Now here I am trying to record all that has happened before I forget a single detail, my head full of stories. What they mean and how they can change, even the ones from the past. How we rewrite and revise, how we see ourselves, how EMBRS might see me. My head is full of a girl who has worked her way into my closed-off life and somehow pried it open, one who can be the fourth leg of our mahjong table, one who I cannot stop thinking about, who pulls me in and pushes me away in the span of a smile. And it’s full of simple gratitude, for grandfather’s cheers, and the way grandmother comes into my room and says good night, it was a good day today wasn’t it, sleep well, my little mushroom.

Chapter 20

From the Reforged pencil of Wong Yun

I find myself reflecting on those early days when I first met Torou. There is not much else I care to recall from my years in Taiwan. Even the time spent with Torou, when he kept his promise and visited the pencil company, my parents peering curiously, the two of us sitting closer and closer—I hesitated to share this with you. It is trivial compared to everything else that was happening around us: martial law in Taiwan, families fleeing Shanghai. It didn’t seem important by comparison.

But seeing Monica and Louise together this week—oh, my heart soars. I was worried at first (when have I not been worried for Monica?). They are kind to each other and care for each other in a way that makes my heart ease, just a little. It is not only seeing their interactions. It is seeing them exist, thriving and laughing, at the same age when you and I were fleeing, hiding, and betraying. This letter is my attempt to explain myself and all of my wrongdoing, and yet I cannot help highlight this: Monica is happy and she is a good person, and that is my greatest achievement.

And so I have been thinking a lot about love these days, and how I could not possibly have known then how much that boy who came to visit would stay with me. We would leave homes, adjust to new ones, fail in parenting but succeed in grandparenting—and how he would stay with me even now, when I am falling apart. How can you ever expect someone to do all of that with you, for you? How can you know when you’re young and sad and vulnerable how to choose someone to share your life with? And how can you know when you’re old and weak and vulnerable that someone will be kind to your granddaughter, long after you are gone?