“Thank you for the news.” Mother bowed.

Something passed between our mothers then. A look I only recognized because I had cast the very same look at you, a jolt of jealousy that hit when I learned you had something I wanted. One of our mothers had a husband who was coming home alive. The other had a new man in her life who took her out in the city at night to enjoy herself, the way our mothers used to together. So who was jealous of who? I think it most likely they both were, though I did not reach that conclusion at the time. This exercise of looking back has proven useful. It helps me untangle these memories, apply the wisdom of my years to our mothers who seem so young in comparison to how old we are now.

Mr. Gao also brought more pencils he needed Mother to Reforge, even though he had assured us that with the war over, she would no longer need to do this—and yet more and more pencils came, the same as before, the Nationalists paranoid of their old enemy, the Communists. They preferred to pass their messages the way he had established; none of the messages he had ferried during the war had ever been compromised.

Because you were out most afternoons, you worked on your allotment that evening. While you Reforged, I sat beside you, happy to be finished, and told you my father was returning any day now.

“Oh,” you said softly. You claimed not to miss your father, but in that moment your voice was far away. Not long after, you reverted to your father’s last name, casting mine away, no longer needed now that the Japanese were gone. You spent even less time at home.

The more I tried to reconnect with you, the more you pushed me away. Whether it was intentional or not, I did not know. You stopped telling me about your dates, only gave me vague summaries when you used to give me every detail. I was no longer more knowledgeable of the city, the one advantage I used to have over you. You were always out exploring, learning about Shanghai as it was now, no longer under foreign control, a city finding its place in the world like you were. You would return from your dates bright-eyed, cheeks flushed, as if you had learned some great secret, and even if it had nothing to do with pencils or Reforging, it turned out my heart could writhe with as much envy at nineteen as it had when I was ten.

One night, I confronted you directly.

“What are you keeping from me?” I asked the shadow you cast through the mosquito net. We were lying in bed. I knew from your breathing you were still awake.

Your shadow shifted. You asked, in a small voice, “Why do you think we bleed pencil hearts?”