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When Jun pulled it from his system inventory, he almost laughed out loud.

Not because it was bad—But because it was exactly right.

A small ceramic dripper, white with a faint chip at the rim.

A battered hand grinder with faded markings and a slight squeak in the crank.

A portable metal kettle, dented on one side like it had taken a fall and kept going.

A canvas tote, soft with age, corners fraying just enough to suggest it had trav ...

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Mu Xiaoya: “Why are you going to cure me?”

Bai Chuan: “I want to marry you.”

Mu Xiaoya laughed: “If you marry me, you will soon become a widower.”

Bai Chuan insisted: “I – I want to marry you.”

Bai Chuan, who has cognitive impairments, can’t express his meaning very well, and can only repeat it over and over again.

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