I took a picture of my arm. The dark etching was gone, though the pale lines were still there, if you really looked. I swiped between the before and after picture, the phoenix fading, then reappearing, over and over. I sent her both images.

incredible

And a few seconds later, one more message:

can’t wait to help you with your next one

What was happening? I still don’t know, still don’t understand what our relationship is exactly. I thought rewriting the events might help me figure it out. But I am left more confused, and also now flushed, lightheaded, craving—not just her, that rush of feeling, the intensity, the flash of pleasure followed by the surge of power from having grandmother’s words so close to my heart.

I ran my hand over my new scars, a ghost compared to grandmother’s. I thought back to the moment of Reforging. There had been a lot of other distracting thoughts at the time, but there had also been grandmother’s clear voice. For a brief moment—how to explain? I felt like I really, truly, understood her.

Words are so difficult to parse, so imprecise. I’m starting to think they’re a ridiculous form of communication. Totally unlike computers, which can understand one another perfectly via APIs and established network protocols. But humans are so different from one another, all with our own stories and interpretations. Especially grandmother—the careful phrases she has adopted to cross our language barrier, massaged to make sense across generations. Even me and Louise, both of similar backgrounds and age. I constantly wonder how she will interpret my words, worry if they will make the impression I want.

And yet, when I Reforged, I felt close to truly understanding. If the goal is to totally, completely know someone as they want to be known, the way computers can know one another, Reforging is it. Grandmother’s words were right there, as if lifted from my own head. And even though she had written the one sentence, somehow I felt all the hope she pinned on it, that she pinned on me. This is what EMBRS also strives for, to share totally and completely, forge a real connection. But EMBRS is a poor imitation of what I felt.

I went downstairs. Grandfather was nodding off on the sofa, his chin drooped onto his chest. Grandmother was next to him, watching television. She lowered the volume when she saw me.

“Let’s get ice cream,” I said.

And even though it was mid-November, and the meteorologists were threatening another snowy Boston winter, grandmother’s entire face lit up. She shook grandfather awake, and we all pulled on our jackets and scarves and marched to the grocery store, grandmother’s arm looped through mine.

To understand somebody else so thoroughly, no matter how briefly—it truly is magic.

Chapter 26

From the Reforged pencil of Wong Yun