Coming out of the ancestral hall, I checked the time—it was exactly 4:15 in the afternoon. Though it was still early before nightfall, the New Year’s Eve dinner was always served early. Back home, I closed the courtyard gate and then the living room door, setting the table for the feast. This year, there were more people—Yi Miao, Lian Xiaoyao, Xie Lingyu, He Qingling, and Little Rascal—filling the table.
Xie Xiaoyu didn’t eat but loved drinking, and the wine was already prepared. As the meal began, Father first toasted Mother, thanking her for her hard work throughout the year. Mother chuckled and returned the toast, saying he, as the head of the household, had also worked hard.
I raised a toast separately to both parents. By the end, tears welled up in my eyes—I couldn’t recall what I’d accomplished all year, feeling like I’d wasted it. But my parents just smiled and said, “As long as you’re healthy, safe, and happy, that’s enough.”
Yi Miao and Lian Xiaoyao toasted my parents together. Mother, who rarely drank, had two glasses this time.
Seeing Little Rascal in high spirits, I poured him a cup too. The distant kitten, however, seemed unable to blend into the lively atmosphere.
It carried too many secrets—or perhaps it was just its feline nature—making it hard to fit in.
We started eating at four and finished around six. Though some dishes remained, Mother insisted everyone have a bowl of rice since we’d be staying up late for the New Year’s Eve vigil and might get hungry.
After dinner came the tradition of handing out red envelopes.
Father and Mother had prepared them in advance, giving one each to Yi Miao and Lian Xiaoyao. The two laughed sheepishly, “We get them too?” Mother smiled, “It’s just a gesture from elders to the younger ones. Once you’re married, you won’t get them anymore.” Yi Miao joked, “Guess I should delay marriage then.” Lian Xiaoyao stomped on his foot.
Xie Xiaoyu also received a red envelope.
I had prepared two thick ones for my parents, telling them not to hesitate when they wanted to buy anything. They accepted them without protest.
Mother ended with a heartfelt wish: “Xiao Qi, you’re not young anymore. My only hope is for you to start a family soon so we can help with grandchildren.”
I brushed it off, promising to work harder come spring. After clearing the table, I opened the courtyard gate, stoked the brazier with charcoal, and laid out candies and apples. By nightfall, children would visit each house with backpacks, greeting elders for the New Year.
In return, they’d receive candies, cookies, and apples—a tradition I adored as a child. Weeks before, I’d ask Mother to wash my satchel and air it in the sun. Come dusk on New Year’s Eve, kids would rush door to door, shouting, “Greetings for the New Year!”
Kind uncles, aunts, grandparents, and siblings would hand out sweets, which I’d stash in my bag before dashing to the next house. Those memories were pure sweetness.
Growing up, I realized this custom seemed unique to our area—a beautiful tradition that satisfied kids’ cravings while teaching gratitude and strengthening village bonds. But as times changed and families could afford their own candies, fewer children went door to door.
By seven that evening, only a handful came by. Mother wiped her brow and said, “Next year, we won’t need so many candies.”
She wasn’t idle either. After dinner, she’d make dumplings and glutinous rice balls—a task she never let us help with, insisting it was women’s work. The stove roared as she mixed flour and filling.
Father, tipsy, sipped tea from his mug, watching the Spring Festival Gala on CCTV. The hosts, dressed in festive red, introduced regional customs.
As I put away the candies, the sound of mahjong tiles clattered from neighboring homes. Gambling on New Year’s Eve was another tradition, a way to bond. Mother, a mahjong enthusiast, said we’d play once the dumplings were done. With me, Yi Miao, and Lian Xiaoyao, we had the perfect four.
Xie Xiaoyu, drunk and drowsy, had gone to bed early. Worried she wasn’t covered, I checked on her and found her gazing out the window, lost in thought—perhaps pondering the future or fearing the present. A tear glistened at her eye.
Her flushed face made my heart ache. Watching her, I wondered: What was Xie Lingyu doing, adrift on the River of the Dead? If the living celebrated New Year’s Eve, surely the underworld did too—perhaps with their own gala or skits.
Xie Xiaoyu finally dozed off, having downed a whole bottle of liquor at dinner. She’d sleep till dawn.
After tucking her in, I glanced out the window and froze. A massive double-decker bus, adorned with red lanterns and a giant turtle-headed front, had parked in the nearby clearing. Its wheels were rows of turtle feet.
Figures disembarked—first, Grandpa Six from the west end of the village. I remembered he’d passed away when I was little. Then came Grandpa Three and Uncle Six, all long gone.
The driver wore a strange mask, a black robe, and a “Congratulations and Prosperity” pendant.
Clearly, the dead had returned for the New Year—via this ghostly turtle bus.
Grandpa Six shuffled hurriedly toward his old home. I searched for my grandfather or maternal grandfather but saw neither. Maybe they’d already reincarnated, spared this annual return.
That was fine—rebirth meant a fresh start. I tried snapping a photo of the bus, but my phone showed only darkness.
“Don’t forget to return on time,” the masked driver called.
Leaving Xie Xiaoyu’s room at 7:30, I found the news broadcast over and the gala about to start. With Lian Xiaoyao’s help, Mother’s dumpling-making was faster than usual. By eight, they’d be ready, and mahjong could begin.
I dug out the mahjong set, untouched for a year. Just as I set it up, the courtyard rustled. Little Rascal barked. Had my grandparents come to visit?
Peeking outside, I jumped—it was the ancestral spirits from the hall, here to watch the gala.
I’d locked eyes with one old man earlier, and now they’d followed me home. Harmless but eerie, they settled on chairs or the floor, waiting for the show.
Holding my breath, I laid out extra candies and peanuts. Mother frowned. “Xiao Qi, why so much? We can’t finish all this.”
I grinned. “It’s about abundance. Leftovers mean prosperity for next year.”
She muttered but let it go.
Yi Miao rubbed his hands, boasting of his mahjong skills. “Ready to lose some money, Master Xiao?”
The table was set, the “Great Wall” of tiles built. The brazier warmed our feet. Father, engrossed in the gala, excused himself to the bathroom. Returning, he laughed. “I must be drunk—I swear I saw a turtle turn into a bus!”
Mother scolded, “You brag about your drinking, but today’s a holiday, so I’ll let it slide. Next time, no more.”
“Aye-aye,” Father chuckled, shelling peanuts. He nibbled one, then another, frowning. “These have no taste.”
I glanced at the spirits on the floor, sweating internally. Of course they’d drained the flavor.
The game began. I lost four rounds straight, my wallet thinning. Just as I considered quitting, the old man from earlier winked at me.
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