Arc 1 The Professor Uncle X Adopted Niece In the 80s (5)

Chapter 5: “Morning Silence, Shifting Gravity”

---

The estate stirred gently—without alarms, without commands, without anyone needing to say wake up.

Ezra was already in the kitchen.

The light was barely more than a pale sheen creeping across the stone counters, and the firewood crackled low beneath the iron stove. She stood barefoot in her linen nightpants, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair twisted into a low knot. A dab of honey clung to her cheek.

There were mung beans soaking in a bowl.

Black glutinous rice simmering in a pot.

Herbal roots laid out to dry beside bundles of jujube, lotus seed, and orange peel. Some for breakfast, some for the midday snacks, and some to steep quietly into the broth she’d serve the staff later.

Today was a no-class day.

But Ezra’s mornings never stopped moving.

---

Mrs. Lucychan padded in with her usual towel draped over one shoulder, her brows raised in sleepy acknowledgment.

> “You didn’t rest in?”

Ezra dropped wolfberries into the congee. “The piglets woke up before me. I lost my pride.”

The older woman chuckled and reached for the teapot.

They moved in tandem now—stirring, straining, slicing—without clutter, without rush.

Ezra began prepping the flaxseed crackers and lotus-root fritters for the staff’s teatime break. She’d already left barley dough rising in the clay bowl for Lucien’s flatbreads.

---

Lucien came downstairs twenty minutes later.

No tie.

Loafers, not dress shoes.

And a faint mark on his cheek where sleep had pressed too long against his pillow.

He paused in the archway, blinking blearily. His eyes went straight to the table. Then to her. Then back to the table.

> “Is it normal that I woke up already hungry?”

Ezra handed him a mug of barley and hawthorn. “It’s normal that your body’s adjusting.”

> “Adjusting to what?”

> “Being taken care of.”

Lucien opened his mouth. Then shut it again.

He sat down.

---

The table had been half-set with their usual quiet abundance:

Glutinous rice porridge with almond milk, foxnut, and candied date bits.

Pickled mustard greens with sesame drizzle.

Pan-seared lotus root slices.

Steamed sweet potato dumplings with crushed walnut filling.

Salted red bean soup—just warm enough to wake up without shocking the blood.

He stared at the spread. “You really don’t know how to rest.”

Ezra bit into a dumpling. “Resting is for after lunch.”

---

Outside the kitchen, the farm was already humming.

Piglets squealed faintly from their new pen, the goats bleated, and the ducks clacked in indignant harmony. Michael’s voice floated through the back corridors as he greeted each pen like an old friend.

Lucien sipped his tea and tilted his head.

> “Is he singing to the sheep?”

> “He thinks it improves their temperament.”

> “Does it?”

Ezra chewed. “No. But it improves his.”

Lucien laughed—quiet, real, surprised.

---

From the window, the estate looked like it had always had a farm—rows of tidy fencing, raised platforms for ducks, shaded lean-tos for goats and sheep, and a smaller side structure near the back where seafood containers cycled clean spring water through clay-filtered basins.

No smell. No mess.

Every corner had been arranged with precision: clean troughs, compost pits lined with charcoal ash, and walkways layered in crushed lime and coconut fiber.

Hygiene mattered.

Especially to someone like Ezra, whose nose could pick up mildew two rooms away and whose standards didn’t relax just because she wasn’t in a lab.

---

She poured Lucien a second mug of tea before he even asked.

He blinked. “How do you know when I’m about to—?”

Ezra stood. “I always know when someone’s about to make poor decisions.”

> “Drinking tea is a poor decision?”

> “Thinking you only need one cup is.”

She left him with that and walked barefoot out into the courtyard, a shallow wicker basket tucked under her arm, the morning sun finally spilling over the rooftop tiles behind her.

Lucien watched her go—then slowly reached for a third dumpling.

~

Ezra stepped into the courtyard just as the first breeze of the day curled around the herb beds.

The air smelled faintly of crushed lemongrass and morning clay.

She slipped into her old, soft sandals and veered toward the rear of the property—where the land dipped into gentle rows of raised soil and timber-fenced pens. The new piglet enclosure sat tucked under a shaded awning of palm-frond roofing, woven by hand the week before.

A dozen little piglets squealed with curiosity the moment they spotted her.

She didn’t squeal back.

She just crouched, examined the feeding troughs, adjusted the freshwater dispenser, and made a note to add one more cooling slab in the western corner. The morning light came in stronger there. Wouldn’t do for them to overheat.

---

Michael emerged from the goat shed, sleeves rolled, straw clinging to one pant leg.

> “One of the twins tried to climb the water barrel again.”

Ezra nodded. “The tan one?”

> “Of course.”

She wiped her hands on a dry cloth. “She’s going to be your favorite. I can tell.”

> “Already is.”

He grinned, wide and unbothered by sweat. He still had dirt under his nails from rearranging the compost channels last night.

Still officially her gardener-uncle’s assistant.

Still technically a university student.

Still showing up like this farm was his second spine.

---

They walked together along the fencing, inspecting the sheep (quiet), the ducks (feisty), the seafood troughs (stable), and finally the cow shed—where the estate’s aging dairy cow flicked her tail lazily at the sound of Ezra’s voice.

“Good girl,” she said, patting the wall. “You didn’t even kick at Haen this time.”

Michael laughed. “She’s warming up. Or maybe Haen finally stopped smelling like liniment.”

> “Doubt it.”

They both smirked.

Ezra’s hands moved constantly. Checking hinges. Replacing water. Turning compost.

Michael noticed but didn’t comment. He just matched her pace.

---

By mid-morning, she had finished laying mint ash along the piglet path and handed Michael a new chart for feed rotations.

Each livestock pen had its own filter bed now—crushed charcoal, mint stems, and banana fiber mixed into the base soil to absorb scent and avoid rot. The ducks had a shallow pool with a foot-rinse trench beside it. The seafood barrels had been shifted under the shade roof, hooked to a rotating water cycle, and laced with basil to keep mosquitoes away.

Everything clean. Everything tight.

It smelled like nothing but earth and clean grass.

Exactly how Ezra wanted it.

---

Mrs. Lucychan called from the porch, a towel waving overhead.

> “Tea’s getting cold!”

Ezra waved back but didn’t rush.

She stopped just past the fence, staring down the rows of pens—dozen piglets, a dozen ducks, half a dozen goats, a lazy sheep or two—and beyond that, the quiet outline of Lucien’s study window just barely visible through the tamarind trees.

Michael followed her gaze.

> “He still doesn’t know how to look at you, huh?”

Ezra didn’t answer.

She just turned, tossed her gloves into the wash bucket, and dusted off her knees.

> “Come on. We’ve got to prep the drying trays. And you’ve still got assignments, farmboy.”

> “So do you, city witch.”

---

Back at the kitchen porch, Lucien stood with his tea, watching her wipe her face on the hem of her shirt and grin at Michael without effort.

His hand curled tighter around the cup.

He sipped again.

Didn’t say a word.

But the tea suddenly didn’t taste as calming as it should.

~

Michael carried a bucket of chopped root ends toward the goat pen, his boots kicking up light puffs of clay as he moved. The sun had risen higher now, warming the rows of troughs, but the breeze kept the sweat manageable.

Ezra followed behind with a narrow rake, eyes sweeping across the layered mulch bed she’d laid out two days ago.

> “Too much moisture again,” she muttered.

Michael glanced over his shoulder. “I adjusted the flow this morning.”

> “It’s not the water source. It’s the condensation from the east wall. We need more airflow. Maybe cut one of the upper planks.”

Michael stared at her. “You’d make a terrifying architect.”

> “I’ll take that as praise.”

She kneeled to check the vents herself, tucking her knees into a folded rag to keep from getting muddy. Her eyes narrowed, nose twitching faintly.

> “Smells off. A trace of ammonia.”

Michael sniffed. “Barely.”

Ezra looked up.

> “Barely is how it starts. It shouldn’t smell like anything except fresh hay and breath.”

---

Nearby, the piglets were napping under the shade netting, tiny snouts twitching in sleep. The compost bucket from yesterday was already half broken down beside them—Ezra’s layered technique working like magic: dried leaves, goat droppings, crushed eggshells, mint stalks, and a scoop of charcoal ash. Flipped twice daily. Not a fly in sight.

Michael lifted one of the mini troughs. “How’d you figure out the banana-stem trick?”

> “Old trader lady near the coast. Smelled like fish guts but swore by it. Turns out she was right.”

He shook his head with a smile. “You remember everyone.”

Ezra shrugged. “I remember what works.”

---

They moved next to the seafood basins. A shallow pool sat between the house and the fence, hosting a healthy stock of catfish and freshwater prawns. Basil leaves floated on the surface like sleepy boats, and Ezra leaned over to check the oxygen valve near the bamboo pipe.

Lucien’s horse neighed in the distance.

Michael stretched. “You know, most girls would be grossed out by this.”

Ezra glanced at him flatly. “Most girls didn’t grow up allergic to city perfume and raised on medicinal fermentation.”

> “Fair.”

---

She poured a scoop of soaked rice bran into the duck pond filter bed and watched the water run clearer within minutes. Her entire setup—livestock, garden, root cellar, compost—was connected through underground clay channels, leaching scent through natural charcoal traps and venting steam through dry lemongrass chimneys built into the fencing.

No flies.

No stink.

No rot.

The only thing lingering in the air was the faint green scent of soapberry.

---

Michael wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Remind me again—why aren’t you the agricultural major?”

> “Because people like you need degrees to catch up.”

> “Brutal.”

> “Efficient.”

They both laughed.

Ezra straightened, tied back her half-loose hair with a cloth band from her pocket, and scanned the pens once more. No leaks. No waste overflow. No slack ropes.

She handed Michael the task sheet she’d updated on the spot.

> “You’ll handle the mineral block rotations for the goats tomorrow.”

> “Yes, boss.”

> “And cover feed check while I do kitchen prep.”

> “Still yes, boss.”

---

A distant whistle echoed from the house.

Mrs. Lucychan’s signal.

Ezra turned. “Time for tea and salted buns.”

Michael leaned against the fence post, watching her walk away, sandals thudding light against the ground.

> “You’re not from around here, huh?”

She paused. Looked back. Eyes unreadable.

> “No. But I’m staying.”

Then she disappeared around the herb beds, leaving him blinking in the dust.

~

Ezra didn’t rush.

Not when carrying a lacquered tray with both hands, not when her slippers tapped softly along the corridor lined with shuttered windows and dried herbs.

It was already past nine. The estate had settled into that gentle hush that only came when work had been done well and completely. The lamps burned low. A few fans whirred softly behind half-closed doors. Outside, frogs had begun their late chorus.

But Lucien was still in his study.

Ezra knocked once, then pushed the door open with her elbow.

He hadn’t changed out of his shirt. His collar was loose, glasses smudged slightly at the edge. A stack of lecture notes sat beside two marked-up drafts and an untouched glass of barley water. His pen hovered midair, frozen by whatever thoughts hadn’t untangled yet.

Ezra stepped in and set the tray down beside his elbow.

He blinked.

“You brought food again?”

“Snack,” she said simply.

A small porcelain bowl of warm rice mash—black sesame and red dates, stirred with crushed almonds and a touch of licorice root. A second bowl held a floral-spice blend: dairy-free oat milk steeped with cardamom, dried ginger, fennel, and a strand of jasmine.

Lucien stared at the drink.

“This smells like a nap in a temple.”

Ezra ignored him and walked behind the chair.

He didn’t protest when her hands settled on his shoulders.

---

The tension in his frame betrayed the long day. Muscles coiled too tightly across the back of his neck, his shoulders locked just beneath the collar. She pressed carefully, thumbs sinking into the tissue beside his spine, not too deep—but with firm intention.

Lucien exhaled slowly. Not quite a sigh. Not quite speech.

Ezra didn’t need direction. Her fingers worked in small, practiced spirals. First shoulders, then neck, up to the base of his skull. She brushed his hairline lightly, then adjusted his chair angle without a word.

From her pocket, she drew a small ceramic jar—rounded, warm to the touch. The balm inside gleamed faintly: a soft, waxless blend of camellia, rosemary, mugwort, and wintergreen, all steeped in sunflower oil and cooled in her space realm’s northern well.

No additives. No preservatives. No scent but the pure resin of the plants themselves.

Ezra dabbed a bit between her fingers and began again—temples, the nape of his neck, across his shoulders. Her strokes slowed. Gentle. Rhythmic.

Lucien’s eyes had closed somewhere between the second and third pass.

She didn’t wake him when he began to doze. She just wrapped the tray cloth gently around the untouched barley water and picked up the empty cup he’d drained.

Before she left, she leaned in.

Soft, steady.

One kiss to his forehead—quick, unceremonious, barely there.

She didn’t notice the way the corner of his mouth lifted as she pulled away.

---

Ezra left the door half-closed behind her and padded back down the hall with steady steps. She didn’t look back.

Her room was already dim and quiet. She set the empty cup on the shelf, tied back her hair, and went through her nightly rhythm in silence.

Warm cloth over the face. Mugwort toner. Oil made from calendula and rice bran. A thin balm across the temples. Her skin drank it all without complaint.

Then, finally, she sat on the edge of her bed, fingers resting over the spot just below her collarbone.

> Breathe in.

A quiet hum answered from within.

---

[ Pocket Space Realm – Status: Balanced ]

[ Moisture Chamber: Stable ]

[ Root Shelves: Refreshed ]

[ New Item Logged: Forehead Kiss – Lucien / Timestamp 21:47 ]

[ Emotional Charge: Detected. Noted. Stored. ]

Ezra gave it a dry glance.

“You’re journaling my affection now?”

[ Host exhibited subtle nurturing behavior. ]

[ Possible bonding indicators. Caution advised. ]

[ Reminder: Do not unlock Arc-Shift before node convergence. ]

Ezra rolled her eyes and unwrapped a small pouch of dried rose hips from the shelf. She tucked it into the warming drawer near her bedside with a slice of dried lime.

“No one asked you.”

[ Noted. Logging defiance. ]

The system dimmed.

Ezra stretched out, the blanket drawn to her chin. Her breath steadied. Outside, the wind rustled dry lemongrass against the eaves.

Sleep came easily tonight.

---

Study Room – Later

Lucien stirred once in the dark.

Not because of dreams.

But because the scent of the balm still lingered—something cool and earthy pressed beneath his collarbones like a memory he couldn’t shake.

He reached up, touched the spot where her lips had been.

Then laughed—soft, short, helpless.

“…Ridiculous.”

Still smiling faintly, he turned on his side and fell asleep without finishing his paperwork.

~

🐇 [Bunny Bulletin – Confidential: Not Visible to Host]

Host delivered spiced floral milk and snacks, gave Male Lead a head-neck-shoulder massage using magic-space organic balm, then kissed his forehead before quietly leaving; Male Lead pretended to sleep, smirked after she left, and system readings confirmed rising emotional attachment, lowered tension, and dangerously high levels of “pretending not to care.”

~

© S.J.Ez. All Rights Reserved. This story is an original work of fiction created by S.J.Ez. All characters, names, places, and events are purely products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied, republished, translated, or shared in any form without the written permission of the author. S.J.Ez holds full copyright and ownership of this content. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***