Chapter 10: Coming Home with Different Hands

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I can't clearly recall my parents' faces. What I remember best is Grandma's back as she leaned over to light the oil lamp, then the gentle rustle of the thin mat as she shifted to make room for me. The nights of my childhood passed in a tiny plank-walled house whose roof always rattled whenever it rained. I slept beside Grandma, sharing one thin blanket, while her hand stroked my hair until my breathing settled. "Go to sleep," she would whisper. "Tomorrow, we start again." Back then, I didn't understand what those words meant. I only knew that as long as Grandma lay beside me, the world never felt completely frightening.

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