The taxi arrived too early.
Zayne stood at the door of his grandfather's house—his house now, he supposed, though it would never feel like his the way it had been Grandpa's—with his bag packed, his return ticket ready, his carefully organized life waiting for him in Linkon City.
Nana stood beside him, small hands clasped in front of her, that bright smile plastered on her face. Too bright. The kind of smile people wore when they were trying very hard not to cry.
"So," she said, voice determinedly cheerful. "Back to the big city. Back to saving lives and being important."
"Yes." Zayne adjusted his bag strap, suddenly reluctant to leave. "The hospital has been... understanding about my leave, but I have surgeries scheduled."
"Of course. Important work." She nodded rapidly. "You should go. People need you."
You need me, he wanted to say but didn't. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small card with his personal number written in his precise handwriting.
"My phone number," he said, pressing it into her hand. "Call me. Anytime. When you finish work, before you walk home at night, whenever you need—" He paused.
"Just call. Please."
Her smile softened into something more genuine. "I will. I promise."
"And text me when you get home safely. Every night you work late."
"Zayne, that's—"
"Please."
His voice was firm.
"Grandfather told me about the men who follow you. About the unsafe streets. I can't be here to walk you home, but I can at least know you're safe."
Something in her expression cracked.
"Okay. I'll text you."
The taxi driver honked impatiently.
They stared at each other, neither knowing how to say goodbye. A handshake was too formal. A hug seemed too intimate. So they just stood there, awkward and aching, until Zayne finally nodded once and turned to leave.
"Zayne!"
He turned back. Nana had taken a step forward, her hands twisting together nervously.
"Thank you. For trying. For—for seeing me. For not running away when you met my chaotic family and got attacked by a swan."
A wobbly smile.
"I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too,"
he said quietly. Then, before he could overthink it, he stepped forward and pulled her into a brief, careful hug.
She was so small in his arms, fitting perfectly against his chest. She smelled like flour and soap and something sweet he couldn't identify.
For one precious moment, she leaned into him, and he felt her shoulders shake with a suppressed sob.
Then he let go, got into the taxi, and left.
He didn't look back.
If he looked back and saw her crying, he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave at all.
.
.
.
.
.
Nana waved until the taxi disappeared around the corner, her smile bright and wide and completely fake. The moment it was out of sight, her face crumpled.
She walked home in a daze, tears streaming silently down her face.
This was stupid. She'd only known him for—what? Two weeks? Less? It was ridiculous to cry over someone leaving when they'd barely started whatever this was.
But Grandpa had left. And now Zayne had left. And she was alone again in her small village, her small life, her small world that suddenly felt unbearably empty.
He belonged in the city. With his hospital and his important surgeries and his future. She belonged here, with her siblings and her part-time job and her reality.
This was always going to be temporary. She'd known that.
So why did it hurt so much?
At home, her siblings took one look at her tear-stained face and didn't ask questions. Lili climbed into her lap. The twins brought her tea. Meimei sat beside her in silent support.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
I arrived at the airport. Three-hour flight to Linkon. I'll text when I land.
—Zayne
Despite everything, she smiled.
.
.
.
.
.
The days fell into a new rhythm.
Nana worked her supermarket shifts, attended her college entrance exam prep classes (she'd decided to try for university, encouraged by Zayne's belief in her), helped with her siblings, and every night—without fail—texted Zayne when she got home safely.
She smiled at her phone like a fool, ignoring Meimei's knowing looks from across their shared bedroom.
Zayne called when he could—between surgeries, during rare breaks, late at night when he couldn't sleep. They talked about everything and nothing. He told her about his patients (without violating privacy, always so careful about regulations), about the politics of hospital administration, about the loneliness of his sterile apartment.
She told him about her siblings' latest antics, about the rude customers at the supermarket, about her studies, about the small beautiful moments in her ordinary days.
"A customer yelled at me today because we were out of her favorite brand of rice,"
Nana said one night, curled up in bed with her phone pressed to her ear.
"She said I was personally responsible for ruining her dinner plans."
"That's absurd." Zayne's voice was indignant on her behalf. "You don't control inventory distribution."
"I know. But she made me cry anyway."
A pause. "I'm too sensitive."
"You're not too sensitive. She was cruel."
His voice softened. "Are you alright?"
"I am now. Talking to you helps."
A long pause. Then, quietly:
"Talking to you helps me too."
Three weeks passed. Then four. The distance should have made things fade, should have proven that this was impossible, impractical, doomed to fail.
Instead, Nana found herself thinking about him constantly. Wondering what he was doing. Smiling at her phone when his name appeared. Falling asleep to the sound of his voice on the nights when he called late, talking until one of them drifted off.
She was falling. She knew she was falling.
And that terrified her.
Zayne's apartment had never felt more empty.
He performed his surgeries with the same precision, maintained his reputation, fulfilled his duties.
But every night, he came home to silence and found himself checking his phone obsessively, waiting for Nana's "home safe" text with an anxiety that wasn't rational or professional or appropriate.
He worried about her constantly. Every news story about assault, every statistic about violence against young women, every report of crime in rural areas—it all made his chest constrict with fear.
This is illogical, he told himself. You barely know her. This level of concern is disproportionate to the duration of your acquaintance.
But apparently, his heart didn't care about logic anymore.
He was reviewing surgical notes one evening when his doorbell rang. Unusual. He never had unexpected visitors.
He opened the door to find his mother standing there, perfectly dressed as always, and beside her—a beautiful woman in her late twenties, elegant and poised.
"Zayne, darling!" His mother swept in without invitation. "I brought Melissa to meet you properly. Melissa, this is my son. Zayne, this is Melissa Chen."
Zayne's jaw tightened. "Mother. I thought I made my position clear—"
"Oh, don't be difficult." His mother settled on his couch like she owned it, gesturing for Melissa to sit. "I'm not asking you to date her immediately. Just get to know her. She'sMuch more suitable than—" She waved a dismissive hand. "—than this village girl nonsense."
"Her name is Nana." Zayne remained standing by the door, arms crossed.
"Whatever." His mother smiled tightly. "Melissa, dear, tell Zayne about your research."
Melissa launched into an explanation of her work—impressive, undoubtedly brilliant, exactly the kind of conversation his mother expected him to appreciate.
But Zayne found himself comparing everything to Nana.
Melissa was polished. Nana was genuine.
Melissa spoke in technical jargon. Nana spoke from the heart.
Melissa belonged in his world. Nana made him want to build a different world entirely.
"—don't you think, Zayne?" His mother's sharp voice cut through his thoughts.
"I'm sorry, what?"
His mother's smile thinned. "I said, don't you think Melissa would be a wonderful companion for hospital functions?"
"I'm sure she would be." Zayne's voice was flat. "For someone. But not for me."
"Zayne—"
"Mother, why are you here?" He finally moved from the door, but didn't sit.
"You haven't visited me in three years. You missed Grandfather's funeral. You've never cared about my personal life before. So why now? Why this sudden interest in my future?"
"Because you're making a mistake—"
"No." Zayne's voice rose, surprising all of them. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to ignore me for decades and then suddenly appear to control my decisions."
"We didn't ignore you—"
"You left me."
The words came out harsh, years of buried pain finally erupting. "You left me with Grandfather when I was three years old. You promised it was temporary. You promised you'd come back. But you didn't. Not really. You visited twice a year like I was an obligation, not your son."
His mother stood, face flushed. "We were building our careers—"
"You were choosing your careers over me!"
Zayne's hands were shaking. "Every birthday alone. Every nightmare Grandfather had to comfort because you weren't there. Every school event where I was the only child without parents. Every—" His voice cracked. "Every moment I needed you and you chose research instead."
"That's not fair, Zayne—"
"Where were you when I graduated medical school?" The words poured out now, unstoppable. "Where were you when I won my first award? Where were you when Grandfather died—the man who raised me because you couldn't be bothered?"
We had a conference in Geneva—"
"YOU ALWAYS HAVE A CONFERENCE!"
Zayne's shout echoed in the apartment. Melissa had quietly slipped toward the door, clearly uncomfortable. "You always have something more important. Some research, some opportunity, some excuse why you can't be present in my life."
His mother's face was pale. "We did the best we could—"
"Your best wasn't enough." Zayne's voice dropped to something raw and broken.
"I needed a mother. Not a yearly visitor. Not someone who sent money and called it love. I needed you there, and you weren't."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.
"And now," Zayne continued quietly, "now you appear because you disapprove of my choices? Because you want to control who I marry? You have no right. You lost that right twenty-two years ago when you left me crying at a train station."
His mother's eyes glistened with tears.
Zayne—"
"Grandfather loved me unconditionally. Nana—" He paused, steadying himself.
"Nana sees me. Not Dr. Li, not the award winner, not the perfect son you tried to mold me into. She sees the person you never bothered to know. And Grandfather believed she could teach me what you never did—that I'm worth loving just for existing, not for achieving."
"So that's it?" His mother's voice shook. "You're choosing this nobody girl over your own mother?"
"She's not nobody." Zayne moved to the door, opening it.
"She's the woman Grandfather believed in. The woman I'm starting to believe in too. And yes, if forced to choose between your approval and honoring the man who actually raised me—I choose him. Every time."
His mother gathered her purse with sharp, angry movements. Melissa had already fled to the hallway. "You're making a mistake."
"Maybe." Zayne held the door open.
"But it's my mistake to make. Not yours. You gave up the right to guide my life when you chose not to be in it."
She left without another word, heels clicking sharply against the floor.
Zayne closed the door and leaned against it, his whole body trembling. He'd never spoken to his mother that way. Never confronted her.
Never let the pain out.
It felt terrible.
It felt necessary.
It felt like something breaking and healing at the same time.
His phone buzzed. Nana's nightly text:
Home safe! Crazy night at work—a customer tried to pay with a live chicken. I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Hope your day was good. Sweet dreams. —Nana
Despite everything, Zayne smiled. A customer paying with a live chicken. That was her world—absurd and chaotic and wonderfully alive.
He texted back:
I'd like to hear that story. My evening was... complicated. But better now. Thank you for texting. Sleep well. —Z
Then, before he could overthink it, he added:
I miss you.
The three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
I miss you too. So much it hurts.
Good. He typed without thinking. That means this is real.
Is it? Real?
Zayne stared at his phone, thinking about his mother's visit, about Melissa's perfection, about the choice he'd just made. About the woman in a small village who texted him about live chickens and worried when he didn't eat properly.
Yes, he typed. It's real. And I'd like to come visit again next weekend. If that's okay.
REALLY?!
Really. I need to see you. Make sure you're actually safe and not being assaulted by more aggressive poultry.
It was ONE swan, Zayne.
And one was enough. A pause. I'll text you my arrival time tomorrow. Good night, Nana.
Good night, Zayne. Thank you for choosing me.
He set down his phone, his heart still racing from the confrontation but also from something else. Something hopeful and terrifying and absolutely real.
He'd just burned a bridge with his mother for a woman he'd known less than a month.
It should feel reckless. Irresponsible. Wrong.
Instead, it felt like the first truly right decision he'd made in years.
Somewhere, he thought, Grandfather was smiling.
Well done, boy, he could almost hear the old man say.
Choose love. Always choose love.
And for the first time in his life, Zayne Li was finally ready to listen.
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.
To be continued __