The Funeral Association.
The old man stood at the entrance, glancing outside from time to time.
A figure approached from the distance. It was a middle-aged man.
Carrying a takeaway container of meatball soup, he smiled at the old man and said:
"Charles, you were already waiting when I went out to buy dinner. Your daughter still hasn't come?"
Charles shook his head and said:
"Maybe she got off work late."
After a pause, he rubbed his hands together and muttered:
"The weather's getting worse and worse. I told her not to bring me food anymore. Walking all that way in the cold is miserable, and I can eat out myself. But she wouldn't listen. She said eating out was a waste of money, and since she's a cook, making an extra meal is no trouble."
"Your daughter's cooking is every bit as good as a fancy restaurant's," the middle-aged man praised. "A meal like that would cost dozens of resource points at a restaurant."
Hearing someone praise his daughter, Charles did not rush to downplay her abilities as some parents would.
He smiled and said:
"She's been interested in cooking since she was little. She takes after her mother that way. Back in the Southern Region, her mother cooked exclusively for the farm owner's family. She handled some of their big banquets too."
As he spoke of Lina's mother, Charles's eyes softened.
The middle-aged man gave him a thumbs-up:
"You're a lucky man, Charles. Having your child grow up, work nearby, and look after you-some people can only dream of that!"
Charles hurriedly waved his hands, looking ashamed:
"Ah, at my age, there's nothing I can do to help her. I just keep wearing her out."
They chatted a little longer, then the middle-aged man urged him:
"It's freezing