Whispers of a Small Town

Early spring had just come to Longwater Town, and a fine drizzle lingered in the air. By dusk, smoke rose from every household chimney, curling into the misty rain.

At the Fowlers’ kitchen, a pot of rich broth simmered on the stove. The firewood crackled, and steam rolled from the pot’s lid. Mrs. Fowler worked deftly at the table—yellow croaker must be eaten fresh. She snipped off the heads and tails, twisted out the bones, and tossed them to the waiting cat.

She lifted the fish bodies, rolled them through a bowl of thick batter until fully coated, then slid them into the sizzling oil. The moment the fish touched the pan, the kitchen filled with a sharp hiss. The batter puffed and turned golden, the edges crisp and delicate.

When the last fish was laid neatly onto a white porcelain plate, rain began to fall harder, pattering against the eaves and streaming down into the Moonlight River.

Mrs. Fowler wiped her hands on her apron, glanced out the window, then called out, “Clara!”

“Coming!”

A round-faced girl with almond eyes and crescent brows popped her head in, her smile bright and mischievous. Her hair was tied in twin knots that made her look even younger.

Clara gripped the doorframe, sniffing the air. “Mother, is the fried croaker ready?” she asked eagerly, stepping inside.

“What a greedy little kitten you are. Come on, open your mouth.”

Though Mrs. Fowler pretended to scold, she picked the plumpest fish from the plate and placed it into Clara’s mouth.

Fresh from the oil, the fish was fragrant beyond words. The crisp coating flaked at the lightest touch, and Clara cupped her hand to catch the crumbs. The flesh inside was soft, boneless, and tender enough to melt on her tongue.

Seeing her daughter’s delight, Mrs. Fowler couldn’t help but smile. She slipped a few coins from her sleeve and handed them over. “Your brother left early this morning and forgot his umbrella. Take one to him before he catches cold. And on your way back, stop by Mrs. Crane’s shop for a bottle of rice vinegar. With what’s left, buy yourself a little treat.”

Clara’s cheeks were puffed from the fish, and she nodded earnestly.

“Walk under the covered bridges,” Mrs. Fowler reminded her. “Don’t come back spattered with mud.”

She placed a porcelain bottle into a small bamboo basket and passed it to Clara. The girl pouted. “I’m fifteen already, Mother. You still treat me like a child.”

Mrs. Fowler only laughed. “Then hurry along, little one.”

Clara took the basket, walked through the corridor, and reached the entryway where several paper umbrellas hung neatly in a row. She picked the one with green tassels and stepped out into the courtyard.

Rain drummed lightly on the open umbrella, rippling the puddles beneath her feet. Clara loved splashing through them, but it was still too cold for wooden clogs, so she sighed and went on her way.

It was a long walk from the Fowlers’ home to the Riverside Academy. She crossed four or five covered bridges before reaching the gate, where students huddled under the eaves waiting for their parents to bring umbrellas.

Lucas had just tied up his books when he saw her approaching. His sister’s hem was damp, and he frowned. “You shouldn’t have come. The rain will stop soon.”

“As if! By the time it does, you’d be soaked, and Mother would scold you for an hour. I’d rather not listen,” Clara retorted, handing him the umbrella. “Mother told me to buy vinegar on the way home, so let’s hurry. Mrs. Crane closes early.”

“No rush.” Lucas smiled as he descended the steps.

“Good evening, sir,” a few students called out as they passed. He nodded politely to each before turning back to Clara, his calm eyes bright with amusement.

“The Academy gave out stipends today,” he said. “I stopped by Mr. Leonard’s shop this morning. He’s just made a batch of braised pork in wine sauce. I asked him to save us a piece.”

“Braised pork already? But it’s not even Qingming yet!” Clara exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Grandfather will be thrilled—Mother will surely warm some wine for him.”

Lucas chuckled softly. “Honey wine, most likely. Just enough for you to dip a chopstick in and taste.”

Clara blushed—she loved the sweetness of wine but couldn’t hold even a sip.

The clouds had thickened overhead, and the air grew colder. Streetlamps flickered to life—moon lamps, beaded lanterns, soft-glowing skins of sheep’s parchment—casting trembling light onto the rain-slick streets.

When they reached Mr. Leonard’s shop, the aroma hit them first—rich wine mingled with thick sauce, warm and intoxicating. Inside, several clay pots simmered atop red-hot coals, bubbling under clouds of fragrant steam.

“Ah, Clara! Lucas!” boomed Mr. Leonard, a plump old man with a snowy beard and a cheerful face. “Come, taste a piece! I’ll pack the rest for you to take home.”

He brought out a dish of glistening pork cubes, the red glaze dripping down their sides. Beneath the ruby skin lay a layer of tender fat and lean meat, still steaming.

“I swear, Mr. Leonard, no one can make wine-braised pork like you,” Clara said sweetly.

The old man chuckled. “That’s the magic of good red yeast and patience. The ribs must be just the right balance of fat and lean—too bony, and you lose the flavor. After blanching and skimming, they stew half a day on low heat until every bit of sugar, spice, and wine seeps deep into the meat. When the skin gleams red and soft enough to jiggle, then it’s perfect.”

As he spoke, he ladled out cubes of pork into a porcelain bowl, sealed the lid with boiling water, and slipped it into a carrying box.

Clara, unable to resist, speared a piece with a bamboo skewer. The skin was so tender the skewer slid straight through. One bite, and the meat melted—silky, sweet, and rich with wine. She adored the gelatinous skin, soft but never greasy, and the sauce—oh, the sauce—was heavenly, perfect for mixing into a bowl of rice.

“Off you go, then,” Mr. Leonard urged. “Dark’s coming fast. Bring back the bowl tomorrow.”

Lucas paid and thanked him. “Father’s waiting for his supper,” he said with a grin.

“Then old Rowan’s in for a treat tonight!” the butcher laughed.

Clara looked back as they left. The shop’s lantern swayed in the wind, casting warm light on the street where students lingered, laughing as Mr. Leonard called them over to taste his pork before heading home.

She smiled to herself and nearly forgot the vinegar until she saw the bamboo basket in her hand. Rushing to Mrs. Crane’s, she bought a bottle of fragrant rice vinegar and received two pieces of sugar cake as a gift.

Lucas refused the sweets, tucking them into her basket. “Wherever you go, someone’s always feeding you,” he teased.

It was true—Clara had been a darling child, with rosy cheeks and a quick tongue, beloved by all the neighbors. Whenever they had something tasty, they’d slip her a piece. Mrs. Fowler, in return, always gave them fair bargains at her stall.

The siblings walked home under the dripping bridges. By the time they arrived, the rain had softened to a mist and the sky was black as ink.

As expected, Mrs. Fowler scolded them both for taking too long, then handed each a bowl of ginger tea. Clara could barely finish half—too spicy for her taste—so Lucas drank the rest.

The family gathered for supper. On the table were the fried croaker, tofu browned to a crisp edge, a bowl of white fish soup sprinkled with scallions, and the glistening braised pork from Mr. Leonard’s shop. A small wine warmer burned gently beside the dishes, and a porcelain lamp cast its amber glow across the room. Outside, rain whispered against the windows.

Mrs. Fowler poured yellow wine into the pitcher and set it to warm. Clara added hot water to the basin beneath it, until the vessel was pleasantly hot to the touch.

From the adjoining workshop came the fading sound of sawing. Then Grandfather Rowan entered, rubbing his hands together with a booming laugh. “Ha! There’s wine tonight! And Leonard’s meat, no less—perfect with a drink.”

Grandmother Rowan followed, giving him a sharp look. “Mind your tongue and your cup. And Clara, no tasting! I want you awake tomorrow morning.”

Clara withdrew her chopsticks with mock regret, and Lucas grinned, ladling her a bowl of soup.

She took a sip and nearly closed her eyes—it was so delicious it made her brows lift. “When’s Father coming home?” she asked after a while.

“He’ll be back in a day or two,” Mrs. Fowler replied, placing another piece of meat in her bowl. Clara’s father was a cook, often hired by nearby villages. His skill kept him away for days at a time.

There was no strict rule of silence at the Fowlers’ table. Grandfather Rowan, sipping his wine and chewing a piece of pork, said cheerfully, “Clara, tomorrow your mother and I are setting up our stall by the river. There’s a fair and a stage play too. Care to come?”

Mrs. Fowler chuckled. “You know she’ll go. But mind you—up with the roosters tomorrow, no fussing about.”

Clara nodded obediently, her eyes bright. Beneath the table, her toes curled in excitement—she’d make sure to wake before dawn.