NOVEL NEXT Ch. 41
Chapter 41
Old folks can’t help hoarding junk, and Ai Qing’s grandparents were no exception.
When the outdoor staircase to the second floor was built, the space underneath was turned into a makeshift storeroom just for their treasures.
Grandpa Ai Lisong collected newspapers. He had never cancelled his subscriptions to the international monthly and the domestic weekly published by the house where Ai Zhongguo used to work. Every issue was read cover to cover, then filed by date on shelves he installed himself.
He also bought fishing rods—dozens of them. He never went farther than the wet market, where he stocked up on fry, emptied them into the neighbourhood pond, and then rounded up the local old-timers for an afternoon of fishing and gossip.
Grandma Lang Xiangying’s tastes were simpler: cardboard boxes, paper cartons, plastic bags, and plastic bottles. She used to save expired medicine as well, until her grandson Ai Qing finally talked her out of it.
Right now, in a crisis, Ai Qing yanked Xiao Yu by the hand, sprinted to the storeroom door, and slipped inside. He pulled it shut just as clatter-clatter footsteps started down the stairs.
Xiao Yu, still dazed, stood beside him in the dark. She wasn’t frightened; a warm flow filled her eyes, letting her see every detail even in the blackness.
“What’s wrong?” She tilted her head at Ai Qing and whispered the single word.
“Shh.” He put a finger to his lips and leaned close. “No one can know you’ve turned human. Not my parents, not my grandparents—no one. It would be a disaster.”
“Mm?” Xiao Yu didn’t really get it, but she nodded. “So... what do we do now?”
“Keep quiet.” Ai Qing clamped a hand over her mouth. “Mom and Dad are upstairs, coming downstairs. If they see you like this, I can’t explain.”
The storeroom wasn’t tiny, but the tallest spot was blocked by Grandpa’s bookshelf, crammed with newspapers. In the far corner Grandma’s cartons, boxes, bags, and bottles were piled to the ceiling. Seven or eight fishing rods hung on the wall. That left Ai Qing and Xiao Yu wedged in the middle, near the door, on a patch of floor barely big enough for two. If either of them had been an inch fatter, they’d have been stuck.
“At least it’s a job and some income. You wouldn’t have to worry every day,” Yao Qiang’s voice floated down, muffled by the wooden door.
“You don’t understand—I’d rather die than write that garbage,” Ai Zhongguo shot back, already in the courtyard. “I’ll switch careers first.”
“So what’s your plan?” Yao Qiang pressed. “You quit three months ago. Jobs aren’t falling from the sky, and with your pride—”
“My pride? What pride?” His voice cracked; a fist slammed the doorframe. After a stunned silence he muttered, “Drop it. I’ll handle my own mess.”
Inside, Xiao Yu jumped at the bang and half-stepped back, crunching a plastic bottle. Luckily, her father-in-a-rage heard nothing. He strode into the first-floor living-room; Mom stayed upstairs, and the courtyard fell quiet.
Ai Qing’s heart hammered until he was sure the sound hadn’t given them away.
“Scary,” Xiao Yu whispered.
“Tell me about it.” He exhaled and rubbed his temples. Of all days for family drama.
The publishing house had been around since the seventies. Grandpa Ai Lisong had been one of its first reporters, and Ai Zhongguo had followed him into journalism. But the digital age swept in, the house modernised, and Dad couldn’t keep up. He became one of the casualties.
They weren’t going hungry—Mom had just been promoted to deputy director, pulling in 300,000–400,000 yuan a year, more than enough for the family. Yet a man’s pride is a fragile thing when his wife out-earns him.
Ai Qing glanced at Xiao Yu in the gloom. At least he supported his own cat; she certainly wasn’t supporting him. And with her IQ, what could she earn? If she could feed herself, that was already a win.
“Now what?” Xiao Yu whispered after a pause.
“Hold on.” He cracked the door, peered into the living-room—no Dad—then craned toward the second floor—no Mom.
“Stay put. I’ll check upstairs.”
He darted up, found the second-floor living-room empty, the bedroom door shut—Mom must have retreated after the fight. Back downstairs, he grabbed Xiao Yu’s hand, clattered up the stairs, and dove into his bedroom, locking the door with a sigh of relief.
“That was close.” He rubbed his forehead at the girl standing prettily by the door. “If they’d seen you, how would I explain?”
“Explain... Xiao Yu?” She cocked her head.
“You’re still little. You’ll understand when you’re smarter.”
He slipped out, fetched his backpack from downstairs, and produced a first-grade Chinese textbook, beaming.
“Every lesson shortens your human time. Perfect—we’ve got nothing else to do. Let’s study hard and get you back to Little Kitty before dinner.”
At the sight of the book Xiao Yu’s face fell; she took half a step back.
Too late—Ai Qing seized her shoulders.
“No escaping today. Sit.”