I never had a daughter. Only Edward, who I never told anything about pencil hearts. He shone so brightly. I would not burden him with Reforging, and he would not have survived it anyway. But Monica? Monica, who I want to protect more than anyone in the world. Monica, who only learned about Reforging because I was looking for you, because Louise found you, because you told Louise about Reforging and Monica loves her now.

I wish for her to know only the joy of our power, the moments of connection. That it is not all pain, knives stabbing in your wrist. That it can be pleasure accompanied by wonder. I want her to Reforge from pleasure. Is it too much to hope for that? That the world is safe enough now? That if she were to write her story, it would be full of love and laughter and none of the war and betrayal of our own?

Mr. Gao made me work another year with Mother to prove I could run the business side of things as well as she could. At that point, I was better at Reforging than Mother, who was always exhausted. I took on more pencils to relieve her load. We cut our arms over and over, bleeding out the words from each pencil whether they wanted to see paper again or not.

And I wrote to you. I told you of my plan to go to America, and how once I was there, I would bring you over. I used a service that promised anonymity, routing through Hong Kong. I don’t know if you ever received that note. I wrote that I would bring our mothers, too, and I would send you a message as soon as I reached the land of the free.

In the winter of 1952, Mr. Gao convinced his higher-ups to send me to America. I would be under strict orders. I did not mind. After three years on this island, I was finally leaving.

“I have found my own way to America. See? I did not need Torou,” I could not help boasting to my father. I had not seen Torou before he left. He departed without saying goodbye, and when I found out, I cried. Now I was triumphant and, for the first time since leaving Shanghai, looking forward to the days ahead.

“Who?” my father asked gruffly.

“The Tsai son.”

He snorted.

“I suppose you can be clever at times.”

“Be careful,” Mother said. “You’ll be alone.”

“They won’t let anything happen to me,” I said, confident in my value.

“Be careful of your mind,” she corrected. The words chilled. She was thinner than ever, always bundled up in bed or in a blanket.

“I’ll bring you to America,” I promised, grasping her cold hands.