On New Year’s Eve, Ming Chi had the best dream of his life.
Though, to be exact, that wasn’t entirely true — he would definitely dream even better dreams in the future.

This time, he dreamed of basking in the moonlight on the balcony with his mother. Next time, perhaps he’d dream of making dumplings with his mother and Mr. Ming. Maybe he’d dream of a New Year’s Eve dinner where they all sat together — frost blooming on the windowpanes covered with bright red New Year prints, everyone chatting around a table heaped with endless dishes, dumplings steaming hot and fragrant, and white mist curling above the plates.

…It was the first time Ming Chi realized how a real New Year’s Eve dinner should be.

The ship docked on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month. Mr. Ming came with his family to visit Sister Zhao Lan, bringing along a flashy, oversized remote-control car for the soon-to-be-born nephew whose destiny already carried a faint line in its eight characters of birth.

Zhao Lan and her younger sister waited early at the pier. Zhao Min hadn’t seen her sister’s little brother since the hospital visit all those years ago — and when she learned what had happened afterward, she was so angry she couldn’t sleep for several nights. But fortunately, her younger brother had long since left all that behind and begun a brand new life.

Mr. and Mrs. Zhao, the elderly parents, had been busy since morning. Mrs. Zhao, following her daughter’s instructions, prepared a whole table of dishes that Huo Miao once described when she and her sister lay on the kang dreaming about the future. Mr. Zhao assisted in the kitchen, washing his hands carefully before joining Ming Chi for a long chat over a game of chess.

As for the evening’s New Year’s Eve dinner — that was left to Zhao Lan’s husband, Mr. Ming, and his family.

Halfway through the cooking, Zhao Lan’s husband was quietly pulled away by his partner, and soon after, even Mr. Ming was called out, leaving only Ming Chi in the kitchen frying fish. He had just plated it when Zhao Min mysteriously beckoned him out.

When Ming Chi came out, having washed his hands and removed his apron, he saw the living room lights turned off.
On the table sat a massive eight-layer cake.

He had made it himself — the frosting wasn’t very smooth, covered thickly with jam and chocolate sauce, twenty-four candles flickering with golden flames.

…The composed, steady, worldly Mr. Ming was for a moment completely stunned in place.

“We celebrate birthdays by the lunar calendar,” Zhao Min explained quickly from the side, trying to ease the sudden awkwardness. She whispered in a single breath, “Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday…”
She made up for fourteen missed birthdays in one go.

It was just like when her sister came home all those years ago.
That boy who once visited his sister in the hospital had asked them carefully — did they ever give her her own room? Did they make up for the three birthdays she had missed? Had they ever held her tightly and cried their hearts out together?
To the Zhao family, such questions seemed strange — of course those were things you didn’t have to confirm. Their minds had all been on the sister, and they hadn’t realized what these questions meant to that boy.
So, on that day, they hadn’t managed to keep him for dinner, hadn’t sent him home properly, hadn’t fulfilled the promise to let him share a slice of birthday cake.

It took Ming Chi a few minutes to return to himself. Through the flickering candlelight, he met the gaze of the “shadow gentleman” (his partner). Everyone in the room was smiling at him.

Zhao Lan and her husband held hands over her gently rounded belly, eyes crinkled in warm smiles. Zhao Min waved at him secretly. Mrs. Zhao was smiling through tears, wiping her eyes. Mr. Zhao sat solemnly on the sofa, carefully holding a paper garland, nodding to him with a gentle smile.

Paper garlands, cake, candles, little crowns — and a chorus of clapping to the birthday song.
Lights out for the wish, one big breath to blow out all twenty-four candles.

“So childish,” Zhao Min muttered with a grin as she handed him the knife for the cake. “Who even celebrates birthdays like this anymore?”
Ming Chi raised his hand immediately after blowing out the candles: “I do.”
Zhao Min burst out laughing, almost unable to eat her own cake. She clapped his shoulder in mock grandeur. “Fine then — from now on, you’ll have two birthdays a year, one lunar and one solar. I guarantee in three years you’ll be sick of this cheesy, old-fashioned tradition.”

Ming Chi thought quietly. Even after thirty years, he doubted he could ever get tired of this kind of birthday.

Wearing his paper crown, sharing the cake with his “shadow gentleman,” he ate the cream with a tiny plastic fork, smiling quietly with flushed ears.

The entire New Year’s Eve dinner was filled with laughter. The cake was only an appetizer — both families pasted paper cuttings and Spring Festival couplets, hung the red character for “blessing,” and under twinkling fairy lights, feasted together in noise and warmth, celebrating reunion and the turning of the year.

…But the Ming family didn’t stay overnight at the Zhao home.
It wasn’t because there wasn’t space — it was because Ming Chi’s long-awaited RV had just been delivered.

It was a custom-designed trailer home — one he had studied, designed, and commissioned himself. Such builds could take a year or more to complete, sometimes several years. But the result was a dream home, meticulously detailed, both practical and beautiful — the kind that made people envious just looking at it.

Mr. and Mrs. Zhao, being traditional, couldn’t quite understand why the young couple would rather “live on the roads” than stay in a home. Zhao Min, however, was thrilled, urging her brother to “warm the house” in the RV for New Year’s Eve and to shoot a video of it to share.

It was a local custom: when you had a new home, especially at New Year, you had to spend the night there to bring good luck.

Uncle Lu helped drive the RV over. Ming Chi and the shadow gentleman climbed in before midnight. They toasted in their mobile home with chilled, sweet wine, pasted the red paper decorations Mrs. Zhao had packed for them, and listened to the countdown on the radio.

The shadow gentleman had recently received his driver’s license and practiced diligently under Ming Chi’s guidance. He was becoming a solid driver — which also meant he was the only one that night who couldn’t taste the wine.

Ming Chi’s alcohol tolerance was modest. The wine was too smooth, deceptively light, and the joy of the night made him drink just a bit too much.
The conversation went on for a long time. Wrapped in a blanket on the back seat, he answered every question and spoke honestly about everything that came to mind.

He didn’t remember exactly what he’d said later — only that the car hummed softly, warm air blowing gently, the world calm and comfortable, and he had drifted off into sleep.

It was the best dream he had ever ranked first.

When he woke up, he was lying in the new RV, resting on the shadow gentleman’s arm, wrapped in a soft blanket.

…
Ming Weiting was watching him seriously.
When he saw Ming Chi wake up, he touched his eyelash lightly with a fingertip.
“What did you dream of?”

Still half-asleep, Ming Chi blinked, suddenly feeling the wetness on his eyelashes. His ears flushed red, and he rubbed his face quickly with his sleeve.

Ming Weiting watched him hurriedly erase the evidence, a faint smile in his eyes. He pulled him closer into his arms, brushed his hair gently, and said softly,
“You dreamed of your mother.”

Ming Chi leaned against his shoulder, lips curved in a quiet smile, nodding.

Somehow, Ming Weiting had discovered a pattern — small, enclosed, safe spaces like this always relaxed Ming Chi the most.

With eyes closed, Ming Chi rested for a while longer, then suddenly thought of something.
“Uncle Lu drank too — is it okay that he’s driving?”

He looked up, and Ming Weiting met his eyes.
“It’s already the next morning,” he said.

Still a bit groggy, Ming Chi frowned. “But that grape wine was strong.”
Ming Weiting nodded, taking over the massage of his temples. “About five percent.”
Ming Chi stared. “How much?”

Ming Weiting laughed softly and continued massaging. “You drank quite a bit. The content isn’t high, but it adds up. Still, the wine was good — and your drinking behavior was even better. You just chatted until you got sleepy and curled up to rest.”

…But that wasn’t the point.
Five percent didn’t even count as wine — it was basically grape-flavored juice with a whisper of alcohol.

Still reeling at his “weak” alcohol tolerance, Ming Chi pressed his temples, already thinking far ahead.
“In that case, what should I do when it comes time to make a toast?”

This piqued Ming Weiting’s interest. “A toast? For what occasion?”

Ming Chi almost responded instinctively but caught himself — he’d only mentioned this plan in a dream, to his mother.
Sitting there, he turned as red as a little kettle coming to a boil.

“An… occasion that uses a lot of sugar,” he murmured. “And you have to think about other things too — like what kind of cake, how to choose the location, cultural traditions, music, clothing knowledge…”

As he spoke, Ming Weiting listened, his curiosity deepening, watching him lower his voice more and more.

“And, for example,” Ming Chi said, after a long pause.

“For example?” Ming Weiting prompted softly.

“For example…” Ming Chi took a deep breath and whispered, “A church.”

Ming Weiting froze — then slowly understood.
He picked up the intercom from the wall. “Lu Shu, could you hand me the breathalyzer?”

Uncle Lu’s voice crackled from the front. “Doctor Ming, you didn’t drink last night.”
“I know,” replied Ming Weiting calmly.

Holding the intercom, he glanced at the now stubbornly “asleep” Ming Chi wrapped under the blanket, rubbed his temples, and said quietly, almost to himself,

“My little gentleman will go to the church with me.
Uncle Lu, I want to hold him and tell everyone this news. I want to hand out candy to everyone I see.”

He paused.
“…Is this what being drunk feels like?”