“I didn’t know,” I whispered. I saw once again, grandmother spending all that time writing her story. Writing for us. “I didn’t know how much someone could suffer.”

“It is good you did not know,” Meng said. “Your life has been a happy one.”

“And I didn’t know . . . how much she could love.”

Meng’s expression softened. Then she held my wrist. The phoenix glowed, grandmother’s and Louise’s hearts coursing through me.

“And what will you do with your grandmother’s words?” she asked.

Keep them close to my heart, was my first thought. But then I saw the knife she had used to sharpen the pencil, and I knew what I had to do.

Grandmother had not wanted me to Reforge in any way other than through pleasure. But that was not realistic. Stories can bring both pleasure and pain. Somewhere along the way, I had learned how to handle it.

Meng did not protest when I took the knife from her, as if she knew I would all along. I’ve always been a coward about physical pain, but in that moment, having just felt how much grandmother had gone through, I sliced through my skin easily.

I bled into the notebook I had bought at the convenience store. Meng helped me, holding my arm steady, flipping the pages as needed. Grandmother had not been succinct. I felt her presence again between us, lived her life all over again, here in this park in Shanghai. This time, it was a hum, a comfort.

When I began to feel Louise’s note begin, I nodded at Meng. She pulled the notebook away and made a clenching motion with her hand. I copied it. Louise’s note sank back into my arm, and only a few regular drops of blood dripped from my cut.

Meng rummaged in her purse and pulled out a roll of bandages.

“Some things you always carry with you,” she chuckled as she bandaged my wrist.

I watched grandmother’s characters rematerialize in the notebook. I missed her deeply then.

“That’s for you,” I said, pointing to the notebook we had left open to dry in the sun.

She bowed her head deeply.

“I will cherish it,” she said. I was able to understand her better at that point, more used to the deviations Shanghainese would take, or maybe she was adding more Mandarin. “This story she wrote . . . I am very glad to have it. But I have a feeling it was never meant for me. That’s why I wanted you to Reforge it.” She touched the notebook lightly and smiled. “We used to write stories for each other, did she mention that? But this time . . . somehow, we both ended up writing for you.”