Rain drizzled all morning on Qingming Festival day. Taipei seemed empty, subdued. Most shops were closed, and only a few pedestrians wandered on the sidewalks, some holding colorful umbrellas. I wore a cap but chose to go barefaced this morning. The rain was warm where it hit my exposed skin, on the backs of my hands, my neck and cheeks. Not heavy enough to sting. It wasn’t often the meis of Taipei could go barefaced in the day. Our rains carried enough pollutants to taint our waters, but they still had the ability to wash away our brown air, even if for a few hours.

We were meeting at Lingyi’s apartment in central Wanhua, the oldest district in Taipei. I passed vacant storefronts and abandoned buildings, boarded up and scrawled with graffiti, but the mood changed when I neared the Longshan Temple, a few blocks from where Lingyi lived. Clusters of people who couldn’t leave the city to pay respects to their ancestors and many foreigners were gathered around the temple, wandering in and out of its main courtyard. The tiles of the curved roof stood stark against the ominous sky, smears of red and green. Smoke curled into the air, and the scent of sandalwood carried to me, defying the weather. Hundreds of incense sticks would be lit today to pay tribute to the dead.

I glanced at the Vox strapped to my wrist. Jogging past the crowds, I found a monk selling incense at a table tucked into the corner of the large courtyard. No cashcards here. The monk, his face untouched by age except for two deep grooves marking either sides of his mouth, gestured to a wooden bowl on the table. I was poor. Not enough to be starving, but enough to be hungry all the time. My friends were good to me, especially Lingyi, but I didn’t want to be their charity case. I did translations between Chinese and English and earned enough to survive. But a kid without a high school education could only get so far. My clients were referred out of kindness or used me for my cheap rates.

And there was Arun’s mom, who had always made sure she passed me something delicious to take home whenever I saw her. Just last week, I had stopped over at Arun’s to check out his latest game purchases, and Dr. Nataraj had sent me off with a stack of naan wrapped in aluminum foil and a container of bhindi bhaji. My vision blurred, remembering her warm brown eyes crinkling with a smile when she pulled away from our hug. It would be the last time I saw her alive.