CHAPTER 46: ACCIDENT

Her eyes curved into crescent moons, and she leaned against him sleepily. "Hehe... next time, we’ll make more."

He brushed her hair softly. "Next time, huh?"

"Mm-hmm... with lots of flavors."

"Alright, sweetheart," he said, smiling as the sunset painted the sky orange and pink. "Next time."

That night, back home, Yuanfeng carried her to bed. Her small hands were still faintly dusted with flour. She murmured something in her sleep, half a recipe, half a dream, and he couldn’t help but chuckle quietly.

He turned off the light, then paused, glancing toward the kitchen. The faint smell of baked mooncakes still lingered in the air, mingling with the laughter that had filled the house for days.

It had been years since this home felt so alive.

And as the moon hung high outside, glowing softly, Yuanfeng thought to himself—

Maybe this was what the Mid-Autumn Festival was truly about. Not lanterns or mooncakes, not tradition or competition, but togetherness.

The warmth of a small kitchen, the laughter of a child, and the quiet joy of rediscovering life, one sweet moment at a time.

The scent of butter and baked dough still lingered in the kitchen when night finally fell. The faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft clinking of utensils being washed, and the distant chirping of crickets outside the window, all of it blended into a rhythm so gentle that Huaijin almost forgot she was ever anything but a little girl in a warm home.

On the dining table sat the fruits of her and her father’s labor: a tray of golden-brown mooncakes, round and glossy like tiny moons.

Some were unevenly shaped, some cracked at the edges, and some had faces drawn on them with chocolate syrup; it was Yuanfeng’s handiwork, of course. He had insisted that every mooncake needed "personality."

"Look, this one’s you," he said proudly, pointing at a mooncake with a tiny swirl of dough shaped like a bun on top.

"That doesn’t look like me!" Huaijin huffed, her small hands on her hips. "My face isn’t that fat!"

Yuanfeng laughed, his deep voice warm and rumbling like a lullaby. "Well, I’m sorry, my little dumpling. Maybe next time I’ll make you thinner."

"You would better!" she muttered, puffing her cheeks, which only made her look rounder.

The two burst into laughter.

For a while, everything felt easy. The stress, the strangeness, the hidden memories of her past life, they all faded into the background.

The world narrowed down to this small apartment with its flickering kitchen light, the faint scent of flour in the air, and her father’s patient smile as he carefully packed the mooncakes into little boxes wrapped with ribbons.

He was humming softly as he worked, a tune she vaguely recognized from somewhere, a lullaby her mother used to sing before she disappeared from their lives entirely.

Later that night, when the moon hung high above the city and painted everything in a pale silver glow, Yuanfeng tucked her into bed.

He pulled the blanket up to her chin, smoothing out the wrinkles with the same careful attention he gave his research papers.

Huaijin lay there, pretending to be sleepy, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

Her father’s hair was slightly disheveled, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.

The faint ink stains on his fingertips and the small burn on his wrist from earlier made him look more like a tired scholar than a scientist, a man who worked too hard, and smiled too kindly, and he loved her too deeply for a world that never gave him much in return.

"You did great today," he murmured, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her forehead. "You kneaded that dough like a pro chef."

She smiled drowsily. "That’s because Daddy helped me."

He chuckled. "No, no, I was just your assistant. You were the boss."

Huaijin’s little fingers gripped his sleeve, holding on tightly. "Daddy, will you always stay with me?"

Yuanfeng froze for half a second, just a blink, before his smile softened again. "Of course, sweetheart. Always."

But even as he said it, Huaijin felt something ache deep in her chest.

She had heard those same words before.

In her past life

, on a night just like this one, under the same moonlight and the same faint scent of mooncakes cooling on the counter.

Her father had kissed her forehead, turned off the lights, and left the room with a whispered "Goodnight."

The next morning, he was gone.

She remembered it vividly. The sound of the phone ringing. The smell of rain. Her small hands were trembling as she held the receiver.

"Your father was involved in an accident," the voice on the other end had said. "We’re... sorry."

She didn’t understand at first. Accident?

Her father didn’t even drive. He took the train every morning, carrying his tattered briefcase and lunch box.

What kind of accident could happen to a man who spent most of his time in a lab or classroom?

But the world never explained itself to side characters like her.

In the story she had once read, the story that became her world, her father’s death was barely mentioned. Just one line:

"Yuanfeng, the kind researcher and tutor who once guided Song Jue during his youth, passed away in an unfortunate accident."

That was it.

No reason. No justice. Just a convenient tragedy to fuel the male lead’s emotional growth.

Her father became a narrative stepping stone, a sacrifice to make someone else shine.

Now, lying in her warm bed as her father gently stroked her hair, Huaijin’s heart squeezed painfully.

She wanted to tell him everything, that she remembered a future where he died, that she knew how the story was supposed to go, that she didn’t want it to happen again. But how could she?

To him, she was just a six-year-old girl.

If she suddenly said, "Daddy, you’re going to die because someone planned your accident to make the male lead’s character growth believable," he’d probably call a doctor, and not the kind who could help.