Mu Yingying stood in front of that huge dressing mirror.
She raised her hand and lightly waved toward the mirror.
The three people in the mirror didn’t look at her at all.
The little girl was buried in her meal.
The man picked up a piece of braised spare ribs, reached over the steamed fish in the center of the table, and steadily placed it into the bowl of the woman beside him.
That woman had just wiped the oil stains off her daughter’s mouth, then she also picked up a spare rib, held the tip of her chopsticks between her lips, and smiled contentedly.
Su Shuang’er walked over to Mu Yingying, but her gaze didn’t land on the mirror. Instead, she first swept across the living room in reality.
The dining table was still in its original position, exactly the same.
Only the food on it had become the decaying remains of six dishes.
The braised spare ribs had dried out completely. The meat had shriveled into black fibers, clinging tightly to the bones, hard as stone.
The steamed fish was nothing but a skeleton, the rotten flesh smeared like black mud at the bottom of the plate.
The sweet and sour pork had turned into a few charred lumps, their surfaces cracked with countless fine fissures.
The greens had liquefied into a puddle of dark green sludge, their original form unrecognizable.
A hard crust had formed at the bottom of the soup pot, with cracked gaps revealing a darker color underneath.
The cream on the birthday cake had long since molded, turning a sickening black-green, with a layer of fluffy mycelium growing on the surface.
A candle in the shape of a “7” had fallen to the side. Its wick was black—clearly it had been lit and then blown out.
A thick layer of dust covered the entire table. One corner of the tablecloth had been lifted by the wind, and the small wooden clip used to hold it lay alone on the floor.
Su Shuang’er withdrew her gaze and looked back into the mirror.
The tablecloth in the mirror was snowy white, glowing with a warm yellow under the chandelier light.
The braised spare ribs were steaming, wisps rising upward.
The steamed fish was topped with emerald green scallions, its eyes still bright.
The pink cream cake was smooth and delicate.
When the woman had cooked a table full of dishes for her family, she never would have imagined this was their last meal.
She probably only thought, Today is my daughter’s birthday, I need to stir-fry one more dish.
Bai An’an’s voice was very calm.
“This family’s last meal.”
“On doomsday, it was their daughter’s seventh birthday. The mother left work early, bought spare ribs, fish, and greens, and made all this. Take a close look at her left index finger—”
Bai An’an pointed. “She cut it while chopping scallions. It’s still bandaged.”
Bai Ye looked in the direction she pointed. Sure enough, a flesh-colored band-aid was stuck on that woman’s index finger, mostly hidden by her sweater sleeve.
This detail, overlooked just now, felt more suffocating than the entire table of rotten food.
“Doomsday descended at that very moment.”
“Right when the man picked up the dish, the woman smiled, and the girl ate her food. To them, not a single thing happened in that second—no shockwaves, no collapse, no death… Only the aroma of food and the company of family.”
She paused.
“In that instant… their lingering thoughts refused to disperse, sealing this moment forever inside this mirror. So the people in the mirror are still celebrating that birthday that will never end.”
Mu Yingying said nothing. She slowly walked toward the mirror, her toes almost touching the wooden base of the frame.
The three people in the mirror continued their own business, ignoring her.
She reached out and gently pressed her palm against the mirror’s surface.
The surface was cold. That chill seeped through her palm, slowly draining her body heat, but it didn’t reach the other side of the mirror at all.
The man in the mirror picked up another bite of food, put it in his own bowl, but didn’t eat. He just smiled at his daughter.
The woman’s eyes crinkled at the corners—the kind of fine lines only a woman in her early thirties would have.
The little girl in the mirror wasn’t very good with chopsticks yet. She tried several times to pick up a piece of pork but failed, so she simply grabbed it with her hand and stuffed it into her mouth. Her mother started to stop her, but the girl was already chewing contentedly.
Mu Yingying watched them. After a moment’s hesitation, she spoke softly to the mirror.
“Hey.”
Her voice wasn’t loud, like calling someone in her own room.
Instantly, the little girl in the mirror stopped moving.
She jerked her head up—not a slow motion, but a reflex reaction, like the instinctive response to an unusual sound from outside the window while eating.
She looked around blankly, her little brows furrowed. She turned to look at the window behind her. The window was closed; outside was the bright city lights.
She couldn’t find the source of the sound and looked at her mom and dad in confusion.
The man was still picking up food for his wife. The woman’s smile never changed.
The little girl muttered something softly.
In the bike basket, Bai Ye, who had been silent all along, read her lips.
What she said was:
“Just now… did someone call me?”
No one heard.
Her father seemed to notice her distraction. He said something to her and even reached out to pat her head, a gentle gesture.
The little girl had no choice but to lower her head again, lean over to the cake, and lick another mouthful of cream.
Mu Yingying immediately closed her mouth.
She stepped back, took her hand off the mirror, and instinctively wiped it on her pants. Her palm was clearly clean.
She exclaimed in surprise, “Ah?”
Su Shuang’er glanced at her. “Don’t talk.”
“Mm… that sound I made just now seemed to disturb her…” Mu Yingying said.
Bai An’an had been leaning against the wardrobe nearby, watching from a distance.
Su Shuang’er backed up to the center of the living room, looked at the mirror, then at Bai An’an, and took a deep breath.
“Should we break it?”
She asked bluntly. These past few days, she had learned not to think about whether or not something should be done—she only waited for an order.
Bai An’an didn’t even think about it.
“Forget it.”
“Once we break it, they will instantly realize they are dead. That truth is too cruel for a seven-year-old girl. She doesn’t need to know that her life stopped forever on her seventh birthday.”
Su Shuang’er was silent.
“Then… leave it?”
“Leave it,” Bai An’an said. “This mirror won’t actively harm anyone. It just preserved their happiest moment. That’s fine.”
Su Shuang’er didn’t ask further. She understood that Bai An’an’s decision to leave it wasn’t out of soft-heartedness, but because there really was no need to destroy it.
Mu Yingying sighed. The fingers resting on the hilt of her blade relaxed.
“…Alright.”
She turned around, ready to leave.
But Bai Ye, who had been quietly staying in the bike basket, stirred.
From Bai Yue’s perspective, the little girl’s behavior was completely different.
She would lift her head from time to time, at very short intervals—every few seconds.
She looked around blankly, as if searching for something. Her gaze had no focus. It wasn’t like she was looking for the source of a sound. It was more like… she was looking for a person.
Bai Ye watched her quietly.
An’an had said that the little girl in the mirror couldn’t see.
Only that single “Hey” had made her lift her head in confusion.
Bai Ye also noticed that when the girl’s gaze swept across the mirror, it didn’t linger on Mu Yingying.
And it was obvious that from Bai Ye’s position, the mirror could hardly capture that angle.