When I was younger and needed a place to think, I’d sit by the carp pond. It was one of my mother’s indulgences—a reminder of her home country—installed at the rear of the house where an entire wall of glass looks out on the rock garden. Part of the pond stretches inside the house. The other half juts beneath the glass, into the yard of carefully raked gravel.
Koi swim to the edge of their small world and back again: fire white and liquid amber, scales shimmering. Their movement is smooth and streamlined, like some sort of jeweled hypnosis. It puts my mind at ease.
Whenever Hiro was tired of reading through his endless sets of encyclopedias, he used to come down here and toss coins into the water. They spun through the ripples—comets of silver, copper, and gold—down into the seaweed’s tangled green. He never did hit a fish.
Hiro. I breathe in and dip my fingers into the pool. My confession to Jin—Jin Ling—was the first time in a long time I’ve said his name, or even thought it. I’ve spent so long trying to erase and forget. Cramming him into the world of nightmares. Trying to cut all ties with everything and everyone.
My brother’s ghost is all over this house. Whispering if onlys in my ear. If only I’d listened to him. If only I’d been a better brother. If only…
I spent seven hundred and thirty-eight days in Hak Nam, doing anything I could to get out and find a way back home. But home isn’t what I need. Talking to Jin—Jin Ling—telling her my sad story, only drove this truth deeper into my skull. A fancy mansion on Tai Ping Hill won’t fix me. Trying to forget won’t fix me, either. It will never earn my brother’s forgiveness. Silence the ghosts…
I push my hand in deeper, the waterline up to my wrist. The koi scatter, scales streaking like torches in a night sky. I wonder if Hiro’s coins are still at the bottom, hiding beneath years of algae and fish shit.
The pond is too cold, I decide. I pull my hand out and wipe it against my shirt. I would worry about stains, but I know Father won’t wear this again.
After our conversation, Jin Ling slept, the drugs in her body forcing her through years of rest. Hiro’s book of stars curled at her side, filling the catless space. I’ve never felt more awake. My mind whirls and spins with possibilities. Thoughts of Jin Ling and her sister. The girl and the ledger. The New Year and the six days between.
The girl… she’s been on my mind a lot these days. How her eyes came to life when I gave her the shell. How her hand pressed up against the grate, mirrored mine. How, when I look through the window, I don’t have to see my pieces; I see her, pulling them all together. How her words brought a smile to my face, tugged it out of nowhere like a rabbit from a magician’s hat.
I haven’t smiled like that in a long, long time.
I’ve never felt more awake.
The shuffling of feet causes me to look up, and I see Emiyo standing at the far end of the pond. Her knuckles are so white they look like exposed bone.
“Master Dai, you have a visitor.” Emiyo’s words are screws winched until they can no longer spin.
There’s not much of a question of who’s visiting me. I can smell the smoke from here. “Thanks, Emiyo.”
My handler is in the foyer. He’s pretending to be busy, examining a tapestry woven full of sparrows and cherry blossoms, when I walk in. The coal end of his cigarette glows dangerously close to the fabric.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” I say.
Tsang straightens, his stare flicking over to where I stand. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, lets it smolder between his fingers. “And you shouldn’t leave Hak Nam. But here we are.”
“How’d you know?” I let an eyebrow arch, try not to show the fear that’s started to scurry under my belly.
“You missed our meeting. Plus the police processed a very interesting call from a cabdriver a few days ago. Said he took two boys covered in blood to Tai Ping Hill. Didn’t take long to connect the dots.”
I missed the meeting.… Have I really been here that long? This house has a way of making time stand still. Days, months, years. Nothing changes but our faces. What else have I missed?
“I could have you arrested,” my handler goes on, “if I was so inclined.”
“I had to do something,” I say. “My runner was dying.”
“And you did something. Never mind that I told you to get rid of him,” he growls. “Now you’re just sitting on your ass. Wasting days. Watching the clock.”
My jaw bulges. I can’t look at his eyes, or the mole that juts out from the corner of his chin. Instead, I stare down at the cigarette and the ashes it’s raining on the floor.
“I’ve been patient with you so far. But we’re running out of time.” My handler’s wrist flicks, too jerky to be a mistake. White-hot ash explodes across the floorboards. From here it looks almost like snow. “I want you back in Hak Nam by tonight.”
Because I’m feeling surly, I challenge him. “Or what?”
Tsang reaches into his jacket. At first I think he’s going for another cigarette (he’s running low), but he pulls out a fold of paper instead. He holds it up for me to see: my name, my crimes, my pardon. It’s stamped and signed by one of the most powerful judges Seng Ngoi has to offer.
Fresh ink, flimsy paper freedom. So close I could reach out and snatch it.
“You get me the ledger—you get me Longwai’s ass on a platter—you get this. If not…” Tsang pulls the document back, oh-so-close to the amber glare of his cigarette. The air around us singes and stinks. “All it takes is one phone call. One and you’re done.”
He thinks this will scare me, silence any further questions. It should. A lifetime of navy jumpsuits, cafeteria trays, always looking for shanks out of the corner of my eye is hardly something to scoff at. But all I can think about is the promise I made the girl. I can get you out. How I need it to be true.
“The girls in Longwai’s brothel. What will happen to them?” I think of how easy it would be for them to slip through Hak Nam’s thousands of cracks. Get sucked back into the rip current blackness of streets and men’s lust.
“Don’t worry about the whores. Worry about yourself.” Tsang folds the paper back up (quite a feat with only one cigaretteless hand).
“What’s going on here?” My father walks up to my side, but he doesn’t look at me. All his concentration is poured into glowering at the Security Branch agent. His mouth is straight, but his eyes are sharp and snapping, like riled Dobermans. I’m sure it’s the face he uses when he’s trying to intimidate the party on the other side of the table at business negotiations for Sun Industries. It’s the reason our family is wealthy enough to live on Tai Ping Hill.
“Just having a few words with your son here, Mr. Sun.” My handler tucks his hands behind his back, blocking the cigarette from sight.
“It’s getting late,” my father says, even though it isn’t. “Certainly you have work to get back to.”
“I was just finishing up.” My handler gives a smile that’s too thin to be an actual smile. “I’ll see myself out.”
And he does. The door opens and closes, allowing in a howl of cold air that only sharpens the stink of smoke. The floor’s ashes swirl and then die again.
“What are they making you do?” My father follows the ashes with his eyes. We stare at them together.
“Impossible things,” I say, because it’s shortest and easiest and true.
“There are other ways, Dai Shing.”
“Are there?” I look up. He’s standing close to me. Our shirts match, except mine is still damp with pond water. I notice, for the first time, that I’m taller than he is. “Even all your money can’t buy my way out of drug dealing and three dead bodies.”
Father shuts his eyes. His lids flutter, like he’s in pain. “You can run. We have contacts overseas. Your English is good enough. I’ve already had documents drawn up.”
Running. I wonder why he’s only bringing this up now, down to the wire. He’s asked me to wait so long, forced me to risk so many things to clear my name. Our name. The Sun family name.
The look on his face tells me all I need to know. If I flee the country, it will bring shame to our household. Any chance my father has at acquiring a pardon—of washing our social status clean (even if it is really just a technicality)—flies away with me on that plane. That’s why it’s his ultimatum. His last possible resort.
I could run. Start clean, away from Hak Nam and Seng Ngoi and my family. Away from the Security Branch and Longwai’s ledger. Away from the girls.
Don’t worry about the whores. Worry about yourself.
It’s all I’ve done for a long, long time. Covering my own ass. Worrying, worrying, always worrying. Warning: Side effects of insomnia and selfish bastard may vary.
I think of how small Jin Ling’s hand felt under mine. I think of the girl behind the window, with her midnight braid and faint glow of hope. I even think about that damn cat—tailless and alone in Hak Nam, probably still meowing like he owns the place.
These thoughts twist, twist, twist my heart. They wring out a single, undeniable truth: It’s not just about me anymore.
Maybe it never was.
And suddenly I realize what I’ve been wanting all this time. The ache that coming home couldn’t fix. Redemption. A chance to make things right. I can’t resurrect my brother, but I can help the girls. Their escape is mine.
I can’t trust the Security Branch to find Jin Ling’s sister or free the girl behind the window. These are things I have to do myself.
I’m not walking away this time.
“I have to stay. I have to make it right.” My father’s eyes are still closed when I tell him this. “I’m going back to Hak Nam.”
“There’s nothing for you there,” he says, voice tight.
Ten days ago he would’ve been right. But now… I don’t close my eyes, but I still see the girl’s face, feel the stir of her deep inside my chest—twisting the truth out—remember the smoothness of the shell under my fingertips.
My promises don’t have to be empty. I might not be a good person, but I can become one. I can write in a new answer: the hero the window-girl sees.
I keep all this inside, because even if I say it out loud I’m not sure my father would hear. He was never the best at listening.
His eyes open, and instead of Dobermans, they remind me of ravens’ beaks. Cunning. Sharp. They study me, prodding every detail like a needle’s end. It’s times like this I wonder why he doesn’t hate me. Why he’s kept me alive for all these years with wads of cash.
“I’ll call the car around,” he says.