# Chapter One — Where the Light Is
The weather that day was almost offensively beautiful.
Sunlight poured through the windows of the orphanage playroom, bright enough to make me squint. The floor was scattered with patches of gold, and kids ran through them, laughing and shouting, filling the room like a glass jar packed full of noise — loud enough to sting.
I sat in the corner, holding my old stuffed rabbit, and watched.
Boo's ear was almost falling off. Every night I'd tuck it back into place, but by morning it would be flopped sideways again, like it was sneaking a peek at the world. Boo was the only thing I had at the orphanage. The other kids had stuffed animals too, but theirs were clean and bright — because there were always grown-ups bringing new ones. Boo had been beside me since my very first day here. Nobody knew where it came from.
I figured it was probably like me. Left behind.
A man and a woman walked in through the door. They were dressed nicely. The woman held the man's arm with easy grace, her eyes full of warmth. Her skirt swayed as she moved, and a pair of pearl earrings caught the light at her ears — like a princess from a storybook.
The man was tall, wearing a dark jacket. He didn't say much, just stood there, steady and solid, like a tree that no wind could knock over.
"Hello," the woman said to the director. "We'd like to adopt a child." Her voice was as soft as a spring breeze.
The air in the playroom shifted.
The kids went quiet for half a second — then, like a switch had been flipped, they swarmed. They pushed and jostled, some grabbing her hand, some hanging off the man's arm, all of them tilting their little faces up: "Ma'am, I'm really good!" "Mister, look at my drawing!" "I can sing — do you want to hear me sing?"
They wanted to be seen. They wanted to be taken. They wanted that thing called home.
I didn't move.
I held Boo a little tighter and pressed my face against its ear. "Boo," I whispered. "Someone came again."
I'd seen this too many times. Whenever someone came to adopt, I always stayed quiet in my corner. It wasn't that I didn't want to go over — I was just too scared. Once, I had followed the crowd. I stood at the very edge of the circle, didn't say a word, just watched the couple. Their eyes swept across every child, pausing a second or two on each face — and then slid right past me.
Like I was part of the wall.
After that, I stopped going.
If I didn't go, at least I wouldn't know I'd been skipped.
So this time, I didn't let myself hope. I rested my chin on top of Boo's head and watched the other kids cluster around the pretty lady. She smiled and patted this one's head, took that one's hand — she clearly loved children.
Then her gaze moved.
Past all the kids crowding around her, across the room, to the corner — to me.
She paused.
I dropped my eyes fast.
But I heard footsteps. Click, click — heels on the floor, steady and unhurried, getting closer.
She crouched down in front of me.
I could smell her perfume. It was lovely — like flowers and sugar mixed together, a smell I'd never come across before. She tilted her head toward me, gently, like she was trying not to startle me.
"Hi there," she said softly. "What's your name?"
My fingers tightened around Boo's foot.
My lips moved.
"…Xia."
So quiet I almost didn't hear myself.
But she heard. Her eyes lit up, like something small had been switched on inside them.
"Xia," she said. "What a sweet name."
She turned to look at the tall man. He had come over without me noticing, and now he stood behind her, looking down at me. His expression was different from hers — not as warm, but not unkind either. He looked like someone studying something carefully.
"Honey," she said, tugging lightly at his sleeve, a little playful, "let's adopt her."
The man looked at me. Then looked again.
Then he nodded — small, but certain. "Sure. Whatever you want."
She turned back to me, still crouching, her smile as bright as sunlight on water. She reached out and touched my hair, very gently. My whole body went stiff — not from fear, just from not knowing what to do. People didn't touch my head very often.
"Sweetheart," she said, "I'm going to be your mom from now on. And there's a big brother at home waiting for you."
I looked up at her.
"Really?" I asked. Still quiet, but this time I worked hard to get the whole sentence out. "I'm going to have… a home?"
"Of course it's real."
She took my hand.
My hand was small. Hers was warm. I felt that warmth travel up from my palm, past my wrist, up my arm, all the way to my chest. Something in there gave a small, quiet flutter.
I looked down and smiled to myself.
"Heh…"
I lifted Boo up and held it close to my face. "Boo," I said, "we have a home."
Boo didn't answer.
But its lopsided ear was pointing right in the pretty lady's direction — like it was sneaking a look at her for me.
While the paperwork was being handled, the director brought out my file — a thick folder. I sat in a chair outside the office, feet dangling, swinging back and forth.
I could hear the director talking inside. Her voice wasn't loud, but the door hadn't latched all the way, and some words drifted out.
"…car accident… she was an infant… her father used his body to shield her from the impact… her mother, the broken glass… blood loss…"
"When she came to us, she barely knew how to cry."
I turned Boo's face away so it wouldn't have to hear.
I already knew all of this. The director had said these things to different people many times. Every time someone came to look at the children, she'd take out the same words and say them again. She seemed to think they would make grown-ups feel more for me — but every time she finished, the way those grown-ups looked at me would change. Something complicated would come into their eyes. A kind of pity. A kind of not-knowing-what-to-do. And then they'd go look at another child.
I hated that look.
But this time was different. There was a pause from inside the office, and then I heard the pretty lady's voice — a little thick, like she'd been crying.
"She's been… alone this whole time?"
The man's voice followed, low and even. "We'll take good care of her."
Then the door opened.
The pretty lady came out with red-rimmed eyes, but she was smiling. She walked over to me, crouched down, and tucked Boo's fallen ear back into place.
"Come on, Xia. Let's go home."
Home.
When she said those words, they felt different. Like they weren't a word that had nothing to do with me anymore.
The car was big and beautiful.
When the door opened, a cool breath of air conditioning drifted out. The seats inside were pale leather, clean enough to shine. I stood at the door and couldn't make myself get in.
The bottoms of my shoes were dirty. I'd been sitting on the playroom floor too long that morning and picked up dust.
I looked down at my shoes. Then at the clean seat.
The pretty lady — no, Mom — she saw me standing there and seemed to understand right away. She didn't rush me. She didn't just scoop me up either. She climbed in first, then held out both arms.
"Come here. I'll lift you in."
She picked me up and set me down in the seat beside her.
My shoes swung in the air for a moment. She glanced at them, then smiled. "It's okay. Seats can be wiped down. But Xia can't stand outside in the wind."
It was a clear day. The wind wasn't cold at all. But I understood what she meant.
She meant: you matter more than the seat.
I wasn't sure if that was really true. But I nodded, set Boo on my lap, and placed both hands on either side of it. I sat up very straight, afraid of wrinkling the leather.
The car started moving.
The view outside began to slide away. The orphanage gate, the old crooked tree by the entrance, the sheets hanging in the yard — one by one they shrank, and then they were gone.
I didn't look back.
Not because I didn't care. Because I was afraid that if I looked back, I'd find out this was all pretend — the beautiful car, the gentle lady, the man who said "whatever you want" — all of it popping like a soap bubble.
So I didn't look.
I looked forward.
Ahead was a long, long road. The trees on either side rushed backward, and sunlight filtered down through the leaves in quick, broken flashes, landing on the back of my hand like scattered pieces of stars.
Mom turned to look at me. "Nervous?"
I shook my head.
Then nodded.
"…A little."
She smiled and reached over to touch my head. This time I didn't go stiff. Still a little unfamiliar, but not as scary.
"There's a big brother waiting for you at home," she said. "His name is Gu Chen. He's three years older than you — he just turned ten."
Big brother.
I said the words quietly inside my head.
Big brother — I'd never called anyone that before. At the orphanage, the older kids didn't let the younger ones call them that, because it meant they'd have to look after you, and that was too much trouble.
"Does he… know I'm coming?"
"Of course he does," Mom said, smiling. "He didn't say much about it, but I could tell — he's happy inside. He's getting a little sister, after all."
I tried to picture what big brother looked like.
Was he tall like Dad? Would he smile and pat my head? Would he take me to the park and teach me how to swing? Would he split his snacks with me?
I pressed my face against Boo's ear and whispered, "Boo, we have a big brother."
Boo tilted its head, like it was saying: Are you sure about that?
"I'm sure," I said.
The car kept going. My fingers worked at Boo's foot, and my chest felt full of two things at once — happy and scared. Happy because I finally had a home. Scared because —
What if they didn't like me.
What if big brother thought I was weird.
What if I did something wrong and they sent me back.
The thoughts came like little bugs, crawling out of my chest one after another. I couldn't make them stop. I just held Boo tighter and kept pinching its toes — the left ones were already a little misshapen from how often I did that.
When the car stopped, my eyes went wide.
This wasn't a house. It was — I didn't know how to say it — a very, very big house. Several times the size of the orphanage. White walls, tall front door, two neatly trimmed round trees standing on either side of the entrance. The garden was full of flowers — red, purple, white — lined up in tidy rows along the path.
When the front door opened, the floor inside was so polished it reflected like a mirror.
I stood at the entrance and couldn't step in.
The dirt on my shoes.
I thought about the dirt on my shoes again.
"Xia, come on in." Dad's voice came from ahead. He'd already walked inside and turned back to look at me.
He didn't say much, but every word he said felt like he meant it.
I looked down at my shoes. Then at that gleaming floor. My toes curled back from the threshold.
Mom crouched down beside me.
"Xia," she said, "this is your home. Your home — you can come in with your shoes on, or you can take them off. Either way is fine."
"But… it'll get dirty."
"Then we'll clean it." She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like there was nothing easier.
I took my shoes off anyway.
Bare feet on the floor — cool and smooth. My feet were small. They left a faint, shallow print that faded almost immediately. Like I'd never been there at all.
The living room was large. The sofa was off-white, piled with cushions. A bowl of fruit sat on the coffee table, washed until it gleamed. The TV was enormous — three or four times the size of the one in the orphanage playroom. On the wall hung a framed photo — Dad, Mom, and a little boy.
The boy stood in the middle. He wasn't smiling, but he looked proud. Like a little prince.
That must be big brother.
I stared at the photo for a long time. Three people in the frame. Just right. No extra space.
I went and sat in the far corner of the sofa, placed Boo on my lap, and folded my hands on top of it. I sat carefully — back straight, not leaning against the cushions, not touching the fruit.
I didn't move.
Not moving was the safest thing. If I didn't move, I wouldn't break anything. I wouldn't get in trouble. I wouldn't take up too much space.
Mom was in the kitchen. I could hear her talking to Dad in a low voice. Dad said a few words back. Then came the sound of water running, the sound of a cup being set down.
Then footsteps on the stairs.
Not an adult's footsteps. Light ones, quick ones, with an impatient rhythm.
A boy came down the stairs.
He was much taller than me, wearing a white T-shirt and dark blue shorts, his hair a little messy. He was good-looking — like the boy in the photo, but older now, and his expression was different.
The boy in the photo wasn't smiling.
This boy was cold.
He walked into the living room and looked at me.
Just once.
That one look held no curiosity, no welcome — not even dislike. It was just — a glance, like he was confirming something was there, and then he looked away.
"Mom, I'm going back to my room."
He said it toward the kitchen and turned to head upstairs.
"Chenny," Mom called, poking her head out from the kitchen, "come say hi to your sister."
He stopped. Didn't turn around.
"…Okay."
Then he did turn — but only halfway. He looked at me — or rather, he looked in my direction, his gaze floating somewhere just above my head, like it didn't want to land.
"Hey," he said.
One word.
Then he went upstairs. His footsteps were heavy — thud, thud, thud — growing fainter, until a door closed at the end of the hall. Not slammed. But not gentle either.
The living room went quiet.
I sat in the corner of the sofa, and without thinking, my fingers tightened around Boo's toes.
The little bugs in my chest started crawling again.
I looked down at Boo's face and whispered, "Boo, I don't think big brother likes me very much."
Boo tilted its head. No answer.
"It's okay," I said. Even quieter this time, quiet enough that only I could hear. "It's okay if he doesn't. I'm used to it."
My room was on the second floor.
Mom held my hand as we went up. Walking down the hallway, I noticed one door was shut. A small piece of paper was taped to it, with uneven handwriting that read: Gu Chen's room. Do not enter.
My room was right next to it.
When Mom pushed the door open, I froze.
The room was so big.
The walls were a soft, pale pink. White sheer curtains hung at the window, drifting in the breeze. The bed was large, made up in pink and white, with several new stuffed animals arranged on top — a little bear, a rabbit, a round, chubby penguin. The desk was white, with a small lamp on it and a brand-new box of colored pencils beside it.
On the windowsill sat a tiny vase with a single pink flower.
"We got this ready for you," Mom said, her voice light and careful — like she was a little afraid I wouldn't like it, but really hoping I would. "Do you like it?"
I stood in the doorway, holding Boo, and looked for a long, long time.
At the orphanage, I slept on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed. The mattress was narrow — if I rolled over, I'd hit the wall. The blankets were all the same blue plaid, washed so many times they'd gone stiff. There were no flowers on the pillow, just the occasional bug that wandered out from the corner.
I had never had a place that was just mine.
"I like it," I said. I nodded, then nodded again, like I was afraid she hadn't heard. "I really like it."
Mom's eyes curved into a smile. She crouched in front of me and tucked my hair behind my ear. "Then put Boo on the bed too. Let it rest. It's been working hard all day — you've been holding it the whole time."
I looked down at Boo.
Then I set it gently on the pillow, turning its face toward the window, so when it woke up it could see the light.
But my hands didn't let go right away.
I picked it back up and held it against my chest. "Boo," I said very quietly, "stay with me a little longer."
Mom didn't rush me.
She just touched my head softly and said, "Take your time and rest. If you get hungry, come tell Mom. You can have whatever you want for dinner."
The door closed gently.
The room was just me and Boo, and the breeze coming in through the window.
I stood there for a while. Then I walked slowly to the bed and touched the blanket with one finger.
Soft.
Really soft.
I sat down carefully. My weight pressed into the mattress, sinking in just a little. No creaking springs — just a quiet, gentle give, like the whole bed was saying: it's okay, go ahead and sit.
I set Boo beside me and looked out the window.
The sky was getting dark. The sunset had stained half the sky orange-red, and the light came through the sheer curtains and spread across the pink walls in a warm, soft layer.
I watched for a while. Then something occurred to me.
I tiptoed to the door, crouched down, and pressed my ear against it.
Sounds from downstairs. A spatula against a pan. Water running. Mom humming to herself.
They were still there.
I went back to the bed, pulled the blanket up over my knees, and tucked Boo underneath it, leaving just its head poking out.
"Boo," I said, "a lot happened today."
"The pretty lady became Mom."
"The tall man became Dad."
"And there's a big brother. His name is Gu Chen. He only said one word to me."
I paused.
"Maybe he's just not used to it yet," I said.
Then, very quietly, I added one more thing — so small I almost felt embarrassed hearing myself say it:
"I'm not used to it either."
Outside, the sky had gone fully dark. The little desk lamp glowed in the room, its light soft and close, not reaching very far — but just far enough to reach me and Boo.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes.
The blanket here was softer than the one at the orphanage. The pillow smelled better. There was no creaking from the bunk above, no footsteps in the hallway, no child crying somewhere in the night.
So quiet it didn't feel real.
I opened my eyes again and looked at the ceiling. White, smooth, no cracks, no water stains.
Then I got up.
Very quietly, I climbed out of bed and padded barefoot to the door. It wasn't locked. I opened it just a crack and pressed half my face to the gap.
In the hallway, a small night-light glowed near the floor, giving off a warm amber light — like a firefly crouched against the wall.
That light had been put there before I arrived.
I didn't know who had put it there.
I listened for a moment. No sounds from downstairs. But from the room at the end of the hall, I could just barely hear breathing — slow and quiet.
Mom and Dad's room.
They were there.
I closed the door and went back to bed, pulling the blanket up again.
The little bugs in my chest went a little quieter. Not all gone. But quieter.
"Boo," I said, eyes closed, "they didn't get upset today."
"Tomorrow… probably won't be any different."
I thought about it, then added one last thing, so small I almost felt shy saying it:
"I hope I can stay here."
That was my first night in the Gu house.
I didn't know the night-light in the hallway had been put there by Dad.
And I didn't know that behind the door next to mine — the one with the note that said do not enter — a ten-year-old boy was lying in the dark, wide awake.