Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket; it was a message from her mother: "Did Chenyu say breakfast was good today?" Ah Yu stared at the name "Chenyu," her throat suddenly tightening. This name, known for seven years, now felt like a stranger's label. The roar of a car engine came from outside the window; she knew it was his black sedan leaving the neighborhood. Perhaps he was currently tying his tie with one hand, his eyes focused on the navigation, having long forgotten the frantic figure in the kitchen.

Sunlight streamed through the blinds, dividing the kitchen into alternating light and shadow. Ah Yu dried her hands and walked to the living room's floor-to-ceiling window. The twenty-three-story height made pedestrians appear as blurry black dots, while ginkgo leaves fluttered down below, resembling the gold foil scattered on a wedding day. In the wedding photo, the couple wore haute couture gowns, their smiles so perfect they seemed computer-generated. His hand rested on her waist, yet through three layers of thin veil, it offered no warmth.

Back in the kitchen, she gently touched the petals of the lisianthus, its velvety texture reminding her of his hesitant expression that morning. She realized that the estrangement in their marriage wasn't from fierce arguments, but from this cautious probing: like two gloved hands, so close yet unable to feel each other's warmth. She suddenly noticed a new note on the refrigerator magnet, written that morning: "Egg in the second slot from the left," with a smaller line next to it: "Gas stove knob needs regular cleaning"—his handwriting, neat as if printed, yet carrying a subtle warmth.

Water dripped from the sink onto the stainless steel basin, and Ah Yu suddenly smiled. She took off her apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on the back of the chair; the fabric still carried a faint smell of cooking oil. Perhaps starting tomorrow, she should try to understand more details about this man: for example, he added two spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee; for example, he habitually marked documents with a red pen; for example, he would place his slippers at a 45-degree angle with the toes pointing inwards before going to bed. These trivial habits might be more real than wedding vows, and better able to piece together the shape of marriage.

Sunlight finally filled the kitchen, and the last wisps of steam rose from the enamel pot of porridge. Ah Yu opened the refrigerator, took out the millet to cook tomorrow, and the golden grains slipped through her fingers like scattered morning light. She suddenly understood that marriage, perhaps, is about slowly cultivating a warm bond between two people in these seemingly unfamiliar daily routines—even if the heat isn't quite right yet, even if there are burnt marks and cracks, as long as you're willing to stay by the stove, you'll eventually see the aroma of porridge fill the entire house.

In the entryway, the flattened plush slipper lay quietly, the loose thread on the rabbit ears swaying slightly. Ah Yu walked over and gently straightened it, her fingertips touching the lingering warmth inside—a warmth he had left in his haste, warmer than the morning light, smoother than congee. She suddenly felt that under this eaves filled with unfamiliar angles, something was quietly melting, like spring snow seeping into the soil, silent yet resolute.