The Aroma of Braised Goose in the Bill

Old Wang felt that the city's neon lights sometimes glowed like a death warrant. Especially that letter from the bank – black ink on white paper, politely worded, yet more chilling than the winter wind. If he didn't clear the three months of overdue mortgage payments, his pigeonhole of a home would soon have a foreclosure sign hung on it.

His territory was the entrance to a small alley, not bustling with prosperity, but thick with the smoke and life of the everyday. A greasy sign, bearing the five crooked characters "Old Wang's Braised Goose," served as his sole landmark in this vast metropolis. As dusk settled, the large pot, used for over a decade, would begin to bubble and steam. The rich aroma of the braising liquid, mingling star anise, cinnamon, and some undisclosed secret spice, was the most familiar comfort to the neighborhood folks and the workers returning late.

Old Wang's braised goose was top-notch. The meat was tender enough to fall off the bone, the marinade seeped into every fiber, perfectly seasoned with a lingering aftertaste. Some said his secret lay in the aged braising liquid; others claimed it was his willingness to invest in using only freshly slaughtered geese. Only Old Wang knew in his heart that beyond these, there was one ingredient he absolutely could not omit – a special, pricey spice brought from his hometown in Chaoshan. Without it, the braised goose lost its soul.

But lately, affording this soul was becoming nearly impossible. The cost of raw ingredients soared, rent increased, even utilities went up. Only the price of his braised goose edged up cautiously, fearing he'd scare off his regulars. The final straw was the bank's notice. His wife's health was poor, constantly needing medication; his daughter had just started university, requiring every penny to be stretched thin. He felt like a tethered old ox, desperately pulling the plow of life, only finding the earth beneath his feet growing heavier and heavier.

"Old Wang, how's business today?" Little Li, who sold stir-fried noodles next door, would habitually ask as he packed up his stall.

Old Wang usually just forced a grin, revealing smoke-stained yellow teeth. "It's alright, making a living." But the deep anxiety in his eyes, like the simmering braising liquid in the pot, was a scalding heat only he could feel.

That evening, a fine drizzle drifted down, adding a touch of desolation to the air. Customers were fewer than usual. Old Wang silently manned his stall, his mind repeatedly turning over the bank's deadline – it was tomorrow. He counted the small bills and coins received that day. Added to what he had painstakingly scraped together, he was still short three hundred and twenty yuan, fifty cents. Not a huge sum, but right then, it felt like an insurmountable chasm.

He even considered it: what if he skipped the special spice this month? Or just used less? The thought flickered for only a moment before he snuffed it out. Business was about integrity, and even more so, about conscience. If he tarnished his own reputation, how could he possibly carry on?

Nearing midnight, only a few scattered customers remained in front of the stall. A young man in a washed-out school uniform approached hesitantly. It was Little Zhang, a student from the nearby university who often came by to buy half a goose head or a few wings to satisfy his cravings, always appearing a bit short on cash. Old Wang recognized him and would sometimes toss in a few extra trimmings for him.

"Boss, I... I'd like an order of goose wings," Little Zhang said, head bowed, his voice lacking confidence.

Old Wang skillfully chopped them, packed them up, and handed them over. "Here you go. It's raining, head back to school early." He instinctively reached to round down the price, as he often did.

"Wait, Boss!" Little Zhang suddenly called out, pulling a crumpled hundred-yuan bill from his pocket, along with a few coins, and pressed them into Old Wang's hand. "Boss, I... I got paid for my tutoring job today. Here's the money, please count it."

Old Wang froze for a second, took the money, and counted it. One hundred and eight yuan, fifty cents. He looked up at Little Zhang. This kid usually hesitated for ages if something cost more than twenty yuan. "Little Zhang, what's this...?"

"Boss, please don't ask. I... I just wanted to treat myself to something good." Little Zhang's face flushed slightly, his gaze evasive. "Is it enough? If not, I..."

"It's enough, it's enough! It's too much!" Old Wang quickly tried to push the extra money back. "Kid, I usually give you a break because you remind me of my daughter's classmates, knowing things aren't easy. But today..."

But Little Zhang stubbornly pushed Old Wang's hand away, grabbed the braised goose, turned, and ran off into the rainy night, leaving only the words trailing behind him: "Boss, thank you for the braised goose! It smells amazing!"

Old Wang stood rooted to the spot, holding the one hundred and eight yuan, fifty cents. Rain soaked his hair and shirtfront, but he didn't feel the cold. He looked down, counted all the money in his hand. Including what Little Zhang had given him, it came to exactly three hundred and twenty yuan, fifty cents... not a penny more, not a penny less. Precisely the amount needed for the mortgage payment due tomorrow.

He suddenly recalled something Little Zhang had mentioned offhandedly a few days ago when buying wings – his mother was sick in the hospital, they urgently needed money, and he was desperately searching for part-time work.

Old Wang stood in the rain, gazing in the direction Little Zhang had disappeared, motionless for a long time. The aroma of the braised goose seemed momentarily washed away by the rain, yet simultaneously, it seemed to bore deeper, more intensely into his heart. He carefully tucked all the money away into an inside pocket, close to his chest, where his heart beat with an unusual steadiness.

The next day, Old Wang arrived punctually at the bank counter. He solemnly handed over a bundle of notes and coins, faintly scented with braising liquid. The teller wrinkled her nose slightly but accepted it, counted it, and stamped the receipt. Stepping out of the bank into the glaring sunlight, Old Wang let out a long sigh of relief, feeling as though a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He returned to his small stall and, just like any other day, started the fire, boiled water, and prepared the braising ingredients. When he habitually reached for the bag containing the pricey special spice, he paused for a fraction of a second. Then, without further hesitation, he added the standard measure into the boiling pot.

Life's bills might never be fully settled, but the aroma of his braised goose must never fade. Just like how, in this city, small acts of kindness always seem to emerge unexpectedly, exuding a heart-warming fragrance. As for the "truth" behind Little Zhang's one hundred and eight yuan and fifty cents, Old Wang mused, perhaps it was best left unsaid, like the secret recipe for his goose. All he knew was that tonight's braised goose would surely smell exceptionally fragrant.