“Director,” he put down his wine glass, his voice soft but firm, “I want to give this spot to someone else.”
Everyone at the table was stunned. The director frowned: "Xiao Zhong, do you know what this means?"
“I know,” Zhong Hua smiled. “But I’ve recently realized that some things may be more important than a promotion.”
He remembered the weight of Ami stepping on his chest to wake him up every morning, the figure of it guarding the door when he came home in the evening, and the way it sat by the dining table, gazing at him expectantly, when he first made sweet and sour pork ribs. These small, warm moments were something he had never experienced during the past ten years of relentless work.
On the day he resigned, Zhong Hua packed his things and took one last look at his workstation. Last year's Outstanding Employee Award trophy still sat on the desk, covered in a thin layer of dust. He suddenly felt that the person he was, who worked tirelessly through the night for performance targets and even endured illness, seemed like a distant memory.
Stepping out of the company building, the warm sunshine felt wonderful. Zhong Hua took out his phone and sent a message to the nurse at the pet hospital: "Is Ami's leg completely healed? I want to take her to the park to get some sun."
The phone quickly replied with a photo—a nurse was holding Ami, the little guy was struggling in her arms, his head turned towards the camera, his amber eyes sparkling, as if urging him to go home quickly.
Zhong Hua smiled and quickened his pace. He remembered that he had signed up for a baking class, which started next week, and he also planned to volunteer at the adoption center on weekends. He used to think that life should be about charging forward without hesitation, but now he realized that occasionally stopping to look at the scenery along the way and embracing the warmth in one's arms might be the true nature of life.
Passing by a flower shop on the street corner, he went in and bought a bunch of sunflowers. The bright yellow petals faced the sunlight, like little suns. He thought, "My home is too quiet; it needs some color."
As soon as he opened the door, Ami jumped off the sofa and circled around his feet. Zhong Hua put the sunflowers in a vase on the windowsill, and sunlight streamed through the glass, falling on the petals and also on Ami's furry back.
He squatted down and scratched Ami's chin. The little guy comfortably rolled over, revealing his snow-white belly.
“From now on,” Zhong Hua said softly, “we’ll live a good life together.”
Ami meowed, as if it understood. The wind outside the window rustled through the treetops, bringing the scent of spring. Zhong Hua looked at the warm little ball of fur in the sunlight and suddenly felt that this accident caused by a cat might not be a joke of fate, but a belated gift that life had quietly handed to him.
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