Chapter 18

I shifted in my seat, the worn fabric of the train scratching against my arms as I adjusted my position. The compartment was cramped, the air thick with the scent of sweat and cheap cologne. I exhaled slowly, my breath fogging up the cold window beside me. Beyond it, the world rushed past in a blur of dark silhouettes and flickering lights, the train hurtling forward, unstopping, as if it knew exactly where it needed to go.

Unlike me.

My fingers grazed the inside of my coat pocket, tracing the cold, hard edges of the cash I had taken. The memory of selling the jade pendant Bella had given me, all those months ago, replayed in my mind, sharp and fresh. I remembered those earrings. How excited I was.

How things change.

I had walked into the pawnshop with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, my heart hammering against my ribs. The man behind the counter had barely looked at me as I placed them in front of him. He picked them up, inspected them under a tiny magnifying glass, and then grunted.

"Real gold. Nice stones," he said. "I'll give you three hundred."

Three hundred. Not even close to what they were worth.

"Four hundred," I offered.

He shook his head silently, and I conceded. I couldn't afford to argue.

"Deal."

He had counted the money out in crumpled bills, sliding them across the counter with an air of disinterest. I had stuffed them into my pocket and walked out, barely able to breathe. By the time I reached the airline counter, my hands were shaking as I handed over the cash for a one-way ticket. When the attendant passed me the boarding pass, I felt weightless and sick all at once.

It was too late to regret it, but that didn't stop the gnawing guilt from settling deep in my stomach. I told myself I wouldn't miss them – small pieces. And yet, they meant survival for me. A ticket home. Or at least, to the place I once called home.

Qianqian.

Across from me, a man snored lightly, his head lolling against the window. His suit was rumpled, his shoes scuffed, and there was a faint smear of ink on his fingers. A businessman, maybe, or someone pretending to be one. A woman sat a few rows ahead, clutching a small child against her chest. Her eyes, tired and vacant, met mine for a second before flicking away. There was no warmth there, only exhaustion. I understood that look well.

The train jolted, and my reflection in the glass wavered. I looked older than I remembered. Shadows clung to the hollows of my cheeks, my eyes sunken, my hair messy from too many sleepless nights. I pressed my forehead against the cold window, watching the shapes outside dissolve into streaks of neon and darkness. This wasn't the America Bella had sold to me, the one with penthouse views and silk sheets. This was my America. The one with train stations that smelled like damp concrete and the sharp tang of desperation.

I adjusted my grip on my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of the few things I had left. A few crumpled bills, the jewelry, and my passport. The only things that mattered now.

The seat beside me creaked as someone sat down. A boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dressed in a hoodie two sizes too big. His face was sharp, his eyes restless. He glanced at me, then at my bag. I tensed. I knew that look, knew what it meant to eye someone else's belongings with that kind of hunger.

"Where are you headed?" he asked in english. His voice was high pitched and annoying. I wondered why he was striking up a conversation with me.

"The airport. That's where the train leads." I looked at him sideways, wondering if he was dense. Then, I wondered if he could even understand my broken English.

He waved his hand in exasperation. "I meant where are you flying to."

I felt stupid for a second, and then felt a bit of pride that he could understand me. I suppose Bella's tutoring had helped me.

I felt a sting of guilt at remembering Bella, then a wave of relief that I was finally leaving, and then guilt again for feeling that relief.

I hesitated before responding. "China."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Long way."

"Yeah."

Silence stretched between us. The train rattled on, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks filling the space between words. I could feel his curiosity pressing against me, but I had nothing to give him. Nothing but the truth, and even that felt too heavy to share.

"You from there?" he asked eventually.

"Once."

He nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe we were all running from something, trying to get back to something else.

A station blurred past, the name lost in the rush. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, swallowed quickly by the roar of the train. I watched as the city thinned, buildings shrinking, neon fading into the quiet sprawl of the outskirts. Soon, I would be far from here. Soon, I would be in China. I would go to my hometown. I would see Qianqian. And then what? Would I come clean?

What if she already moved on?

I shook my head at the mere thought. Qianqian adored me. She always did. I wouldn't tell her. I would say I got into an accident, but finally recovered, and was ready to take on the world with her again.

The boy beside me shifted, pulling his hood lower over his face. "Hope you get where you're going," he muttered.

I swallowed. "Yeah. Me too."

The printed letters on the boarding pass looked ready to swim off the page as I gripped it with sweaty hands. All around me, people rushed from terminal to terminal, huddled with their suitcases and their children and their nervous dreams. My vision blurred, and for a moment I thought I saw her again: Bella, that long dark hair swinging as she turned to smile over her shoulder. She was never there, of course, and I stumbled against the flow of strangers, searching for signs I could not read. 

When Bella had been with me, the airport felt like something out of one of those movies I'd watched as a child. She swept me along in her confident stride, nodding to strangers and guiding me with the softest of touches. The ticket – I couldn't even think of the number without feeling dizzy – seemed a small price to pay when she spoke of all I would gain by going.

I wondered if I should spend my last coins on a phone call to Bella. The din was relentless: the crash of suitcases, the hollow echo of footsteps on concrete, the urgent voices speaking a language I could barely understand. 

I remembered Qianqian, the last time I saw her in front of their little house. I palmed the loose change I had after buying the plane ticket. I suppose I could tell her that I was out working, making money for the family. The coins would be proof.

My head pounded as I boarded, and the fluorescent lights inside the cabin made everything look more surreal. The people, the strange smell, the narrow seats – they seemed to press in on me, and I found myself gripping the armrest as though it were the only solid thing left. Bella had told me the ticket to America was a rare opportunity. That I needed to take it now or it would be gone. Without her to remind me of all the reasons, I wasn't sure anymore.

Beside me, a man in a suit watched the stewardess with a relaxed expression that I could not imagine wearing. I was too nervous to eat or drink, too conscious of every dollar spent. 

I drifted into a restless sleep, the roar of the plane becoming a low hum, the world narrowing to a single point that pulsed with each beat of my heart. Qianqian was beside me, her voice a whisper of silk against my ear. She told me not to worry, told me everything would be alright. We were sitting in their small kitchen, and she was laughing at something I said. Her eyes were bright and full of promises I hoped they would keep. I could almost smell the jasmine tea she brewed for me every morning. She was still the same as I left her. We would be happy.

In my dreams, I saw myself walking up to her, their little house, and saying her name. Qianqian. She turned, surprised and unprepared for joy that would overtake her face. I imagined the warmth of her in my arms, how she would scold me for not writing more and then say she understood. I would have money for us both, and we would laugh about the lean years, the nights spent worrying over little more than hope. She would tell me that all she needed was me.

I woke with a jolt, the cold brightness of the plane collapsing back around me. The world below grew larger, more solid, as the plane began its descent. I could see the fields, the rooftops, the gray life I thought I had left behind. I pressed my face to the glass, my heart aching with fear and anticipation. Soon, I thought. Soon, I would know.

As the plane touched down, I felt the weight of months, years, lifting and then falling back upon me. I tried to picture Qianqian again, telling myself she would not change. She would forgive me. She would still be waiting. I squeezed my eyes shut, and in the darkness I saw her, saw the two of them, saw the life I so desperately needed to find. 

The landscape flickered past in shades of brown and green, and I sat with my forehead pressed against the cold glass. The man across from him chewed slowly on a dumpling, his shirt pulling tight over a belly full of satisfaction, and I couldn't help but envy the way he ate with the absolute certainty of a man whose wife was waiting for him at home. I remembered the story my father told of seeing Taihan's mother for the first time, and I closed my eyes to picture it: the marketplace, the crowd parting like magic, the smell of ripe peaches. In my memory, as in my hopes, everything was just right.

How many times had I heard that story, tucked under blankets in the little room he shared with my sister? Before the war? Each time was a new miracle. My father, a younger man, a foolish man, barely more than a boy, had been staring at a game of Chinese chess in the square, convinced he could beat the local champions. Then, a glimpse of color, a perfect angle of cheekbone, a stranger. Not a stranger for long. His mother walked past, her woven basket full of fragrant fruit, her long braid swinging like the world meant to grab his father by the throat and never let go.

When I married Qianqian, I had believed it would be the same. We had nothing, really, only a rented house and the stories of a generation before, but we built dreams in their tiny kitchen, plans for children, plans for something more. Her hands moved with such grace, even when they had nothing to work with. How could she not still be waiting? How could she not look up from the sewing machine with eyes full of love and promise the moment I walked back through that door?

I could picture it perfectly, Qianqian standing in the dim light of our first home, the one I meant to be out of by now. I imagined her filling the rooms with new dreams, ready to wrap me in her joy, ready to tell me that all was forgiven and nothing had changed. Her face would light up as I opened the door. Taihan, she would say, and there would be no questions, no accusations, just the sudden, bright warmth of the life we had paused for far too long.

It was the same as my father and my mother. My father saw her and had no choice but to follow. That crazy boy with the chess pieces in his hands, what a dreamer. She never looked back, never even turned her head. Qianqian, I whispered to myself as the train rushed over the tracks. I imagined saying it again as I stood at the threshold of their old place, knew exactly how it would feel on my lips, knew exactly how she would answer.

I could see our life playing out now. I would find us a new place, one that never leaked or shook with the rumble of passing trucks. They would move to another town, maybe, just as soon as I was on my feet. The old streets, the marketplace, the time of their early marriage when even scraps felt like riches, when my father's stories seemed inevitable and true. 

The city neared, sprawling like an open future, and I was part of it again, was home again. I closed my eyes and watched the scenes unfold, everything simple, everything just right.

------------

Icy winds sting my cheeks as the skid of taxi-cab wheels screech in my ears. As I open the door, clambering in and grappling with the seatbelt, I'm greeted with the sight of a faceless driver. The GPS flashes on. He asks me where to go.

"Home, please. I would like to go home."

His fingers hover above the screen, waiting for me to elaborate. I stay quiet. When someone asks me where my home is, I could recite a long string of numbers, maybe go down a list of monuments or street names, but I think of Qianqian instead. I think of burning, firecracker red and the savory-sour street food I could only afford once when I was a teenager. I think of the only place she's seemed more like a person rather than just echoing footsteps long-gone. I think of the only person that I've ever wanted to call home. 

The ground beneath my feet felt less certain than the airplane had. It was just as I left it, and not at all what I expected: the same weathered steps, the same unsteady door. I stood in front of it now, uncertain and wide-eyed, waiting for Qianqian, waiting for the house, waiting for a life that should have been ready to catch me.

My eyes traveled over the chipped paint, the crooked eaves, the windows smudged with years of neglect. We were going to fix all of that, to make the house so much more than it was. I paced on the stoop, trying to convince myself it was only a matter of time before the door swung open and Qianqian was there, ready to forgive me for taking so long. I remembered her hands cradling a cup of tea, her voice as steady and delicate as the rim of porcelain. You will go, she had said, and you will be back. And I was back. I had to be sure of that much. Everything else – how I hadn't called, hadn't written, hadn't been the man I promised – everything else was secondary. I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them, trying to pretend that things were just as I imagined.

I stared at the wood grain, picturing her on the other side, the years dissolving the moment she heard my voice. Could it really be that simple? I thought of the hours on the train, the fantasies I clung to like lifelines, and the moment I spent my last bit of cash on a taxi, too eager to waste another second.

I knew the shape of my own fears, knew the edges of them too well. I didn't let them show as I prepared myself, as I put on a hopeful, trembling grin near.

I touched the door with a gentle knock.

I heard a rustle and a clink of metal, then silence. It stretched out before me, taunting me. I knocked again, harder this time, a fist full of desperation. The sound echoed down the street, and I was back in the small town, back to the early days, back to the beginning of them both. She had to know it was me. She had to know. I could hardly breathe for wanting it so much.

I stood on the steps, each second passing like years. I felt dizzy, unsteady, as I watched the door. There was no way it could hold forever. There was no way I could wait. I gripped the doorknob, my knuckles white and waiting, and knew I couldn't walk away.