Like Mother, I have kept the truth of the pencils a secret. Monica does not know. I can see you shaking your head—after how desperately I wanted the truth back then, how can I not tell her, when I have so thoroughly felt the sting of isolation? But Monica is different from me. She has never thought to ask about the pencils. Why would she when her world is digital? And if I don’t tell her, the secret might die with us. Would that not be for the best? Or am I just setting myself up for missing a chance for the two of us to understand each other a little better?

There is one more thing I have not told her. She returns home tomorrow, and I cannot be more excited or more anxious to see her. It wasn’t that we intended to keep it a secret. The diagnosis came shortly after she left for her summer internship, and it wasn’t the sort of thing I wanted to share over the phone. We’ll tell her when she gets home, I told Torou, who agreed, perhaps the only person less willing to hurt Monica than me.

The doctor says consistent mental stimulation might help slow the disease’s progress—and it turns out a convenient side effect is that your earliest memories become the clearest. So really, my writing this to you isn’t only for you. It’s for me as well, to cling to something. And maybe, in a way, it can be for her, too.

Chapter 3

From the diary of Monica Tsai, backed up on five servers spanning three continents

August 18, 2018 (2018-08-18T16:34:08.192273)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts. United States of America (42.3721865,71.1117091)

It’s been a difficult day.

When I got off the bus, they were waiting for me. Two slight, hunched-over people, sitting at the food court, sharing a small order of french fries. He was squeezing a packet of ketchup while she wiped her mouth with a napkin. Grandmother was in a neat, collared shirt and long tan pants. Grandfather, despite the heat, wore a formal shirt and vest with a tie, like always. When grandmother saw me, her eyes crinkled and she smiled widely, perfect denture-teeth flashing.

I hugged her first. She barely came to my shoulder and felt so frail in my arms. I told them they didn’t have to pick me up, even though I was pleased that they did.

“Grandfather was upset we hadn’t used our senior transit passes this month,” she explained. While I hugged grandfather, she pushed the fries over to the third empty seat.

I sat down in front of a freshly squeezed mound of ketchup. The familiar sight triggered something in me.

“Oh, 寶貝, why are you crying?” grandmother asked, stroking the hair out of my eyes.

I blinked hard.

“Was the bus ride okay?” grandfather asked.

“It’s been a long day for you,” grandmother said.