The Butcher's Daughter and the Star

My name is Carrie Xavier, and my family sells pork. The "Xavier's Fresh Meat" stall at the alley entrance is the brightest memory of my childhood. Father wielded the knife with strength, my mother's fingers flew as she kept the accounts, and the greasy apron always carried the fresh scent of raw meat. When I was little, I didn't find that smell unpleasant; instead, it made me feel at home. Later, when I started school, some classmates teased me as the "daughter of a pig butcher," and I would blush and argue back. But the more I grew up, the more I realized there's no shame in earning a living with your own hands; within that meaty smell, there's the warmth of our family's everyday life. Every holiday, I'd go to the meat stall to help out. Handing out plastic bags, giving change, and sometimes helping my father lift half a pig onto the counter. Most of the customers at the meat stall are regulars; they'd tease me with a smile, "Carrie, here to help your dad again?" I always nodded along, keeping my hands moving without pause. It must have been last summer when someone different came to the meat stall. He was tall, dressed simply in a white T-shirt and jeans, but his presence was unmistakable. Especially those eyes—large and bright, with a gentle smile whenever they met yours. Every time he comes, he doesn't buy much—either a spare rib or a few ounces of lean meat. When he pays, he softly says thank you. His voice is like a spring breeze, so comforting. My mother would whisper to me, "This young man is really handsome; I wonder what he does for a living." I can't quite explain it either, but he comes every weekend, as if there's an unspoken agreement between him and our family's meat stall. I secretly memorized the name he occasionally mentioned while chatting with my mother—Yves Vincent. This summer, I graduated from university and started working as an intern nurse at the city center hospital. Wearing a white coat for the first time and standing in the ward corridor, I felt both nervous and excited. The first patient my mentor assigned me was in a private room on the third floor of the inpatient ward. I held my medical record book and walked over, then gently knocked on the door. A voice from inside said, "Please come in," and it sounded somewhat familiar. I pushed the door open and froze the moment I looked up. The person sitting on the hospital bed was none other than Yves Vincent, the regular customer who often came to our stall to buy meat. He wore a hospital gown, his face a little pale, and when he saw me, he clearly hesitated for a moment. I walked over, trying to keep my voice professional: "Hello, Mr. Vincent. I'm Carrie Xavier. I'll be taking care of your daily nursing from now on." Yves Vincent stared at me, his eyes shifting from confusion to panic. He suddenly recoiled, instinctively clutching the blanket as if he'd seen something terrifying. "You... what are you doing here?" His voice trembled slightly. His reaction left me baffled. "I'm interning here, Mr. Vincent. Are you feeling unwell?" But he shook his head, eyes darting away, not daring to meet my gaze. "Don't come over! I... I'm really not buying meat today!" I stood frozen there, only snapping back to reality after a long moment. Did he actually think I was just a meat seller and that I'd come all the way to the hospital to "push" meat on him? I couldn't help but want to laugh, though I also felt a little helpless. "Mr. Vincent, you've got it all wrong," I softened my tone gently. "I'm a nurse now, not a meat seller. I'm here to take care of you." But Yves Vincent seemed not to hear me; his face went even paler. "Don't lie to me. Are you... are you thinking that last time's meat was short?" "I'm telling you, I really only need that much—I can't eat that much by myself..." The more he spoke, the more flustered he became, even starting to back away, nearly falling off the bed.