I am beginning to remember falling down those stairs Monica always warned us about—and I am remembering that I am writing to you, Meng, and that was related to the fall. I had woken up in a fog. Not the worst since I knew I was home, Torou next to me, but I suddenly could not remember where you were. It was almost as if I were living two lives. Part of me knew Monica was in the room next door, and yet another was convinced I had just received your letter, that you were still waiting for my response, except that was before Monica even existed, before even Edward.

I did not reply to you when you needed me most. Maybe that’s why I wear this pencil down now, to apologize for all these years. And maybe that’s why I stirred awake, thinking I still had time to reply, that you were alone and lost in Shanghai. The letter you sent is tucked away downstairs, underneath all the boxes of tea we’ve received throughout the years, in the bottommost drawer of the cabinet farthest from the oven. I never wanted to unearth it before—probably why we never drank the gifted teas.

I can only say that the time has come, that even my harried mind can sense it, where we must iron out our misunderstandings.

The doctor just left. He barely spoke to me, whether it was because he did not think I would understand English or because he did not think I would understand any language due to my memory loss, I do not know. At last, he brought Monica to my room, my sweet, precious Monica, and told her I had a fractured hip and would need surgery, but that I would be able to go home soon.

When she looked at me, I wanted to cry. She would always be, to me, the small, quiet girl whose hair I tied into a bun each morning before school; who wore the same green vest every day to kindergarten because I worried her stomach would get cold, who, when others on the playground asked her to play, said no thanks, and sat quietly reading by herself. Her eyes did not accuse. Still, I understood. She had thought she would be left alone in a world we had never let her be alone in.

“I scared you, didn’t I?” I asked.

She nodded, her jaw tight.

“Did Grandfather go home?”

Another nod.

“He was very tired,” she said stiffly. After a pause—“Louise drove him home.”

“Oh.” And even though I could tell she wanted to move on, I could not help lingering over this. “She must be in love with you.”

Her cheeks, predictably, flushed.

“That’s—there’s no reason for that to be the conclusion—”

“Either that or she really loves driving.”

“She doesn’t,” she murmured, looking away.

“Ah.”