The business card sat on Jiayi's nightstand for days, untouched but impossible to ignore. Every time she entered her room, her eyes were drawn to it, the sleek black surface catching the light like a shard of obsidian. Mei's name stared back at her, bold and unyielding, a reminder of the choice she was being forced to make.
Jiayi didn't want to choose. She wanted to stay in the safety of her silence, where the world couldn't touch her. But the card was a crack in the walls she'd built, a whisper of something she couldn't quite shut out.
Her grandmother noticed, of course. She always did. One evening, as they sat together on the porch, sipping tea and watching the fireflies dance in the fading light, she reached over and placed a hand on Jiayi's arm.
"You've been quiet," she said, her voice gentle but probing. "Even quieter than usual."
Jiayi shrugged, her eyes fixed on the horizon. She didn't know how to explain what she was feeling, even if she could speak. The words were tangled up inside her, a mess of fear and anger and something else she couldn't name.
Her grandmother sighed, her grip tightening just a little. "Mei came by, didn't she?"
Jiayi stiffened, her heart skipping a beat. She turned to look at her grandmother, her eyes wide with surprise.
Her grandmother smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "I saw her car. She always did have a flair for the dramatic."
Jiayi looked away, her hands clenching around her teacup. She didn't want to talk about Mei. She didn't want to think about her.
But her grandmother wasn't going to let it go. "What did she say?"
Jiayi hesitated, then reached for the notepad she kept in her pocket. She scribbled a few words and handed it to her grandmother.
She wants me to leave.
Her grandmother read the note, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she was silent, her eyes fixed on the words. Then she set the notepad down and turned to Jiayi.
"And what do you want?"
Jiayi shook her head, her throat tight. She didn't know what she wanted. She didn't know if she wanted anything at all.
Her grandmother reached out and cupped Jiayi's face in her hands, her touch warm and steady. "You don't have to decide right now," she said softly. "But you can't stay like this forever, Jiayi. Your parents wouldn't want that."
Jiayi's eyes filled with tears, and she looked away, her chest aching with the weight of her grief. She didn't want to think about what her parents would have wanted. She didn't want to think about them at all.
But the memories came anyway, unbidden and relentless. Her father's laugh, her mother's smile, the way they'd looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world. They had believed in her, even when she didn't believe in herself. And now they were gone, and she was left with nothing but the echoes of their love.
She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She couldn't do this. She couldn't sit here and pretend like everything was okay.
Her grandmother watched her go, her expression sad but understanding. She didn't try to stop Jiayi, didn't call her back. She just let her go, her silence a quiet acknowledgment of the pain Jiayi was carrying.
Jiayi retreated to her room, slamming the door behind her. She leaned against it, her chest heaving, her hands trembling. The voicemail machine was on the nightstand, the red light blinking like a heartbeat. She stared at it, her mind racing.
She didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to move forward. But the card was still there, taunting her, reminding her of the choice she was being forced to make.
And then, in a moment of anger and desperation, she made a decision.
She grabbed the card and stormed out of the house, her feet carrying her down the dusty road toward the restaurant. It had been closed since the accident, the windows boarded up, the sign faded and cracked. But it was still there, a ghost of the life she'd lost.
She pushed open the door, the hinges creaking in protest. The air inside was thick with dust and memories, the scent of spices and smoke still lingering in the walls. She walked through the empty dining room, her footsteps echoing in the silence, and made her way to the kitchen.
Her mother's songbook was on the counter, right where she'd left it the last time she'd been here. It was a thick, leather-bound volume, filled with handwritten lyrics and sheet music. Her mother had spent years compiling it, adding songs from her childhood in China and the ones she'd learned in Jamaica. It was a treasure, a piece of her mother's soul.
Jiayi picked it up, her hands trembling. She didn't know what she was doing, didn't know why she was here. But she couldn't stop herself.
She carried the songbook outside, the night air cool against her skin. The moon was full, its light casting long shadows across the ground. She set the book down on the pavement and stared at it, her heart pounding.
And then, in a moment of blind rage, she lit a match.
The flame flickered in the darkness, small and fragile. Jiayi hesitated, her hand shaking. But then she thought of Mei, of the way she'd looked at her like she was a problem to be solved. She thought of her parents, of the way they'd been taken from her. And she thought of the silence, the endless, suffocating silence.
She dropped the match.
The flames caught quickly, devouring the pages with a hunger that was almost frightening. Jiayi watched, her chest heaving, as the fire consumed the songbook, the smoke curling into the night sky. She felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a release of the anger that had been building inside her.
But then, as the flames began to die down, she saw something. A single page, partially charred but still intact, fluttered to the ground. Jiayi knelt and picked it up, her hands trembling.
It was a song her mother had written, a lullaby in Mandarin. The notes were smudged, the edges blackened, but the words were still legible. Jiayi traced them with her fingers, her throat tight.
She didn't know why she'd done it. She didn't know why she'd tried to destroy the one thing that connected her to her mother. But as she held the charred page in her hands, she felt something shift inside her.
The next morning, Mei returned.
Jiayi was sitting on the porch, the charred page clutched in her hands, when Mei's car pulled up. She didn't get out right away, just sat there for a moment, watching Jiayi through the windshield. Then she stepped out, her heels clicking against the pavement.
"I see you've been busy," she said, her tone dry.
Jiayi didn't respond. She just stared at the page, her mind racing.
Mei sighed and sat down beside her, her movements graceful and deliberate. "I'm not here to fight with you, Jiayi. I'm here to help."
Jiayi shook her head, her hands tightening around the page. She didn't want Mei's help. She didn't want anything from her.
But Mei wasn't deterred. "I know you're angry. I know you're hurting. But you can't keep running from this. You have a responsibility, Jiayi. To your parents. To yourself."
Jiayi looked up at her, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She didn't understand. She didn't understand why Mei was doing this, why she cared.
Mei seemed to sense her confusion, because she leaned forward, her expression softening. "Your parents' land, Jiayi. The ancestral land in Jamaica. It's in danger."
Jiayi froze, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn't thought about the land in years. It was a piece of her family's history, a connection to their roots. But it had always been distant, something her parents talked about but never visited.
Mei continued, her voice low and urgent. "Your father took out loans before he died. Loans he couldn't repay. The land is collateral, Jiayi. If we don't do something, it will be sold."
Jiayi's chest tightened, her mind reeling. She didn't know what to say, what to do. The land was a part of her family's legacy, a piece of her parents' dreams. She couldn't let it go.
Mei reached into her bag and pulled out a folder, handing it to Jiayi. "This is the paperwork. The debts, the terms, everything. I've been trying to hold it together, but I can't do it alone. I need your help."
Jiayi stared at the folder, her hands trembling. She didn't know if she could do this. She didn't know if she was strong enough.
But then she looked down at the charred page in her hands, at the words her mother had written. And she knew she had to try.
She looked up at Mei, her eyes steady for the first time in years. She nodded.
Mei smiled, a small, satisfied smile. "Good. We leave for Seoul in a week."