The Quiet Algorithm of Us

13 Return to the An House

Two spoons hesitated midair. Two throats found tasks. Two people coughed in coordinated disbelief. The ginger stared up at them innocently because ginger has an alibi.

“We, um,” Miran said, choosing to live, “have a plant.”

“Capital,” Jinchao supplied, because he will go to the grave playing straight man to reality. “We water together.”

“Excellent start,” Yulan said calmly. “Hydration is key.”

Jianming pretended to need tea urgently. Yulan let the laugh show only in her eyes. “I am in no hurry,” she said, voice as gentle as an untouched pillow. “I am practicing patience as a sport. I simply like to check inventory.”

Miran choked again, elegantly. “Ginger,” she said, wiping nothing off her lip. “Spicy.”

“Yes,” Jinchao agreed, equally dishonest. “Ginger is a known threat actor.”

“That’s right,” Yulan said, face a temple. “Aggressive rhizomes.”

They survived dessert. Pears apologized for nothing. A plate of red bean buns committed a small robbery and no one pressed charges. The house remembered them, and they let it.

After lunch, they toured the museum of Miran’s earlier self with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for cathedrals. Her childhood room had been curated by a woman who respected evidence: posters of constellations, a math Olympiad certificate framed with thrift, a shelf of books with spines broken by love. On the desk, a dinosaur lamp that had been brave through winter. On the wall, faint pencil lines charting height and hope. In the drawer, a gel pen army in retirement.

“It stayed the same,” Miran said, standing in a small country where the electricity always worked.

“Your mother wouldn’t let me paint,” Jianming admitted. “Said the walls had already learned your shape.”

“You will take what you like,” Yulan said. “Not the walls. But pens, if you need them to threaten people.”

Miran pocketed the room’s calm the way you pocket a charm: quietly, so the magic doesn’t notice you’ve stolen it. She took three gel pens because of muscle memory and nothing to do with markets. The dinosaur lamp nodded like a priest.

The afternoon softened. They sat in the little balcony alcove overlooking a street that had taught bicycles to be wise. Neighbors passed, nodded, did not gawk. Yulan asked if “he”—meaning Jinchao—ate enough breakfast. He admitted to grapefruit being a theory rather than a practice. She gave him toasted mantou slices and an expression that said, “I am from now on your supply chain.”

They talked of drains being fixed in a far neighborhood without calling in a parade. Jianming mentioned that the community center’s lights had finally been repaired. Miran pretended indifference and hid a smile in her cup. The pact remained unspoken. The ripples made tea taste better.

Late afternoon, the city switched weather. A storm shouldered in from the river with an unhelpful memory of typhoon season. Rain argued with pavement. A siren somewhere did its lonely job. Two roads flooded like amateurs. A sinkhole opened by the east bridge and sent a memo to traffic. The municipality broadcast a polite order: essential travel only; bridges closed for inspection; pretend you love your living room.

Yulan looked at the rain, then at her daughter, then at the man who carried umbrellas and responsibility like they breathed. “You will stay the night,” she said. It was not a question.

Jianming was already rolling out an extra quilt like ceremony. “The bridge will be there in the morning.”

The An house had two guest rooms, but families do arithmetic out loud. A married couple means a room. Yulan said nothing else and said everything. She aired the sheets with satisfaction. She put new water by the bed. She arranged two toothbrushes with the silent competence of a general relocating troops.