CHAPTER 82 — A Day Built With Small Miracles
Morning sunlight spilled across the corridors of the Mu estate, soft and warm, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and fresh laundry. Compared to the tense, uncertain days that filled the past three years of Shi Yunxi's life, this quiet morning felt like it belonged to another universe entirely — one where danger didn't lurk at every corner, and laughter wasn't a rare, forbidden luxury.
She found the children in the sunroom.
Or rather — she found chaos.
Pure, sparkling, three-year-old chaos.
Shi Qing'er sat in the middle of a blanket fort that covered an entire sofa set, her hair decorated with mismatched ribbons she must have taken from some unfortunate drawer. Shi Yichen was kneeling beside a large puzzle he clearly had no intention of finishing, and Mu Rui — ever the oldest soul among them — was inspecting the structural integrity of the blanket fort with the seriousness of an engineer.
But again, the real surprise wasn't the children.
It was Mu Lingchen.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, tie gone, sleeves rolled up, and a small pink plastic tiara on his head.
Yunxi very nearly choked.
Qing'er saw her and gasped.
"MOMMY!!!"
She launched herself out of the fort, only to be caught mid-flight by Lingchen, who lifted her gently with one arm like he'd been doing it for years.
"Slow down," he murmured, though his eyes softened the moment he followed Qing'er's gaze and saw Yunxi in the doorway.
Yunxi pressed a hand over her mouth, not hiding her smile well at all. "Good morning."
Before she could step closer, the twins rushed her — Yichen grabbing her left leg, Qing'er clinging to her right hand while still held by Lingchen.
"Mommy, Mommy! Daddy helped us build—"
"A BIG castle!"
"And he almost broke it!"
Lingchen coughed. "That is an exaggeration."
Rui walked up with his arms folded behind his back, face serious as always.
"Mommy," he said, "we have a situation."
Yunxi blinked. "A situation?"
Rui pointed accusingly at Lingchen's head.
"Daddy won't take off the tiara."
Lingchen straightened, adjusting the ridiculous little thing with complete composure. "I wasn't aware I was allowed to."
"You're not!" Qing'er argued.
"But you should still try to," Yichen countered.
Rui nodded firmly. "It builds character."
Lingchen looked helplessly at Yunxi.
Yunxi raised a brow, trying — and failing — not to smile. "I believe your testers have spoken."
He sighed dramatically, removing the tiara. "I see my position in this family is entirely ceremonial."
The children collapsed into giggles.
And Yunxi's heart — long frozen by fear, hardship, and betrayal — thawed just a little more.
After breakfast, the children insisted on going outside. Yunxi tried to convince them to wait until they changed their clothes, but Qing'er had already darted toward the sliding doors with the speed of a tiny rocket.
Lingchen caught her before she got two meters out.
"No running on wet tiles," he reminded softly.
Qing'er pouted but nodded.
Yunxi watched the exchange carefully.
Lingchen's protectiveness wasn't sharp, or controlling, or forceful.
It was gentle.
It was mindful.
It was warm.
She wasn't used to this side of him.
She wasn't used to anyone treating her children with this level of tenderness.
Her throat tightened for reasons she didn't have the courage to face yet.
Outside, they moved to the garden — a place that looked like it had been waiting years for life to return to it.
The triplets scattered immediately.
Qing'er chased butterflies.
Yichen became fascinated with rocks.
And Rui… Rui followed his siblings like a tiny guardian shadow.
Lingchen noticed too.
"Rui is always watching them," he murmured beside Yunxi.
She nodded, expression soft. "He has always been protective. When we left… everything we went through, everywhere we went… he was always the one shielding the other two."
Lingchen looked at Rui, eyes darkening with something like guilt. "He shouldn't have had to grow up so fast."
Yunxi swallowed. "None of them should have."
A breeze blew between them.
Not awkward.
Not tense.
Just full of unspoken truths.
Eventually, Qing'er's delighted scream broke the moment.
"DADDYYYYY!!! COME HELP ME!!!"
Lingchen blinked. "She called for me."
Yunxi smiled. "Yes."
He walked over to Qing'er, who pointed dramatically at a butterfly that had landed on a flower.
"I want that one," she said.
"Unfortunately," he said gently, crouching, "butterflies are not very good at listening."
"They listen to me!" she insisted.
Lingchen paused. "They… do?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Because I'm cute."
He could not argue with that logic.
He lifted her onto his shoulders so she could see the butterfly better. Qing'er squealed, clinging to his hair while Yichen watched in awe.
"Me next! Daddy, me next!"
Rui, however, walked up to Yunxi and tugged her sleeve.
"Mommy."
"Yes?"
He glanced at Lingchen, who now had two three-year-olds hanging on him like decorative ornaments.
"Do you like him?"
She froze.
Rui blinked up at her, innocent but perceptive. "You smile a lot more now."
Yunxi's throat tightened.
It hurt a little — knowing her son had watched her barely smile for years.
"Rui…" she whispered, stroking his hair. "I don't know what to feel yet."
He nodded, serious as always. "But Daddy is trying."
"Yes," she admitted softly. "He is."
"And he's nice to us."
"Yes."
"And he looks at you like you're sunshine."
Yunxi nearly tripped.
"Rui!"
"What? It's true."
She looked away, embarrassed, flustered, and strangely warm all over.
"Mommy," Rui said quietly, tugging her hand again. "I'll protect Yichen and Qing'er."
She smiled down at him. "I know."
"But…" Rui hesitated, looking at Lingchen again.
Then in a tiny voice filled with surprising vulnerability, he whispered:
"Who protects you?"
Yunxi sucked in a sharp breath.
Rui stared up at her, eyes shining with concern no child should ever have learned so early.
"Mommy," he said, "can Daddy protect you too?"
Her chest tightened painfully — because she didn't have an answer.
But when she looked at Lingchen — breathless, messy-haired, smiling helplessly as Qing'er stuffed a flower behind his ear — she found herself wondering:
Maybe he could.
Maybe he already was.
By afternoon, the garden was covered in toys, crushed petals, and small footprints.
Lingchen lay on the grass, exhausted.
Three toddlers sat on top of him triumphantly.
"We win!" Yichen announced.
Lingchen groaned. "I demand a rematch."
"No!" Qing'er giggled. "You're too old!"
"Too what?"
"TOO OLD!"
Yunxi laughed until her sides hurt.
And for the first time in three years —
She felt something warm and terrifying and beautiful all at once:
Peace.
And hope.