"Shouldn't the oven beep?" Ayu suddenly snapped out of her reverie and glanced at the clock on the wall.
Zhong Hua then remembered the oven that was still preheating. He went over and turned off the timer; the soft "ding" sounded particularly clear amidst the rain. The moment he opened the oven door, a rich aroma of wheat mixed with the caramelized scent of walnuts wafted out. The bread in the baking tray had puffed up to a beautiful golden brown, and the cracks on its surface resembled the surface of Qinghai Lake when it was frozen in winter.
He took the baking tray out and placed it on the drying rack. Ayu also came over and carefully poked the side of the bread with her finger, making a soft "poof" sound.
“They’re done,” she smiled, her eyes crinkling into crescents. “The walnuts are roasted just right.”
Zhong Hua picked up a warm piece of bread, broke off a small piece, and handed it to her. Ayu opened her mouth and took a bite, her face immediately showing a satisfied expression. The bread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the crunch of walnuts and the sweet and sour taste of cranberries melted on her tongue, with a faint hint of orange zest.
"Is it good?" he asked.
"Mmm!" Ayu nodded vigorously, a few breadcrumbs on the corner of her mouth. "It tastes even better than the one I bought from that bakery in Dali last time."
Zhong Hua reached out to wipe the breadcrumbs off her, his fingertips brushing against her warm lips. The rain outside seemed to have lessened a bit; the lightning wasn't as frequent, and only the distant rumble of thunder still echoed. He watched Ayu eat her bread, a little flour still clinging to her blue apron, the band-aid on her wrist standing out vividly in the warm light.
The shadows on the countertop had vanished as they moved, leaving only the cold, reflective surface of the stainless steel. But Zhong Hua couldn't shake the image of the overlapping flying apsaras from earlier. It wasn't just a coincidence of shadows; it was more like an overlap of time itself—the murals of Dunhuang, the honey from Qinghai Lake, the wounds of Yubeng Village, the aroma wafting from the kitchen now—all the fragments of memory, washed away by the torrential rain in the early morning, were suddenly linked together by a bowl of honey, a wound, and a reflection.
After finishing her bread, Ayu picked up a dishcloth and began wiping the countertop. She wiped away the fine white foam from the baking powder, leaving a clean, reflective surface. Zhong Hua leaned against the counter, watching her busy figure; her blue apron, under the warm yellow light, resembled a tranquil ocean.
“That shadow just now,” he suddenly said, “resembled the flying apsaras we saw in Dunhuang.”
Ayu paused for a moment, turned around, and smiled: "Yes, it's as if they flew out of the painting and hid in our shadows."
“Maybe,” Zhong Hua walked over and took the rag from her hand, “we brought Feitian home.”
He wiped the countertop; a trace of sticky honey lingered where the reflection had just been. The rain outside had turned into a light drizzle, and the plants in the backyard appeared exceptionally verdant after being washed by the rain. A few faint buzzing sounds drifted from afar, but they were no longer so jarring.
Ayu picked up the dough again, preparing to make the next batch of bread. The baking powder trembled gently in her palm, and the tiny white foam shimmered again in the warm light. Zhong Hua looked at her hands; the marks from pressing the dough were still on her fingertips. Those lines resembled the folds of ribbons on a flying apsara in a mural, and also the ripples on the surface of Qinghai Lake.
The aroma of freshly baked bread still lingered, mingling with the crisp air after the rain, drifting out of the kitchen window and towards the gradually clearing sky. Zhong Hua knew that once the sun came out, the beehives on the back hill might be relocated, and the redness and swelling on A Yu's wrist would subside. But the reflection of that stormy morning, those overlapping shadows and memories, would, like baking powder, slowly swell in time, eventually becoming the sweetest secret embedded in the bread.
Just like now, he watched Ayu press new dough into the mold. Under the warm light, the fine white foam of the baking powder shimmered again, and the hem of her blue apron swayed gently with her movements, much like the skirts of the flying apsaras in the Dunhuang murals fluttering in the wind. And on the table, that overlapping outline seemed to faintly emerge again, resonating quietly with the stars and time in the aroma of baking bread.
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