Cynthia's pencil glided across the paper, writing each letter of the alphabet in clear, precise strokes. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the living room windows, casting warm patterns across the table where she and Arvin sat side by side.
"A," she said clearly, pointing to the first letter. (Chinese) "Ok. Repeat after me. A."
"Ei," Arvin tried, his pronunciation slightly off but earnest.
(Chinese) "Good, but soften the sound a little," Cynthia corrected, showing him again. "A."
"A," Arvin repeated, matching her tone more closely this time.
She nodded approvingly before moving to the next letter. Teaching took patience she didn't know she had, but Arvin proved to be a dedicated student. His concentration reminded her of her own struggles when learning Chinese from her grandmother's old books.
This unexpected role as a teacher had fallen to her just a few days earlier.
On Wednesday, after they finished the dinner that Arvin had cooked, he asked them if someone could teach him English since he might be staying in the country for the next two years.
Without much discussion, everyone turned to Cynthia. Fang Chou wasn't the best teacher, and Jeremy's broken Chinese was evidence of that. Cynthia's remarkable memory made her the clear choice.
She had agreed, knowing she was the most capable. Because of that, yesterday, she and Jeremy had gone to the bookstore and picked up a beginner's English textbook, the kind with simple words and colorful pictures that was perfect for someone starting from scratch.
Now, as Arvin carefully traced each letter with his pencil as he pronounce it following her lead. Cynthia couldn't help but admire his dedication. But as they went along, her mind began to drift back to last Sunday, to the tense conversation at the store that had brought them to this point
______________________________
"I need to say something," Cynthia said suddenly.
Jeremy looked up from his phone. "What's up, Cyn?"
"It's about Arvin staying with us," she said. "I agreed this morning because everyone else did, but now I'm not so sure."
Christina set her mug down. "What's bothering you?"
"We don't really know him," Cynthia replied. "Sure, he helped Jeremy, and I'm grateful for that. But letting a stranger live with us for maybe two years feels like a huge step."
Fang Chou leaned back in his chair. "You're right to think it over. What exactly worries you?"
"His story doesn't add up," Cynthia said. "He claims he woke up in an alley with no idea how he got there. That's strange. Plus, he might not even be here legally. What happens to us if someone finds out? Even worse, what will happen to the store if the cops find out first?"
"Those are valid concerns," Christina agreed.
"There's more," Cynthia continued. "Jeremy and I will be home with him most mornings during the summer while you and Dad are at the store. What if something goes wrong?" She didn't voice her deepest fears, but they lingered in the air.
Thump
Jeremy's hand slammed the desk, his composure finally breaking. "What the hell, Cyn? The guy saved my life, and you're actin' like he's some kinda criminal!"
Cynthia's eyes flashed as her own temper rose. "Wake up, Jer! Just 'cause he did one good thing doesn't mean we let him move in! You're bein' naive!"
"Naive?" Jeremy shouted, his New York accent growing stronger. "I'm bein' grateful! He coulda walked away, but he didn't. That's gotta mean somethin'!"
"Yeah? And what happens when he ain't what he seems? What happens when—"
"Enough!" Fang Chou's sharp voice broke through their shouting. The twins froze, suddenly realizing how they'd been talking
Christina walked to the office door and locked it with a soft click before sitting back down. Her face remained calm but serious as she pulled out a chair.
"Sit down, both of you," Fang Chou ordered.
Jeremy slumped into his seat, arms crossed defensively. Cynthia sat as well, her back still rigid with tension. The small room seemed to shrink under the tension.
"First," Christina started, "I understand why Cynthia's worried. She's not wrong to question this."
Jeremy opened his mouth to argue, but Fang Chou raised a hand. "Your sister's being careful, and that's wise. But this isn't a normal case."
"What do you mean?" Cynthia asked.
Christina and Fang Chou shared a look, a silent exchange built from twenty years together.
"Your mother went through something like this once," Fang Chou said slowly. "The details were different, but she knows what it's like to be stuck somewhere strange with no help."
Cynthia relaxed slightly, sensing there was a deeper story here. Jeremy also leaned forward, his curiosity overtaking his anger.
"Sometimes," Christina added quietly, her Slavic accent thickening, "you have to trust what you feel about someone. Not just the risks, but who they might really be."
The office went quiet. The faint sounds from outside the room were the only thing breaking the silence.
Fang Chou let out a tired sigh and rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry. I should've talked to you both first, especially you, Cynthia."
"Your mother and I got caught up in the moment when you agreed at breakfast. We didn't realize you weren't fully on board."
Cynthia's expression softened, and Jeremy edged forward with renewed interest.
"Here's the thing," Fang Chou said, glancing at his wife before looking back at the twins. "Our emotions got ahead of us, and that wasn't fair to you."
"But before we keep going," Fang Chou said, his tone turning serious, "I want to ask you something. Do you remember the story of how your mother and I met?"
The twins looked at each other. They'd heard bits over the years, but never the whole story.
"Parts of it," Jeremy said.
"Yeah," Cynthia nodded, sensing this wasn't just a casual talks.
Jeremy scratched his head. "I know the basics. You met after Mom came to the US, right? She lived close by, so you kept bumping into each other. Then it was love, marriage, all that?"
Cynthia's mind clicked into analytical mode. "It's more detailed than that. After her parents died, Mom decided to move to the States in 1984 on a student visa to study business. She got an apartment three blocks from Grandfather and Grandmother's place. That's why you kept seeing each other at the grocery store."
She paused and studied her father's expression. "Your first real talks was when Mom asked for directions to the bank in shaky English. You walked her there since you were heading the same way. After that, you met for coffee every week to help her with English."
Jeremy blinked. His sister memory was sharp as ever.
"Those coffee meetings turned into study sessions when Dad helped with her business books," Cynthia continued. "Six months later, both of you watch Back to the Future together. It was Mom's first American movie. By 1985, you were dating. You got engaged in late 1986, married in mid-1987, and we were born a year later in mid-1988."
Christina laughed. "Sweetheart, you sound like a history book."
Fang Chou shook his head in amazement. "Cynthia, that's almost too perfect. You hold onto details better than we do."
"Well, that was her gift after all," Jeremy said with a laugh as he chimed in.
The mood eased until Christina's face turned solemn.
"But that's not the truth," she said softly. "A lot of it was made up for you two."
The room went silent. Jeremy sat up straighter, and Cynthia's composure faltered.
"Made up?" Jeremy repeated, unsure.
Christina's hands trembled as she held them together. "I wasn't an orphan like we told you. You have family on my side. Maybe just a grandfather now, and an uncle. I don't know if there are any cousins for you."
Jeremy's jaw dropped. Cynthia's rigid posture wavered as the words sank in.
"What?" she whispered, her usual poker face gone.
Fang Chou reached over and held his wife's shaking hands. "Now it's my turn," he said gently. "Listen close, you two. This is how it really happened."
Fang Chou shifted in his chair, his gaze drifting as old memories came back.
"I met your mother after I'd been at my first job for a year, back in '84—"
"It was '85," Christina cut in softly, a faint smile showing.
Fang Chou grinned briefly. "Just teasing you, honey. I started the job in 1984, but I met your mother in the same month we're in now, back in 1985."
He leaned back, staring past the office walls. "It was late, around 10 p.m., after a long day of overtime and I was walking home."
______________________________
Creak
The old elevator creaked as it took a younger Fang Chou down to the lobby. His reflection in the metal doors showed a twenty-four-year-old in a wrinkled white shirt and loose tie after a tough day at work. Dark circles framed his eyes, the price he paid for too much coffee and too little sleep, all to prove himself at his first real job.
Ding
The lobby was nearly empty, with only the night guard reading at his desk.
Fang Chou's footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he headed to the revolving door, stepping out into the chilly May night.
West End Avenue stretched ahead of him. The streetlights cast long shadows between the tall buildings. The city felt calm at this hour, with fewer cars and people, leaving only a soft buzz of nightlife in the distance.
Fang Chou sighed and started his usual walk to the bus stop, his worn briefcase brushing against his leg with each step.
Clinton Park came into view soon, marking the edge of Hell's Kitchen. Everyone knew that area turned dangerous after dark, full of whispered stories about violence and every illegal activity one might ever hear about.
But he didn't have much choice. The night bus was the cheapest way to his parents' place in Midtown, where he stayed to save money. The subway wouldn't reach this area for years, and a taxi would eat up too much of his modest paycheck.
It was a thirty-minute walk through Hell's Kitchen. He'd made the journey plenty of times without incident, keeping his head down and his steps steady. This night should have been no different.
Click Click
His dress shoes clicked rhythmically on the sidewalk as he crossed into Hell's Kitchen. The streets grew darker quickly, with fewer working streetlights. He spotted some shadows moving in the alleys, but he kept his eyes focused straight ahead.
Exhale
Instead of rushing to the bus stop, Fang Chou deliberately slowed his pace, glancing toward the dim waterfront. He had learned that it was safer to stick near the Hudson rather than cutting through 11th Avenue.
A few months back, he'd tried exactly that and got mugged, losing his wallet and watch. Still, he was thankful that was all he'd lost. If he had been unlucky, that night might have been his last on this Earth.
The waterfront seemed lonely, but police patrols drove by occasionally, and the lights near the docks made it safer than the dark alleys and the main road.
He reached the bus stop and checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes until the bus arrived at 11:05. The metal bench sat under a flickering streetlight, looking uninviting, and his legs still buzzed from all the caffeine he'd consumed.
(Might as well enjoy the night air), he thought, loosening his tie more.
He decided to walk around instead of sitting.
Shipping containers lined the waterfront in neat rows, forming a steel barrier between the street and the river. Back then, before the area was cleaned up, those hulking boxes were scattered everywhere.
His footsteps echoed off the containers as he walked past. Each one towered over him, larger than his room back at his parents' apartment. Some had faded logos he couldn't read, while others displayed only numbers and codes that meant nothing to him.
Bang
A sharp noise stopped him in his tracks. He turned toward the sound, which was coming from deeper within the container maze.
(Probably a stray cat), he told himself, though his heart began beating faster. (Or something fell over.)
Bang Bang Bang
A few quick bangs killed that idea. The sounds can't be something falling and too loud for a small animal to make.
Muffled voice
Faint voices drifted through the air, speaking words he couldn't make out. The tone caught his attention, raw with fear and desperation.
His legs stiffened, every part of him yelling to head back to the bus stop. He knew the dangers of being out here alone with who-knows-what going on.
But something pulled him in the opposite direction. Was he imagining things? Was the fatigue playing tricks on his mind?
(Just one quick look), he thought, his hands beginning to shake. (To make sure I'm not losing my mind.)
He decided to take a quick look, just to be sure, even as his hands shook slightly. His shoes scraped the rough ground as he moved between the giant containers.
As he got closer, the banging grew louder, and he could hear voices thick with panic. The muffled sounds sharpened into clear cries, some angry, others pleading, all soaked in fear.
Bang Bang Bang
The noise came from a rusty container right ahead. Fang Chou edged closer, his chest pounding.
He heard lots of voices now, people trapped inside. They shouted in languages he didn't understand, but beneath that, he caught the sound of sobbing from what sounded like women and teenagers.
Thud
His briefcase slipped from his grip and hit the ground as the realization crashed over him. He remembered news stories from a year or two ago about human trafficking, about bodies being found in containers by the Hudson. All of it had been connected to Hell's Kitchen, making the already notorious neighborhood into a place of horror back then.
He'd skimmed those stories then, never imagining he'd stumble into one himself.
Step Step
He started backing away slowly, his mind finally taking over his curiosity. Whatever was happening in there, he couldn't handle it alone.
The crying kept going, each sob pressing into him like a heavy weight.
He stopped when he heard the teens sobbing. That sound sliced through his fear.
(I can't just walk away), he thought, hands trembling. (But I can't do this by myself.)
He needed the police, and fast. The closest payphone was blocks away, and by the time he returned with help, the people in the container might be gone.
(Think, Chou.)
Step Step
He made up his mind to head back to the bus stop and find help. The cries still echoed in his ears, but he turned away regardless. Getting the police was his only real option.
Shuffle
As he moved through the containers, a shadow shifted in the corner of his eye. A person stepped out from the darkness.
The stranger drew nearer, pale as a ghost, with eyes red like blood. His suit looked expensive, though wrinkled and stained as if he was got into a bar fight.
(Is he an addict?,) Fang Chou thought as he noticed the red eyes.
Then those red eyes locked onto his, and the person standing still for a moment. Suddenly the addict sped up, moving too fast to be a normal person.
He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat.
(Run), Fang Chou brain screamed, but his legs locked up. The scene felt like a nightmare, freezing him where he stood.
As the stranger got in front of him, his eyes burned brighter, glowing like fire. Before Fang Chou could move, the addict jumped at him with crazy strength.
Crash
He hit the ground hard as air knocked out of his lung. Hands as hard as iron clamped around his throat. They squeezed tight, cutting off his breath.
(This is it), he thought, clawing at the grip.
His vision growing darker, the cries fading as he started to lose consciousness. His parent's face flashed in his mind, followed by a sharp pang of regret.
(I'm going to die because I stick in this place far too long.)
∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘
Hey guys!
Back again with another weekly chapter!
Thankfully I could write on time again.
But sorry if it late by half day. I had been busy and then only done editing them now.
So, if you happen notice mistake that still not fixed, feel free to point it out at the comment.
Hope you'll enjoy reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it!
As always, thanks for sticking with me on this journey. Let's keep enjoying the story together!