Tap tap tap. It was the sound of nails on lacquer: a familiar aural memory from the days of my mother and the rhythms she planned out before composing her erhu songs. The wind stirred the chimes hanging somewhere nearby.…

By the end of the night, father had spent most of his energy and collapsed into his own room without even a backward glance. I was exhausted myself, yet relieved to have escaped a possible reprimanding lectur…