And you laughed again, even though I thought it should have terrified you, to have your work in all its technical glory deemed less useful than a carving on a rock, the most primitive of all technology.

“It’s incredible the lengths we go to try to make meaning of the world,” you said in wonder. “To try to make a story out of it all.”

I didn’t get it at the time. Now I think I do. In a world so full of hate and war, violence and betrayal, how can our stories not be all tragedies? But if there’s truly no pattern, if our stories will be lost, no matter how hard we try to preserve them, then the only thing that really matters is the people in our lives, and how we treat them in this moment in time.

That weekend I spent in Cambridge with you was one of the happiest of my life.

I want to keep talking to you. I want to reframe your story and to have you reframe mine. I want you to always know how incredible you are. I want to be the one to tell you. I want to be entwined in your story, a critical seam of the binding. I want to hold you together even when you think you are alone. I want to be the fourth player at your mahjong table.

If you’ll have me.

Until then, I’ll be in Shanghai, figuring myself out. If you happen to be in Shanghai, too

Well

I hope to see you soon.

Love always,

L

Chapter 35

From the diary of Monica Tsai

December 29, 2018

Oh man, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? It’s not that I’ve given up journaling. I actually appreciate it more than ever. But there was a lot going on, and for the first time I felt like I could handle it without all the constant reflection.

I can hardly believe the events that led to me being here in Shanghai. I guess it started with my father’s invitation. Then grandmother asked me to go, and since my father lost Meng’s contact details, it turned out the only person who knew how to get in touch with her was, of all people, Louise.

I composed and recomposed a message to Louise. Sometimes they were heartfelt; others, a few basic lines asking if I could have Meng’s information. By then, it was almost Christmas.

And then her pencil arrived. Grandmother was the one who brought the package inside, passed me the pencil just as I had given her Meng’s all those months ago.

“How did she get one of these?” I asked when I saw the unmistakable black of the Phoenix Pencil Company. “Did you . . . ?”