When I push open the door after working overtime late at night, the sensor light at the entrance lights up warmly. I drag my tired body to change my shoes, and suddenly smell the faint fragrance of millet porridge drifting from the kitchen. Walking to the door, I see Mom dozing on a small dining chair. The porridge in the casserole is gurgling with tiny bubbles, and the small plate next to it holds the pickled radish strips I love most. She wakes up at the sound, rubs her eyes and smiles, saying "I knew you'd be late today, the porridge has been kept warm in the pot for almost two hours". I serve a bowl of hot porridge, and even my fingertips warm up when I hold it. The rice grains are boiled soft and sticky, sliding down my throat, slowly smoothing away the tiredness of the whole day and the grievances from work. The streets outside have long been free of traffic noise, most of the lights in the whole building are off, only this small light in my kitchen always keeps the temperature of a bowl of hot porridge for people returning late. It turns out that the most solid sense of security is never in the distant high-rise buildings, but hidden in this bowl of porridge that is always hot in the late-night kitchen.