Two Bowls of Noodles

My name is Windy Lynn, and I'm a nurse in the Emergency Department at the City Hospital. After pulling three night shifts in a row, the head nurse finally granted me two days off. I stepped out of the hospital just before dawn, the sky faintly lightening and the air carrying the crisp chill of early autumn. I wrapped my coat tighter, wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep deeply. But less than two hours after I'd lain down, the doorbell rang urgently. Peering through the peephole, I saw my older brother Mike Lynn's newborn twins—Dylan and Lydia. The two little ones stood on their tiptoes, faces pressed against the glass, like two eager, anxious kittens. I sighed and opened the door. They burst in like runaway cannonballs. Dylan grabbed the hem of my pajamas, swinging it: "Aunt, the TV said Mr. Clark's restaurant has a new crab roe noodles flavor. We want to try it!" Lydia nodded, holding up a crumpled flyer in her little hand. It showed golden, glossy noodles sprinkled with bright green scallions—truly tempting. These two kids are the pride and joy of my older brother and sister-in-law, and usually the closest to me. How could I possibly refuse? I ruffled their soft little hair. "Alright, change your clothes and I'll take you out." Charles Clark's "H Restaurant" has become a trendy spot recently, tucked deep in an old alley. Its gray brick and tile facade is adorned with red lanterns, and when you push the door open, wind chimes tinkle, evoking a vivid charm in the Southern Part. I held Lydia in my arms while Dylan tugged at my shirt. As soon as we stepped inside, a waitress led us to a window seat. The rosewood table shone brightly, draped with an off-white tablecloth. Outside the window, an old wall was covered in ivy, and every now and then, the ring of a bicycle bell sounded as someone rode past. The menu was styled like a traditional stitched book, releasing a faint scent of ink when opened. The children's portion of crab roe noodles was priced at 180—not cheap—but seeing the eager look in the kids' eyes, I still ordered two. "Auntie, aren't you going to eat?" Dylan tilted his head and blinked his eyes, dark as black grapes. "Auntie's not hungry. Just watching you all eat is enough." I smiled and brushed the stray hairs from his forehead. Dylan leaned on the windowsill, tracing the outline of cars on the glass with his finger, murmuring, "That bus has two floors." Lydia was fascinated by the celadon tableware on the table; her little hand lightly tapped the rim of the bowl, giggling at the clear, crisp sound. About twenty minutes later, the waitress brought over two bowls of noodles. The steaming hot scent of rich crab filled the air. Golden crab oil coated the delicate noodles, topped with a soft-boiled egg and sprinkled with chopped scallions and white sesame seeds—an incredibly tempting sight. "Be careful, it's hot." I helped them cool the noodles by gently blowing on them. Dylan, eager and impatient, took a big spoonful, instantly smearing bright orange crab roe at the corner of his mouth, like a little mischievous kitten. Lydia copied her older brother, taking small bites with her eyes squinting into crescent moons. Before long, Dylan pushed the bowl toward me: "Aunt, it's not enough." His little belly was bulging, yet he kept staring at the noodles on the next table. I waved to call the waiter, and Lily Carter—the one who had shown us to our seats—came over. She wore a pink uniform, her hair perfectly neat, but there was little smile on her face.