The kitchen smelled of ginger and soy sauce when Lian woke the next morning.
His mother was already cooking, humming a tune neither of them knew the words to but both recognized. Steam rose in soft clouds from the wok, curling like smoke signals in the air.
Lian watched her work, the practiced rhythm of her hands chopping, stirring, tasting.
They didn't speak much—no need. The quiet between them was filled with something older than words.
He remembered the note Wáng āyí had pressed into her hand, the small tin. On the table now, it waited like a secret.
His mother finally looked up. "Wǒmen jiā, yǒu hěn duō bù néng shuō de dōngxi," she said quietly. Our home has many things that can't be spoken.
Lian nodded, pretending he understood.
She continued, "Shíjiān hé wèidào, jìyì hé ài—dōu bùnéng zhīyán."
Time and taste, memory and love—all cannot be spoken.
He looked down at his hands.
The poem he had written in Chinese was folded carefully in his jacket pocket.
Not everything fit into translation. Sometimes, the meaning was in what was left unsaid.
At school that day, Lian's notebook was different.
It held more than animals and drawings.
There were recipes in messy handwriting.
Fragments of stories overheard from his mother, from Wáng āyí.
The names of dishes he couldn't pronounce but wanted to taste.
A few lines of poetry he was trying to translate—not just words, but feelings.
The bell rang.
Lian packed up slowly.
Outside, the wind was colder.
He pulled his jacket tighter, but inside, he felt a quiet warmth.
Something like belonging.
Not from fitting in perfectly.
But from the threads he was weaving—between languages, between families, between worlds.
The story was still unfolding.
And for once, Lian wasn't afraid to turn the page.