The morning sun filtered through Grandpa Li's kitchen window, casting golden patterns across the worn countertop.
Zayne sat at the small table, medical journal open but unread, staring at nothing in particular.
He should return to Linkon. His vacation days were running out, patients needed him, the hospital expected his presence. But every time he thought about leaving this house—leaving the last place that held his grandfather's presence—his chest constricted painfully.
A knock at the door. Three taps, familiar rhythm.
"Come in," he called, already knowing who it was.
Nana entered hesitantly, carrying her worn bag, wearing the same faded jeans and simple shirt she always wore. Her eyes were still swollen, but she'd managed a small smile.
"I... I thought you might not be eating properly," she said softly, hovering by the door. "So I brought groceries. If—if that's okay? I can cook something. Like I used to for Grandpa."
Zayne felt something warm unfurl in his chest. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." She was already moving to the kitchen, unpacking vegetables, chicken, herbs. "It helps. Keeping my hands busy. And—and you're still here because of him. The least I can do is make sure you eat."
He watched her move through the kitchen with the ease of long familiarity. She knew where everything was—which drawer held the knives, which cabinet had the bowls, where Grandpa kept his favorite cooking pot.
She belonged here in a way Zayne never had, despite this being his childhood home.
"What are you making?" he asked.
"Chicken soup. Grandpa's recipe."
She began washing the vegetables, her movements practiced and efficient.
"He taught me last winter when I got sick from walking home in the rain. Said his wife used to make it, that it could cure anything."
Zayne closed his journal, giving up the pretense of reading. Instead, he simply watched her work.
She hummed while she cooked—a soft, unconscious melody that filled the empty spaces of the house. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She was so small she had to stretch on her toes to reach the upper shelves, and once she had to drag a stool over to grab the spice jar Grandpa had stored too high.
It was... domestic. Peaceful. Strange.
Zayne couldn't remember the last time he'd watched someone cook. His mother had always been too busy, hiring help for such things. In his apartment, he survived on hospital cafeteria food and occasionally ordered takeout. Cooking was inefficient, time-consuming, unnecessary.
But watching Nana move through the kitchen, tasting the broth with a thoughtful expression, adjusting seasonings with careful precision—it didn't seem unnecessary at all.
It seemed like home.
She did a tiny happy dance when she tasted the soup again, a little bounce of satisfaction, completely unselfconscious.
She smiled—actually smiled—for the first time since the funeral, and the sight did something strange to Zayne's carefully controlled heart.
Grandpa would love this, he thought. He'd be so happy seeing her here, seeing me here, seeing us—
"It's ready!" Nana turned, caught sight of him watching, and froze. "Oh. I—I didn't know you were—sorry, was I being too loud?"
"No." Zayne's voice came out rougher than intended. "You were perfect."
She blushed, quickly turning to ladle soup into bowls. She brought one to him, setting it down with careful precision, then sat across from him with her own bowl.
They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments.
The soup was incredible—rich, warming, tasting exactly like the one his grandmother used to make all those years ago. How had Nana learned to replicate it so perfectly?
"This is excellent," Zayne said. "The flavor profile is exactly—" He stopped himself. Clinical language again. "It tastes like memory."
Nana's smile was sad but genuine.
"Grandpa taught me well. He said food is love made tangible. That when you cook for someone, you're saying 'I care that you exist. I want you nourished.'"
Her eyes misted. "I miss him so much."
"So do I."
They sat with their shared grief for a moment, letting it exist between them without trying to fix or diminish it.
"Can I ask you something?" Nana said finally. "About what Grandpa told me. About your birthdays."
Zayne's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. "What did he tell you?"
"That you celebrated alone. That your parents were too busy." She looked down at her soup. "Is that true?"
A long pause. Then:
"Yes."
"All of them? Every year?"
"Not all. When I was very young, before medical school, they sometimes managed a dinner. Brief. Efficient. Then back to their research."
Zayne set down his spoon, the memories bitter. "After I turned eighteen, it was just video calls. Sometimes they remembered on the actual day. Sometimes a week later."
"That's..." Nana's voice shook with anger he didn't expect. "That's terrible. You deserved better than that."
Something in Zayne's chest cracked a little wider. When had someone last been angry on his behalf? Defended him without him asking?
"I survived," he said automatically.
"Surviving isn't the same as living."
She met his eyes, fierce despite her small size. "You were a child. You needed love, not just financial support. You needed—" She stopped, looking away.
"Sorry. I shouldn't—it's not my place to criticize your parents."
"You're not wrong though."
The admission surprised them both.
"I had nightmares. Every night for years. I'd dream they'd come back for me, that they'd finally choose me over their careers. I'd wake up crying, and Grandpa—" His voice caught.
"Grandpa and Grandma would come to my room. Grandma would sing. Grandpa would tell stories. They'd hold me until I fell back asleep, and in the morning they'd act like it never happened so I wouldn't feel embarrassed."
Nana's eyes filled with tears. "They loved you so much."
"They did." Zayne cleared his throat. "More than my actual parents, it seems."
"I understand," Nana said softly. "My father—he chose alcohol and other women over us. Left us with nothing while he continued his life like we never existed. I used to think maybe I wasn't good enough, maybe if I'd been a better daughter—"
"No." Zayne's voice was sharp. "Don't do that. Don't blame yourself for their failures."
She smiled sadly. "You do the same thing though. Blame yourself for your parents not loving you enough."
He had no response to that. Because she was right.
"Tell me about your siblings,"
Zayne said, changing the subject. "Grandfather mentioned you have five?"
Nana's face brightened immediately.
"Yes. Four sisters and one brother. I'm the oldest—or second oldest, depending on how you count. My older brother is with my father still." The light dimmed slightly. "But the younger ones—they're everything. Meimei is seventeen, then the twins are fourteen, then Xiaohua is twelve, and the baby, Lili, is nine."
"That's a lot of children for your mother to raise alone."
"It is. We all help. I work the supermarket, Meimei helps with tutoring younger kids for money, the twins do odd jobs around the neighborhood. Everyone contributes."
Pride colored her voice.
"We survive together."
Zayne felt something twist inside him—envy, perhaps. "I always wanted siblings. Someone to talk to. Someone who understood what it was like." He paused. "But my parents said one child was already too much to manage with their schedules."
"That must have been lonely."
"It was." Simple acknowledgment. No defensiveness, no excuses. Just truth.
They finished their soup in companionable silence, both lost in thoughts of childhoods marked by different kinds of abandonment.
"Would you—" Nana hesitated. "Would you like to walk? Grandpa said you used to play in the rice fields when you were small. Maybe... maybe it would help? Being there again?"
Zayne looked out the window at the sprawling green fields beyond the village, golden in the afternoon sun. How long had it been since he'd walked through them? Ten years? More?
"Yes," he said. "I'd like that."
.
.
.
.
.
They walked side by side through the narrow paths between rice paddies, Nana leading the way with confident steps while Zayne followed, slightly awkward in his expensive shoes now covered in dust.
"It's beautiful here," he said, surprising himself with the observation. When had he last noticed beauty?
"It is." Nana smiled, gesturing at the landscape. "Grandpa used to walk here every evening. He said it reminded him that life continues, that seasons change but the earth remains."
They walked further, past farmers working their fields, past children playing in the distance, past the simple, hardworking rhythm of rural life that Zayne had forgotten existed.
"Does it bring back memories?" Nana asked. "Being here?"
Yes." Zayne paused, looking around.
"I used to chase butterflies through these fields with other children. We'd compete to see who could catch the most."
A ghost of a smile.
"I was terrible at it. Too logical, too planned. Butterflies don't follow patterns."
Nana laughed—a real, genuine laugh that seemed to surprise her as much as him.
"That sounds exactly like something you'd do. Trying to apply logic to nature."
"It's how my mind works. Everything needs order, reason, measurable outcomes."
"Not everything can be measured." She glanced at him. "Like happiness. Or love. Or—" She gestured around. "—this. The feeling of sun on your face and wind in the rice fields. How do you quantify that?"
Zayne opened his mouth to provide a clinical explanation—vitamin D exposure, atmospheric pressure, positive sensory input—then stopped himself. Because she was right. The feeling wasn't the measurement.
The experience wasn't the data.
"You're right," he admitted. "Some things just... are."
They continued walking until Nana suddenly stopped, swatting at her arm.
"Mosquitoes. I forgot they come out this time of day."
Zayne looked down at his own arm, saw the small red welt forming. When had he last been bitten by a mosquito? In his climate-controlled apartment, his sterile hospital, his carefully managed life, such things didn't exist.
"We should head back," Nana said, already fussing over his arm. "You're not used to this. You'll get bitten up. Do you have antihistamine? We need to put something on that—"
"It's just a mosquito bite."
But he let her worry, let her fuss, because no one had worried about something so small and insignificant about him in... he couldn't remember how long.
"Still."
She was already pulling him back toward the house.
"I won't have you going back to the city covered in bites because I brought you out here. What would people think? That the countryside is attacking their famous surgeon?"
The absurdity of it made him smile—actually smile, not the polite professional expression but a real one.
"I suppose that would be bad for my reputation."
"Exactly." She was still holding his wrist, guiding him back, and neither of them mentioned that she didn't need to hold on anymore, that he knew the way.
Neither of them mentioned that it felt nice.
Back at the house, Nana found antihistamine cream in Grandpa's medicine cabinet and carefully applied it to Zayne's mosquito bites with a concentration that seemed excessive for such a minor issue.
"You worry a lot," Zayne observed.
"Someone has to." She capped the cream.
"You probably don't worry about yourself enough."
"I maintain optimal health through proper nutrition and exercise regimens—"
"That's not what I meant." Nana met his eyes. "I meant worrying about yourself as a person. Not just a body to be maintained, but a human who deserves care and attention."
Zayne had no response to that.
She began cleaning up, preparing to leave, and Zayne felt an unexpected reluctance. The house would be so empty once she left.
So quiet. So full of ghosts.
"Nana," he said suddenly. She turned, surprised by his use of her name instead of the formal "Miss Wang."
"Thank you. For today. For the soup. For—" He gestured vaguely. "—everything."
Her smile was soft, sad, beautiful.
"You don't have to thank me. We're—we're trying, right? To see if this could work? So... I guess we should try spending time together. Getting to know each other."
"Yes." Zayne stood, moved closer.
"Would you... would you come back tomorrow? If you have time?"
"I have to work in the evening, but I could come in the afternoon."
"Afternoon is perfect."
They stood there, neither quite knowing how to end this moment. A hug seemed too intimate. A handshake too formal. So they just smiled awkwardly at each other until Nana finally ducked her head and headed for the door.
"Zayne?" She paused at the threshold, not looking back. "I'm glad Grandpa brought us together. Even if I'm scared. Even if I don't know what I'm doing. I'm glad."
"So am I," he said softly. "So am I."
After she left, Zayne stood in the kitchen that smelled like chicken soup and home, looked at the mosquito bite on his arm that someone had worried over, and felt something shift fundamentally in his carefully ordered world.
Maybe, just maybe, Grandpa had been right.
Maybe some things couldn't be measured or planned.
Maybe some things—like butterflies and happiness and love—just needed to be experienced.
And maybe, for the first time in fifteen years, he was ready to try.
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued __