Kingston, Jamaica - Two Years After the Accident
Two years had passed since the accident, but for Jiayi, time had stopped. The world moved on around her, but she remained frozen, trapped in a silence that felt as heavy as the humid Kingston air. She lived with her grandmother now, in a small house on the outskirts of the city. The walls were thin, and the sounds of the neighborhood—children laughing, dogs barking, the distant hum of reggae music—filtered through the cracks. But Jiayi barely noticed. She spent most of her days in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the old voicemail machine on her nightstand.
It was a relic from another time, a bulky thing with a cassette tape that whirred and clicked as it played. Her parents' voices were preserved on that tape, their messages a lifeline to a past that felt like a dream. Jiayi had listened to them so many times that she could recite every word, every pause, every breath. But she played them anyway, over and over, as if the sound of their voices could bring them back.
"Hey, Jiayi, it's Dad. Just checking in. Don't forget to practice your guitar, okay? Love you."
"Jiayi, it's Mom. I'm running late, but I'll be home soon. Make sure you eat something. Love you, sweetheart."
Their voices were so familiar, so real, that sometimes Jiayi forgot they were gone. She would reach for the phone, her fingers trembling, only to remember that there was no one on the other end. No one to call. No one to answer.
Her grandmother tried to coax her out of her silence, but Jiayi couldn't find the words. It wasn't just that she didn't want to speak—it was that she couldn't. The accident had stolen her voice, leaving her mute and hollow. She communicated in gestures and nods, her face a mask of quiet resignation. Her grandmother worried, of course, but she didn't push. She understood grief in a way that only someone who had lived through it could.
"You'll find your voice again," her grandmother said one evening, as they sat together on the porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon. "When you're ready."
Jiayi didn't respond. She just stared out at the fading light, her hands clenched in her lap. She didn't believe in "ready." Ready was a word for people who still had something to hope for. Jiayi had nothing.
But then, one day, everything changed.
It started with a knock on the door. Jiayi was in her room, as usual, listening to the voicemails, when she heard the sound. She froze, her heart skipping a beat. No one ever came to the house. Her grandmother was out running errands, and Jiayi wasn't expecting anyone.
The knock came again, louder this time. Jiayi hesitated, then stood and made her way to the door. She peered through the peephole, her breath catching in her throat.
It was Mei.
Jiayi hadn't seen her aunt in years. Mei was her mother's younger sister, but the two had never been close. Mei had left Jamaica when Jiayi was just a child, moving to Seoul to pursue a career in the music industry. She'd always been ambitious, driven, and a little cold. Jiayi remembered her as a woman who valued success above all else, someone who had little patience for sentimentality.
And now she was here, standing on the doorstep, her sharp features framed by a sleek bob, her designer clothes a stark contrast to the faded paint of the house.
Jiayi opened the door, her hands trembling. Mei looked her up and down, her expression unreadable.
"Jiayi," she said, her voice crisp and businesslike. "It's been a long time."
Jiayi nodded, her throat tight. She didn't know what to say—not that she could say anything even if she wanted to.
Mei stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. She glanced around the small living room, her nose wrinkling slightly at the sight of the worn furniture and peeling wallpaper.
"I see you've been… managing," she said, her tone carefully neutral.
Jiayi crossed her arms over her chest, her jaw tightening. She didn't like the way Mei was looking at her like she was a problem to be solved.
Mei turned to face her, her eyes narrowing. "I'll get straight to the point. You can't keep living like this, Jiayi. You owe your parents' memory a future."
Jiayi flinched, the words hitting her like a slap. She shook her head, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She didn't owe anyone anything. Not anymore.
Mei sighed, her expression softening just a little. "I know it's hard. But your parents wouldn't want this for you. They would want you to live, to thrive. Not to waste away in this house, listening to old voicemails."
Jiayi's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. How dare Mei come here and act like she knew what her parents would have wanted? She hadn't been there. She hadn't seen the way they'd looked at Jiayi, the way they'd believed in her. She didn't understand.
Mei seemed to sense her anger, because she took a step closer, her voice dropping to a softer tone. "I'm not here to hurt you, Jiayi. I'm here to help. You have a gift, just like your father always said. But you're letting it go to waste. And I can't let that happen."
Jiayi shook her head again, more forcefully this time. She didn't want Mei's help. She didn't want anything from her.
But Mei wasn't deterred. "I'm giving you a chance, Jiayi. A chance to honor your parents' memory. To make something of yourself. Don't throw it away."
Jiayi turned away, her chest heaving with silent sobs. She couldn't do this. She couldn't.
Mei watched her for a moment, then reached into her bag and pulled out a business card. She set it on the table by the door, her movements deliberate.
"Think about it," she said. "I'll be in town for a few days. If you change your mind, call me."
And with that, she turned and walked out, leaving Jiayi alone in the silence.
For a long time, Jiayi just stood there, staring at the door. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, grief, fear, and something else, something she couldn't quite name. She wanted to scream, to throw something, to make the world understand how much it hurt.
But she couldn't. She was trapped in her silence, her voice lost to the void.
She turned and walked back to her room, her legs feeling like they were made of lead. The voicemail machine was still playing, her father's voice filling the air.
"Sing louder, Jiayi."
She sank onto the bed, her hands clutching the edges of the mattress. The tears came then, hot and relentless, streaming down her face as she rocked back and forth.
She didn't know how long she sat there, lost in her grief. But eventually, the tears subsided, leaving her drained and hollow. She reached for the voicemail machine, her fingers trembling as she pressed the rewind button.
The tape whirred and clicked, and then her mother's voice filled the room.
"Jiayi, it's Mom. I'm running late, but I'll be home soon. Make sure you eat something. Love you, sweetheart."
Jiayi closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. For a moment, it was like her mother was there with her, her presence so real that Jiayi could almost feel her arms around her.
But then the message ended, and the silence returned, heavy and suffocating.
Jiayi opened her eyes and looked at the business card on the table. It was sleek and modern, with Mei's name and contact information printed in bold letters. She picked it up, her fingers tracing the edges.
She didn't know what to do. She didn't know if she could do anything. But as she sat there, holding the card in her hand, she felt something stir inside her—a faint, flickering spark of hope.
Maybe Mei was right. Maybe she did owe her parents' memory a future.
But the thought was terrifying. It meant stepping out of the shadows, and facing the world again. It meant finding her voice.
And Jiayi wasn't sure if she was ready for that.