Emily had set her alarm for 6 AM, but she didn’t need it. She couldn’t sleep. The hotel was of high standard, and despite her room being one of the least luxurious, it was extremely quiet. The mattress was soft, the pillows plush, and the blanket warm and light. She’d drawn the curtains tightly, so no light could seep through from the outside. It was the perfect environment for a good night’s rest—yet Emily stayed wide awake until dawn. Maybe… just maybe… There was something about Room 2307. A kind of energy that refused to let her sleep. Whether it was mere coincidence or something more, the layout and decor of this room were eerily similar to the one at the Hilton Hotel, where she'd spent those unforgettable nights. The resemblance was so strong that when she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the warm body lying next to her, a chest she used to lean against. All she had to do was glance up to see the pale mask that once covered his face. Regret crept in—she should have asked for another room. Perhaps if she had stayed in Room 2306, she might have slept soundly. At 5:30 AM, Emily gave up on sleep altogether and got out of bed. She washed her hands and headed to the small kitchenette to start making congee. After rinsing the rice thoroughly, she tossed it into boiling water and lowered the heat to let it simmer slowly. While the congee was cooking, Emily took a shower and applied a light layer of makeup. Even though she hadn’t worked as a makeup artist in over three years, her skills were still sharp. With just a few brush strokes, the exhaustion in her eyes disappeared, replaced by a vibrant glow. For years, she had tried to escape the person she once was, forcing herself away from the soft makeup styles and simple outfits she used to favor. Now, she experimented with more bold, European-inspired looks—something elegant yet still alluring. Thankfully, her mother had blessed her with great features, making it hard for her to look bad, no matter how much she experimented. Emily smiled at her reflection in the mirror, a smile that said, It's all in the past, Miranda. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the congee was nearly done. The rice had softened into a thick, creamy consistency. She chopped up some vegetables and pork, tossing them into the pot before seasoning the mixture to taste. Knock, knock, knock. The sound startled her. Is it Uncle Bert? Emily walked over to the door, feeling somewhat surprised when she opened it. It wasn’t her uncle. It was the man from last night, the one who had paid for her groceries. Today, he was dressed in all-black athletic gear, with a fitness tracker on his wrist and a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Hey, good morning,” he greeted her with a smile. Caught off guard, Emily responded hesitantly, “Morning… um, can I help you?” The man chuckled lightly. “Sorry to bother you so early. I just got back from a run. Ten kilometers, and not a single breakfast place open along the way. Europeans are a bit lazy, aren’t they? But when I got up to the 23rd floor, I smelled congee. I was wondering… if I could buy a bowl from you?” His tone was polite, and his expression remained composed. He had a certain air of wealth about him, the kind that comes from a comfortable life—someone who never had to worry about money. Feeling awkward but knowing she couldn’t refuse after he’d helped her last night, Emily stepped aside and invited him in. “Come in. It’s still cooking, but it’ll taste better after a few more minutes.” “Thanks,” he replied with a nod, entering her modest hotel room. As he looked around, he commented, “The layout here…” Emily, already back in the kitchen, stirred the simmering congee with a ladle. “Sorry, what did you say?” “The layout is quite clever,” he said, smiling lightly. “It feels homey.” Homey? Emily thought to herself. “Does it remind you of your own place?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You could say that,” the man replied, gesturing to the sofa. “Mind if I sit for a moment?” “Of course,” Emily nodded. “By the way, I never got your name last night. How should I address you?” “Leslie,” he replied simply. “Just call me Leslie.” “Alright, Leslie,” Emily said, wiping her hands on a towel before adding with slight embarrassment, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any extra bowls. Would it be okay if I served your congee in a disposable cup?” In reality, she hadn’t bought any bowls at all the night before—everything she had was disposable. Leslie nodded. “That’s fine, thank you.” Though they were both Americans, their conversation held a touch of formality, much like how Europeans might interact. Their apologies and thanks seemed tinged with a foreign politeness. Perhaps he spends a lot of time abroad, Emily mused. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? she reminded herself. They were strangers, meeting by chance. She had enough baggage in her life to fill every moment of the past thirty years—there was no room for a random stranger. After this bowl of congee, she would likely never see him again. Emily ladled a generous portion of pork congee into a paper cup and handed it to him. “Sorry, no spoon.” “No worries, I’ll drink it straight from the cup,” Leslie said, accepting it graciously. Just as she was about to serve herself, she accidentally knocked over her cup. “Oh no!” she cried out, quickly dropping the cup in panic. Leslie rushed into the kitchen at the sound of her voice. “What happened?” “Nothing serious,” Emily replied sheepishly, cradling her hand. “I just burned myself a little. The opening of the cup is small—hard to pour.” Without a word, Leslie grabbed her hand and held it under the cold tap, letting the water flow over the burn. The icy stream was so cold that she nearly lost all feeling in her hand. “Leslie… I can do this myself,” Emily tried to protest. But he didn’t seem to hear her. He continued to hold her hand firmly under the water for several minutes until the redness faded and her skin returned to a normal color. Only then did he release her hand.“You need to run cold water over burns for at least three minutes. It helps with the healing process,” he explained. Emily blinked, caught off guard by his calm efficiency. She shook the water off her hand, laughing awkwardly. “You really know your stuff, Leslie. Thanks.” “I’ve read a lot about burn treatment,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Have… have you had someone close to you suffer burns before?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “Yes,” Leslie nodded, his face darkening. “My wife. She died in a fire. I had nightmares for three years. Every time, I saw her reaching out to me from the flames, begging me to save her… and our child. If only I had arrived sooner, maybe… she wouldn’t have died.” Emily felt a sharp pang in her chest. “I’m so sorry… that’s truly heartbreaking.” “It’s alright. Is your hand feeling better now?” he asked, steering the conversation away from his past. Emily flexed her fingers. The burn still felt numb, but the initial sting had disappeared. “Your method worked wonders,” she smiled. “Good,” Leslie said as he moved past her, ladling himself another cup of congee. “Be careful, it’s hot.” Emily took the cup he offered her, her hands wrapping around the warmth. “Thank you.” “No, I should be the one thanking you,” Leslie said, sipping his congee with a small smile. “You did all the hard work. I’m just here to enjoy it.”