Ling Buyi tried again. And again. And again.
By the fifth dish, her hands were trembling so violently she could barely hold onto the plates. Her head throbbed with a relentless pounding, the fever seeping into her bones. She had cleaned up five different meals now, five messes scattered across the dining room floor, each one a symbol of her utter failure in the eyes of her mother-in-law.
Her eyes were hollow, rimmed with dark circles that made her look far older than she was. Her body, once vibrant and full of life, now seemed like a ghost of itself—thin, frail, a reflection of the endless fatigue that clung to her like a second skin. Her once glossy hair, now disheveled and tangled, stuck to her face as she tried to steady herself, but it was no use. Ling Buyi could feel herself crumbling, her strength draining away like water through her fingers.
