outranks you.

“Scenario three,” she said, pivoting to the aunt bench. “We practice ‘thank you.’”

Aunt Meifang blinked, affronted on behalf of a thousand correct dinners she had already thrown. “I say thank you in my heart,” she said, which is also how dictators talk to parliaments.

“Out loud,” Miran said gently. “To staff. To peas. To tie crimes that are in remission. Economies thrive on gratitude. It reduces friction like oil and increases compliance like pastries.”

Aunt Meifang narrowed her eyes at Chef Peng, who had wandered in purely to watch civilization happen. “Chef Peng,” she said, as if the words were crossing a minefield, “your noodles have prevented at least three coups.”

“Thank you,” Chef Peng prompted, saintly.

Aunt Meifang sighed. “Thank you,” she said, and then, shocked by how much it didn’t hurt, added, “very much.”

Aunt Lihua looked pleased. She flicked the jasmine behind her ear like a little gavel. “There,” she declared. “Civility is now open for business.”

Miran labeled the kettle please and the sugar bowl thank you because symbolism behaves better with stickers. Chen and Sun each received an index card to keep in their pockets like insurance against panic. The house took a tiny step closer to being the place it pretended to be.