Almost blind | Haobin

44| Where Silence Speaks |44

“I think we may have crisped them a bit too much,” Hao admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his flour-dusted head as he pulled the tray from the oven. The cookies, a little darker than intended, carried a bittersweet scent that curled through the kitchen air like smoke from a sleepy campfire.

“It’s just a little burn!” Hanbin’s grandmother said with a dismissive wave, her hand slicing through the smoky warmth like a conductor in a very relaxed orchestra. She squinted at the cookies with a mix of amusement and defiance. “They’re perfectly fine. Anyone lucky enough to eat homemade cookies shouldn’t be complaining!” She strode to the window and pushed it open with a creak, letting a gust of icy air flood in, chasing away the burnt smell and replacing it with the sharp scent of pine and snow. “Right,” Hao chuckled, leaning against the worn wooden kitchen counter, its surface dusted in flour like fresh snow on a quiet street.

It was the day before the New Year’s celebration, and the house was alive with preparation. Sweet smells, clinking bowls, and quiet laughter had filled the walls since morning. Hao had spent the entire day baking with Hanbin’s grandmother, a kind, feisty woman who wielded a wooden spoon like a magic wand. Hanbin was somewhere outside with his grandfather, probably collecting firewood or slipping on icy paths, and Matthew had gone into town to buy fireworks for tomorrow’s festivities.

Despite the busyness, a stillness hung in the air—like the calm before a snowfall. It was Hao’s third day in Canada, and he was already sinking into the rhythm of the household. He’d even managed a proper call with his father back home, more than just hurried greetings and goodbyes. Ricky had sounded relieved, sensing through the line that Hao was safe, maybe even happy and perfectly in good hands.

“What else are we baking?” Hao asked, turning to wash the flour from his hands. The sink water steamed, carrying a bit of warmth to his cold fingers. “You’re such a sweetheart,” Grandma said, chuckling as she wiped the counter clean. “You’re really enjoying baking with an old lady like me?”

Hao smiled shyly. “It’s kind of fun… definitely better than freezing outside like Hanbin,” he said, glancing out the frosted window. His breath left a small cloud on the glass.

She laughed, then reached out and gently tapped his nose with a wet finger. “That’s my boy.” She said. “We’re making cream puffs next. With vanilla cream,” she announced, her voice softening. “That’s Hanbin’s favorite.”

“It is?” Hao tilted his head, curiosity lighting up his face.

“Mm-hmm. He always eats too many of them,” she replied, opening a cabinet and pulling out more ingredients. “Last year he swore he could eat a dozen. I let him try. He fell asleep halfway through the ninth.”

Hao laughed, the sound light and free. “That sounds like him.”

As they began mixing the dough again, the air in the kitchen filled with the hum of the oven, the tap of measuring spoons, and the faint echo of wind brushing against the windows. Outside, snow had started falling, soft and steady, blanketing the world in white. Inside, there was only warmth. Full of the kind of peace that feels like home.

The front door creaked open with a sudden gust of wind and a flurry of snowflakes, followed by the sound of boots stomping on the mat. Hanbin’s voice rang out, cheerful but slightly breathless, “We’re back! And I did not fall on the ice this time!” His grandpa chuckled behind him, carrying an armful of firewood that smelled of fresh bark and frost. “He almost did. Caught himself on the fence like a clumsy squirrel.”

“I was gracefully regaining balance,” Hanbin insisted as he peeled off his thick coat, already half-covered in snow. He looked into the kitchen and grinned at the scene—Hao standing over a bowl of dough, sleeves rolled up, cheeks slightly pink from the oven’s warmth. Grandma was humming as she dusted a baking tray. “You guys look cozy,” Hanbin said as he wandered in, rubbing his hands together.