Every morning in the little riverside village begins with the same familiar sounds—the rooster’s proud crow, the soft splash of water against wooden boats, and, if you listen closely, the unmistakable squeak of Bibi shrieking at the sight of a fish. It never fails. Despite living near water her entire life, Bibi is absolutely, hilariously terrified of fish. Big fish, small fish, fish that barely move—none are safe from her dramatic jumps and wide-eyed panic.
LaLa, on the other hand, couldn’t be more different. Calm, curious, and endlessly amused, she finds Bibi’s fear both confusing and adorable. “It’s just a fish,” LaLa often says, lifting one from the basket without hesitation. That’s usually Bibi’s cue to run three steps back, hide behind a chair, and yell warnings as if LaLa were handling a wild beast.
Yet here’s the funny part: while Bibi is scared of fish, she is fearless when it comes to love and care—especially in the kitchen.
That morning, as the sun slowly painted the sky gold, Bibi was already awake, sleeves rolled up, hair tied messily, preparing dumplings for breakfast. The bamboo steamer sat gently over boiling water, releasing clouds of fragrant steam that filled the room. Her movements were careful and practiced, hands folding each dumpling with patience and warmth. Fear or not, Bibi always made sure everyone started the day with a full stomach.
LaLa leaned against the doorway, watching with a smile. “You know,” she teased, “you face boiling water without blinking, but one tiny fish sends you running.”
Bibi snorted, pretending not to hear. “Hot water doesn’t have eyes,” she replied. “Fish do. And they stare.”
The two burst into laughter.
