It was in a Wenchang, China. A small girl was quietly folding dumplings in a dimly lit kitchen. She loved making these tiny crescent-shaped parcels, her jiaozi. The girl lived with her grandparents in a small shack. The front of the building was a food stall, facing the street. Every day, people would stop at the stall to eat the dumplings the girls would lovingly prepare. She immersed herself in the experience. Preparing food with her grandpa, serving the townsfolk with her grandma. It was a simple life. Nothing complicated. Her grandparents’ stall was modestly successful. The girl knew all of the regulars. Mrs. Ip, who owned the nearby clothing store. Mr. Liu, who managed the local market. Ms. Zhang, a grade school teacher who always ordered the wan zhi tang with a side of jiaozi. And then there were Mr. and Mrs. Wu, an elderly couple who owned a rice and cabbage farm. These people were her friends. They people she interacted with on a daily basis. She did not need wealth or education to feel happy. Folding dumplings and servings others was all she needed to feel complete. Handing out these dumpling that she created, made with love and care.