Wen Yin planned to make a nourishing soup for her grandfather the next day, but she’d never tried anything quite like it before. She wanted to study the recipe at home. It happened to be one of those moments the fans on the short-video platform loved—an impromptu live stream. They’d been clamoring for one, so she decided to research and broadcast at the same time.
Her followers were used to her sudden drop-in streams. Some hopped into the room and then pinged the fan group to bring more people in. The chat filled with scrolling messages and animated gifts; a few generous viewers kept sending flashy virtual presents.
Wen Yin waved at the screen, a little flustered. “I’m just doing a simple cooking tutorial. You don’t have to spend so much on gifts,” she said. “Money’s hard-earned—save it for something you’ll enjoy. A nice meal or a pretty outfit makes me happy enough.”
Her words curled into a faint smile that softened the coolness of her face, making her feel both distant and warm at once. The chat melted into praise.
“She’s so considerate!”
“This is the first time I’ve seen a streamer ask people not to tip. Pure refreshment.”
“I missed you! When you’re gone, it’s like the sun doesn’t rise.”
“How long will this stream be? I’m scared I’ll miss it—student life’s no joke.”
Wen Yin read the messages, answered patiently. “Sorry my streaming is so irregular; work’s been busy. I’ll still post videos sometimes. Students—study hard. I’ll upload the replay so everyone can watch later.”
She set out her ingredients and explained what she planned to do. “I want to make a health soup. It’s my first time, so I’m just experimenting.”
The viewers watched as she displayed the produce with a little nervous pride. This was for her grandfather. He was different from most old men—his appetite had faded and his stomach was fragile. Everything had to be judged carefully: the cooking time, the seasonings, even the faintest trace of spice. Too much of anything and it would prick at his tender stomach. Like the tiny chili she’d used before—only a hint to lift the flavor.
She chatted with the audience while she worked. When the soup was ready she lifted the lid and steam unfurled through the room, carrying a clean, comforting fragrance. The chat exploded.
“I can smell it through the screen!”
“How can any other chef compete with that?”
“Tears are welling up—why does everything taste so good in my head?”
“Stop romanticizing my drooling, upstairs.”
As the praise swelled, Wen Yin ladled a spoonful and tasted. Her brow creased. The viewers noticed and went quiet.
“Is it bad?” one asked. “I thought she was doing great—her seasoning control is always precise.”
“Why the face, Ah Yin? Did it fail?”
“As someone trained in culinary class, I think it’s already very good, so what’s up with that expression?”
She sampled again and sighed softly. “It’s not terrible,” she told them. “But it feels like something is missing.”
The chat buzzed with guesses. “Why try so many times?”
“Is this for Shao Yinan? Is she chasing the perfect bowl?” “Ship attack!” “Who even—”
Wen Yin stopped answering. She focused. This was her grandfather’s soup; it deserved more than experiments done half-hearted. She kept testing until she found the balance she wanted.
The next day, still a little anxious, she went to the kitchen at Grandpa Shao’s place. Master Li had warned her—the old man often complained that restorative soups were too oily or heavy, would sip once and leave it. That’s why she had obsessed over this.
She greeted Master Li briefly and started straightaway. She handled the shrimp with practiced hands: a shallow cut along the back to pull out the vein, every shrimp plump and neat in a bowl. She prepped mushrooms, tofu, and a pan-fried egg she’d turned into cubes earlier.
When the oil was hot she slid the shrimp into the wok, watching them blush pink. Timing mattered: a moment too long and the shrimp would lose their silk; too brief and they’d be limp. Once they changed color she tossed the mushrooms in. The heat had to be managed like a temper—just enough to coax flavors without pounding the ingredients.
She added the egg pieces and a potful of hot water. After five minutes she gently eased the soft tofu into the broth. When the soup reached a boil she added the seasoning she’d refined the night before. It wasn’t much—just a pinch to brighten the whole pot—but it was the result of every tiny tweak she’d tried for Grandpa’s sensitive palate. She let it simmer, then finished with a scattering of finely chopped scallions.
The aroma rose like a promise. Wen Yin tasted and finally allowed herself a small, satisfied lift of the lips. This time it was right.
When she set the bowl in front of Grandpa Shao, his eyes brightened immediately. He took a spoonful and paused, savoring the clean, layered taste. Then he praised it without reserve.
“This soup is so fresh—none of that greasy feeling from before.”
“Wen girl, this is…”
She watched him enjoy it and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the broth. “Grandpa,” she said, smiling, “this is a triple-delight mushroom soup.”