Aryan woke up in the middle of the night, his stomach growling. He felt hungry, an unusual sensation since he usually preferred cooking for himself in his simple rented house. But tonight was different. His body felt weary, and his wandering thoughts made him reluctant to spend too much time in the kitchen.
"I'll just eat out this time," he muttered, rubbing his still sleepy face. That decision gave him a slight burst of energy, but before leaving, Aryan knew he needed to freshen up first. His steps toward the bathroom felt heavy, but he forced himself to shake off the laziness.
As he opened the door to the narrow bathroom, a slight creak echoed. Aryan turned on the tap, and cold water immediately hit his skin, refreshing his previously sluggish mind. He began to wash his body slowly, feeling each drop of water running from his head to his feet. The cold water on his skin jolted Aryan fully awake from his drowsiness. Sweat and dust from a long day at work gradually washed away. He relished every sensation of the water cleansing his pores, giving him the freshness he needed after a day spent laboring amidst dirt and heavy tasks at the construction site.
After finishing his bath, Aryan grabbed a towel from the rack, drying his body with slow but steady movements. He then walked to his room to dress. The night was cold, and Aryan opted for comfortable clothing to fend off the biting chill. He reached for a pair of jeans and a simple dark-colored t-shirt, putting them on automatically as part of his daily routine.
With his shirt and pants neatly in place, Aryan grabbed a thick jacket hanging behind the door. The jacket was black with a simple design on the shoulders, a piece he always wore when heading out at night. Swiftly, he slipped into the jacket, zipping it up to keep himself warm. The jacket fit snugly on his body, providing a comforting warmth that made him feel more at ease.
Aryan glanced at himself briefly in the small mirror hanging on the wall. After feeling presentable enough, he stepped out of his small rented house that had been his home for the past few years. The night air hit him as soon as Aryan opened the door. The cold breeze touched his face, but the thick jacket he wore provided enough protection from the chilly night.
With steady steps, Aryan began walking toward his favorite place to eat, a simple food stall at the corner of the street that he had known since moving to the area. The stall was run by an old man named Uncle Lan, a friendly food vendor who had become almost like family to Aryan. Whenever Aryan felt tired or sought comfort, he would always come to Uncle Lan's stall to enjoy a warm, satisfying meal.
Upon arriving at the stall, the sound of a small bell above the entrance rang as Aryan stepped inside. The warm atmosphere of the stall immediately enveloped his body after walking through the cold air outside. The familiar aroma of food filled the air, enhancing Aryan's appetite, which had already been piqued by his hunger.
Uncle Lan, who was busy behind the counter, noticed Aryan's arrival. His wrinkled face lit up with the warm smile he always greeted his loyal customers with.
"Ah, Aryan! Welcome," Uncle Lan greeted him with his characteristic raspy yet warm voice.
Aryan smiled and waved. "Good night, Uncle. As usual, I'm hungry again."
Uncle Lan chuckled, wiping his worn apron. "What do you want to eat tonight, Aryan?"
Aryan approached the table and sat on the wooden chair he was so accustomed to. In a relaxed but friendly tone, Aryan replied, "Uncle Lan, make me my favorite dish as always."
Uncle Lan raised his eyebrows, smiling as he teased a little. "And what's your favorite dish, Aryan? Isn't everything I cook your favorite?"
Aryan paused for a moment, smiling sheepishly. Uncle Lan was right; every time Aryan ate here, every dish served was always delicious and satisfying.
"Ah, yeah, you're right. Everything here is my favorite, Uncle," Aryan said with a soft laugh.
Uncle Lan laughed along, then added, "Well, what would you like to order for a cold night like this? How about fried rice?"
Aryan thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Fried rice sounds perfect for a cold night like this. I'll have fried rice, Uncle."
Uncle Lan smiled widely. "Alright, fried rice for Aryan! Just wait a moment, sit tight."
Aryan sat in his chair, glancing around the simple stall full of memories. The worn wooden tables, the walls filled with old photos of Uncle Lan with his customers, and the soft yellow light gave the place a warm ambiance. He felt at ease here, as if it were a second home.
Meanwhile, Uncle Lan started cooking Aryan's order in the open kitchen at the corner of the stall. The sound of oil sizzling filled the air as Uncle Lan lit the stove and poured oil into a large pan. The clinking of a metal spoon stirring rice in the pan was clearly audible, adding to the peaceful atmosphere of the night. With swift movements, Uncle Lan tossed in his carefully prepared spices, then sautéed garlic until its aroma filled the room.
The fragrant scent of sautéed garlic and other spices began to waft through the air, making Aryan's stomach growl even more. The aroma was so appetizing, blending the warmth of the spices with the softness of the rice that had started to absorb them. Uncle Lan continued stirring the rice over medium heat, ensuring that each grain was perfectly coated with the spices and soy sauce.
"Ah, that's the secret," Aryan thought to himself, savoring every moment of waiting for his meal. Uncle Lan always had a unique way of cooking, as if every dish he made was filled with love and care.
Every now and then, Uncle Lan would taste the fried rice, making sure the flavor was just right before serving it to Aryan. His serious face turned into a satisfied smile when he felt the dish was perfect. Then, with swift movements, he took a large plate and served the hot fried rice, topped with a perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg.
While waiting for his meal to be ready, Aryan sat lost in thought, his gaze drifting far away. Memories of his past began to haunt him again, especially his dreams that had yet to be realized. Since childhood, Aryan had always dreamed of becoming a cultivator—something that for him was more than just a desire. It was a calling, something that stirred his heart every time he remembered it.
But reality told a different story. As a construction worker with just enough income to get by, his dream now seemed further out of reach. Aryan often asked himself if he had given up too quickly. Should he have fought harder to achieve that dream? But whenever he thought further, life's responsibilities reminded him that he couldn't ignore the duties he had now.
In his moments of reflection, Aryan sometimes felt trapped. Trapped in the same routine every day—waking up, working, coming home, and sleeping. Though his life wasn't bad, there was an emptiness that continued to fill his heart, the feeling that there was something greater he should be chasing, yet somehow it always seemed just out of reach.
"But can I really become a cultivator?" Aryan muttered softly, as if talking to himself. That desire felt so distant and almost impossible to achieve, but deep down, he could never truly let go of that dream. Even though his life now focused on daily work and survival, a part of him still hoped that someday, something extraordinary would happen.
In the midst of his daydream, Aryan didn't notice that Uncle Lan had finished cooking. With a wide smile, Uncle Lan placed the plate of fried rice in front of Aryan.