The air in the restaurant was thick with the scent of jerk chicken and soy sauce, a fragrant blend of Jamaican spice and Chinese tradition. The hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clinking of glasses. Jiayi stood in the corner, her fingers brushing against the strings of her guitar, her voice weaving through the noise like a thread of gold. She sang Bob Marley's "Redemption Song," her voice soft but steady, carrying the weight of the lyrics with a quiet intensity.
"Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery…"
Her father had taught her this song. She could still see him, sitting on the porch of their little house in Kingston, his dreadlocks swaying as he nodded along to the rhythm. "This one's important, Jiayi," he'd say, his voice low and serious. "It's not just music. It's a message. A call to freedom." She hadn't understood it then, not really. She'd been too young to grasp the depth of the words, too caught up in the simple joy of singing with her father. But now, as she stood in the restaurant that had been her parents' pride and joy, the song felt different. Heavier. Like it carried the weight of her father's dreams and her mother's hopes, all wrapped up in a melody that refused to let her go.
"None but ourselves can free our minds…"
Her mother had loved this song too, though she'd never admit it."Too much reggae in this house,"she'd say, shaking her head as she stirred a pot of curry goat in the kitchen. But Jiayi had seen the way her mother's foot tapped to the beat, the way her lips curved into a smile when she thought no one was looking. Her mother had been a woman of contradictions—proud of her Chinese heritage but fiercely loyal to the island that had become her home. She'd sung Jiayi lullabies in Mandarin, her voice soft and melodic, but she'd also danced to Bob Marley in the living room, her movements fluid and full of life.
Jiayi's fingers faltered on the guitar strings, the memory catching her off guard. She blinked, forcing herself to focus on the song, on the faces of the customers who had turned to listen. They were a mix of locals and tourists, drawn to the restaurant by its reputation for good food and good music. Some of them were smiling, their heads nodding in time with the rhythm. Others were quiet, their eyes distant, as if the song had stirred something deep inside them.
She finished the song with a soft strum of the guitar, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper. There was a moment of silence, and then the room erupted into applause. Jiayi smiled, a small, shy smile, and bowed her head in thanks. She didn't like the attention, but she loved the music. It was the one thing that made her feel close to her parents, even now.
As the applause died down, she stepped away from the microphone and made her way to the kitchen. The restaurant was busy tonight, and she could hear the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of food on the stove. Her mother would have been in her element here, her hands moving with practiced ease as she cooked up dishes that were a blend of two cultures. Jiayi had tried to learn, but she didn't have her mother's touch. Her curries were always too spicy, her fried rice too salty. Her father had joked that she was better off sticking to music.
She grabbed a glass of water from the counter and leaned against the wall, letting the cool liquid soothe her throat. The kitchen was hot, the air thick with the smell of spices and steam. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sounds wash over her—the chatter of the customers, the clinking of dishes, the hum of the refrigerator. It was familiar, comforting. This place had been her second home for as long as she could remember.
But it wasn't the same without her parents.
The thought crept in unbidden, a sharp pang of grief that made her chest tighten. She opened her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the present. She couldn't afford to get lost in the past. Not tonight.
"Jiayi!" Her father's voice cut through the noise, pulling her out of her thoughts. She turned to see him standing in the doorway, his dreadlocks tied back with a bandana, his apron stained with sauce. He was grinning, his eyes bright with pride. "That was beautiful, darling. Just beautiful."
She felt a flush of warmth at his words, but she shrugged them off, trying to play it cool. "It was okay, I guess."
"Okay?" He laughed, shaking his head. "You're too modest, Jiayi. You've got a gift, you know that? A real gift."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she just nodded, her cheeks burning. Her father had always been her biggest supporter, her loudest cheerleader. He believed in her in a way that no one else did, not even her mother. It was one of the things she loved most about him.
"Come on," he said, gesturing for her to follow him. "I've got something to show you."
She set her glass down and followed him out of the kitchen, weaving through the tables and chairs until they reached the small stage at the back of the restaurant. Her father climbed up onto the stage and picked up a guitar, his fingers moving over the strings with practiced ease. He played a few notes, then looked up at her, his eyes twinkling.
"Remember this one?" he asked, and then he started to play.
It was a song she hadn't heard in years—a lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was little. The melody was simple but haunting, the words a mix of Mandarin and Jamaican patois. Jiayi felt a lump rise in her throat as she listened, the memories flooding back. She could see her mother sitting on the edge of her bed, her voice soft and soothing as she sang. She could feel the warmth of her mother's hand on her forehead, the gentle pressure of her lips against her hair.
Her father's voice joined the melody, deep and rich, blending with the guitar in a way that made the song feel alive. Jiayi closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. For a moment, it was like her mother was there with them, her presence so real that Jiayi could almost reach out and touch her.
When the song ended, there was a long silence. Jiayi opened her eyes to see her father watching her, his expression soft and sad.
"She would have been so proud of you, Jiayi," he said quietly. "You know that, right?"
Jiayi nodded, but she couldn't speak. The lump in her throat was too big, the ache in her chest too sharp. She looked away, blinking back tears.
Her father set the guitar down and stepped off the stage, pulling her into a hug. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of spices and sweat. He held her tightly, his arms strong and steady, and for a moment, she felt safe. Like nothing could touch her.
But the moment didn't last.
The sound of rain hitting the roof pulled her out of the memory, the warmth of her father's embrace fading as the cold reality of the present settled in. Jiayi opened her eyes, the restaurant dissolving into darkness as the scene shifted. She was in the car now, the windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the downpour. Her father was driving, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, his face tense with concentration. Her mother was in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window, her eyes closed.
Jiayi sat in the back, her heart pounding as the car skidded on the wet road. She could hear the roar of the engine, the sound of the tires losing traction. She wanted to scream, to tell her father to slow down, but the words caught in her throat.
And then it happened.
The headlights of the other car appeared out of nowhere, blinding and sudden. There was a screech of tires, a sickening crunch of metal, and then everything went black.
When Jiayi opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed, the sterile white walls closing in around her. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and her throat was dry and scratchy. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her side, forcing her back down.
"Easy," a voice said, and she turned to see a nurse standing by the bed, her face kind but concerned. "You've been through a lot. You need to rest."
Jiayi's mind was foggy, her thoughts jumbled. She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a croak. "My parents…" she managed to whisper, her heart pounding with fear.
The nurse's expression softened, and she reached out to take Jiayi's hand. "I'm so sorry," she said gently. "They didn't make it."
The words hit Jiayi like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of her lungs. She stared at the nurse, her mind refusing to process what she'd just heard. It couldn't be true. It couldn't.
But the look in the nurse's eyes told her everything she needed to know.
Jiayi's vision blurred as tears filled her eyes, spilling over and running down her cheeks. She wanted to scream, to cry out, but no sound came. Her throat felt like it was closing up, her chest tight with grief.
The nurse squeezed her hand, her voice soft and soothing. "I'm so sorry," she said again. "Is there anyone we can call for you?"
Jiayi shook her head, her mind blank. There was no one. No one but her grandmother, and she was all the way in Kingston. She felt a wave of panic rise up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her.
The nurse stayed with her for a while, talking in a low, calming voice, but Jiayi barely heard her. Her mind was spinning, her thoughts a chaotic jumble of memories and emotions. She kept seeing her father's face, his eyes bright with pride as he told her she had a gift. She kept hearing her mother's voice, soft and melodic as she sang her lullabies.
And then she remembered her father's last words, spoken just before the crash.
"Sing louder, Jiayi."
The memory hit her like a tidal wave, pulling her under. She closed her eyes, letting the tears flow, her body shaking with sobs. She didn't know how she was going to survive this. She didn't know how she was going to go on without them.
But as she lay there, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness, one thought kept coming back to her.
Sing louder, Jiayi.
It was a command, a plea, a promise. And somehow, she knew she had to honor it. For her father. For her mother. For herself.
She didn't know how, but she would find a way.