The bus rumbled through unfamiliar streets, each turn bringing Lian farther from the parts of the city he knew. His mother sat quietly beside him, clutching the small tin from Auntie Wáng tightly in her hands, as if it held all the memories she was too afraid to speak.
Lian watched her from the corner of his eye. Her face was calm, but he sensed something beneath the surface—something unspoken. He wanted to ask, but the words tangled in his throat.
When they arrived, the neighborhood was a tapestry of neat lawns and painted houses with freshly trimmed bushes. The air smelled faintly of pine and baked bread, a stark contrast to the cramped apartments Lian was used to.
His mother's friend, Wáng āyí, greeted them at the door with a smile that seemed to hold years of stories. She pulled Lian's mother into a warm embrace and beckoned them inside.
The house smelled like sesame oil and ginger, with a hint of something sweet baking in the oven. Mandarin floated through the rooms like a familiar song, rising and falling with ease.
Lian stood quietly as the two women settled into the kitchen to talk. Their voices were soft but full of emotion, the kind that doesn't need translation.
In the living room, Wáng āyí's sons appeared. The older one, Ming, gave Lian a polite nod; the younger, Lu, waved shyly. They spoke in a comfortable mix of Mandarin and English, switching effortlessly.
Lian sat down beside them, fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. Ming asked about school, and Lu joked about video games. For a moment, Lian felt the weight of his usual isolation lighten.
But as the afternoon stretched on, he noticed the framed certificates and family photos lining the walls—honor rolls, spelling bees, birthday parties. The house was full of evidence that someone else's version of "normal" was flourishing here.
His mother smiled softly, a hint of longing in her eyes.
At dinner, Wáng āyí spoke to Lian in Mandarin, her words gentle and patient. Lian answered haltingly, his words slow but sincere. The ease between her and her sons reminded him of the gap that still existed in his own family.
He watched as the boys teased each other and corrected their mother's pronunciation without judgment. They didn't twist or hide their words—they simply accepted the imperfect melody of their shared language.
Later, as they prepared to leave, Wáng āyí handed Lian's mother a small package wrapped in patterned cloth.
"For you," she said warmly.
Lian whispered a soft "xièxie," and Wáng āyí smiled, her eyes shining.
On the ride home, the city blurred past the window, a mosaic of light and shadow.
Lian pulled out his journal. Instead of drawing an animal, he sketched two houses connected by a winding path—one sturdy and rooted, the other reaching out with open steps.
It wasn't about where he belonged yet, but about the journey he was still making.