The autumn air in Shanghai clung to Syra's skin like a damp silk scarf as she stood outside the gates of her new school, her fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack. The building loomed before her, its whitewashed walls streaked with ivy that blazed crimson in the morning light. She could smell the sharp tang of chalk dust mingling with the earthy decay of fallen ginkgo leaves, a scent that should have been ordinary but felt charged with possibility—or maybe dread.
Inside, the hallways buzzed with voices and shuffling feet, but Syra moved like a ghost, her footsteps silent against the linoleum. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding the sidelong glances and whispered curiosity that trailed her like shadows. "Is that her?" someone murmured. "The girl who…" The sentence died, unfinished, but Syra felt its weight anyway, pressing against her ribs.
Her new homeroom teacher, Ms. Wong, greeted her with a smile that didn't reach her eyes—a practiced kindness, Syra thought, reserved for broken things. The classroom fell silent as Syra took her seat near the back, her desk still sticky with someone else's spilled soda. She wiped it absently with her sleeve, her mind drifting to the hospital room weeks earlier, the hum of fluorescent lights, the way her mother's hands had trembled as they braided her hair. "You'll be safe here," Nasreen had promised. But safe felt fragile, a soap bubble ready to burst.
The lesson began, but Syra's attention snagged on the rhythm of Ms. Wong's voice—soft, melodic, nothing like *his*. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memory surfaced anyway: Mr. Chen's fingers brushing her wrist, his breath hot against her ear. "You're too quiet, Syra. Don't you want to be perfect?"
A hand touched her shoulder. Syra flinched, her chair scraping loudly against the floor as she jerked away.
"Easy," Ms. Wong said gently, withdrawing her hand. "I just asked if you'd like to share your thoughts on the poem we're reading."
Syra stared at the open book on her desk, the words blurring. The poem was Li Bai's "Quiet Night Thoughts", its verses about moonlight and homesickness. She thought of her father reciting it to her as a child, his voice steady, his hands calloused from the factory. "The bright moonlight spills over my bed, like frost on the ground…"
"It's lonely," Syra said suddenly, surprised by her own voice. "The moonlight. It's everywhere, but it doesn't… *touch* anything. Not really."
Ms. Wong tilted her head, her smile deepening into something genuine. "Interesting. Can you elaborate?"
Syra hesitated, then pointed to a line. *"I lift my head to gaze at the bright moon, then lower it, thinking of home."* She traced the characters with her fingertip. "He's looking for something he can't find. Not in the moon, not in his home. Maybe not anywhere."
The room stayed silent, but Syra felt it—a shift, like the first crack in ice. A boy in the front row nodded slowly, his earlier smirk replaced by a thoughtful frown.
---
At lunch, Syra retreated to the art room, a sanctuary tucked behind the gym where the smell of turpentine and clay drowned out the cafeteria's greasy odors. Ms. Lin, the art teacher, had given her a key last week. "Stay as long as you like," she'd said, her eyes lingering on Syra's bandaged wrist before adding, "Art doesn't judge."
Syra's latest painting dominated the far wall—a storm of black and indigo brushstrokes, fractured by streaks of gold. She'd titled it "The Weight of Light" in tiny Persian script along the edge. Today, she dipped her brush in vermilion, adding a single lotus bloom at the center, its petals unfolding like a fist.
The door creaked open. Syra tensed, expecting Ms. Lin's quiet encouragement, but instead, a girl sauntered in, her uniform tie loose and her cheeks smudged with charcoal.
"So you're the mysterious transfer student," the girl said, plopping onto a stool. "I'm Lin. The other Lin." She grinned, revealing a gap between her front teeth. "Ms. Lin's my aunt. She said you're obsessed with Georgia O'Keeffe."
Syra blinked. "I… like her use of color."
"Color?" Lin snorted, grabbing a sketchpad. "Please. O'Keeffe painted flowers like they were volcanoes. All that rage and sex and *power* hiding in something pretty." She began sketching furiously, her pencil scratching the paper. "You're doing the same thing, aren't you? Hiding explosions in your lilies?"
Syra stared at her painting, the lotus now glowing defiantly in the dark. Hiding explosions. Maybe.
Lin tore out a page and slid it toward Syra—a rough sketch of a girl with wild hair and fists raised, standing atop a mountain of shattered mirrors. "This you?"
Syra's throat tightened. "I'm not… I don't look like that."
"Not yet," Lin said, shrugging. "But you will."
---
That evening, Syra walked home through the wet streets, her shoes splashing through puddles streaked with neon reflections. The city felt different now, less like a cage and more like a labyrinth she might learn to navigate. She paused outside a tea shop, its window glowing amber, and caught her reflection—hair escaping its braid, paint smudged on her collar, a ghost of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
*Not yet*, she thought. But maybe.
When she opened the apartment door, the smell of saffron and soy sauce wrapped around her. Nasreen stood at the stove, stirring a pot of *ash reshteh*, while Li Wei hovered nearby, clumsily chopping scallions.
"You're late," Nasreen said, but her tone was light, edged with relief.
"I was painting," Syra said, dropping her bag.
Li Wei glanced at her, his knife stilling. "Your teacher called. She said you spoke in class today. About… poetry."
Syra nodded, grabbing a scallion to chop. "It was just a poem."
"But you shared your thoughts," Nasreen pressed, her voice soft. "That's brave, *azizam*."
Syra focused on the rhythmic *thunk* of the knife, the green fragments piling up. Brave felt too big, too fragile. But maybe it was enough.
Later, as they ate, Li Wei cleared his throat. "I spoke to the principal. About… that man. They've opened an investigation."
Syra's chopsticks froze mid-air. The noodles slithered back into her bowl.
"You don't have to talk about it," Li Wei added quickly. "But I wanted you to know. We're… we're listening now."
Syra looked at her parents—her mother's hands flour-dusted, her father's sleeves rolled up to reveal faded factory scars—and felt something unknot in her chest.
"Thank you," she whispered.
---
That night, Syra lay awake, tracing the faint scar on her wrist. Through the thin wall, she heard her parents' murmurs—Nasreen's Persian prayers, Li Wei's halting attempts to join in. Outside, the moon hung low and heavy, its light spilling over her bed like a promise.
Not yet, she thought. But soon.