When I came downstairs that morning, Dad was already dressed in his suit.
He stood in the entryway, briefcase in one hand, tying his shoelace with the other. His shoes were black and polished so bright you could see your reflection in them. I stood at the bend in the staircase, holding Boo, watching him quietly.
He looked up and saw me. He gave a single nod.
"Morning."
"Morning…" I said softly. "Dad."
I still said "Dad" in almost a whisper, like I was afraid someone might hear. But Dad must have heard, because the corner of his mouth moved.
Mom came out of the kitchen carrying a cup of coffee. She was wearing a white dress, her hair swept to one side. She looked pretty.
"Honey, try to come home early tonight."
"Mm." Dad took the coffee, had a sip, then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
I watched them. Something warm moved through me. Back at the orphanage, I'd seen it in books — that moms and dads kiss. But seeing it in real life was a first.
Dad glanced at me again. "Stay with Mom today. Don't wander off."
I nodded.
He left. When the door closed, a gust of wind came in with it and blew my hair across my face.
Mom walked over and crouched down in front of me. She brushed the hair away from my face, smiling the same way she had yesterday.
"Xia, how about Mom takes you shopping for clothes today?"
I blinked.
Shopping for clothes?
At the orphanage, clothes were donated. Someone kind would drop off a big bag, and the director would dump everything on the floor and sort it into piles by size. The older kids picked first; the little ones took what was left. The clothes I wore never really fit — always too big or too worn out. Some sleeves I had to roll up three times. Some necklines were so loose they'd slip off my shoulder.
But I'd never once thought about whether my clothes were nice. Having clothes at all was enough.
"Am I allowed to?" I asked quietly.
Mom laughed and pinched my cheek. "Of course you are. You're Mom's daughter. Mom's going to dress you up so pretty."
"But… will it cost a lot?"
Something shifted in Mom's eyes when I said that. Not happiness — more like a quiet ache. But she smiled again quickly and patted my head. "That's not something Xia needs to worry about."
My brother came down from upstairs.
He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt and shorts, his hair a little messy — he'd clearly just woken up. He walked to the dining table, picked up a piece of toast, and started eating it plain, too lazy to spread any jam.
"Chenny, come with Mom to the department store today. Help your little sister pick out some clothes."
He looked at me while chewing, then frowned. "Why do I have to go?"
"Because you're her big brother."
"…It's not my clothes."
"You can look around for yourself while we're there."
He didn't say anything else, but I could tell he didn't want to go. He took another bite of toast and turned to look out the window, his cheeks puffed out as he chewed.
I looked down. I felt a little bad. Because of me, my brother had to do something he didn't want to do.
The department store was enormous.
So enormous that I stopped the moment I walked in.
I'd never been anywhere like this. The floors shone like mirrors. The ceiling soared like a cathedral. Everywhere there were lights and music. The air held a layered smell — flowers, food, and something else underneath, something I couldn't name, something that felt expensive.
There were so many people.
So many. Adults, children, people pushing strollers, people carrying shopping bags, people dressed beautifully, people walking fast. Their voices blended together like the orphanage playroom turned up ten times louder.
Without thinking, I held Boo tighter.
Mom held my hand and walked toward the children's clothing section on the first floor. My brother followed behind, both hands in his pockets, wearing an expression that said he did not want to be here.
The children's section was bigger than I'd imagined. Racks and racks of clothes — little skirts, little dresses, little jackets, little hats, little shoes. Pink, white, sky blue, floral, lace, with bows. More clothes than everything I'd ever seen put together.
I stood there, not knowing where to look.
Mom let go of my hand and lifted a pale pink dress off the rack. The hem had small white flowers on it. She held it up in front of me.
"So cute. Xia would look so pretty in this."
I looked at the dress. It was new and beautiful and soft. There was a tiny bow pinned at the collar.
Back at the orphanage, there was a girl a little older than me who had a floral skirt. She said her mom had bought it for her before she was adopted. She wore it every day, even after it got old and faded. I used to think — if I had a mom, maybe I'd have a skirt like that too.
"Do you like it?" Mom asked.
I nodded. But I didn't say "I like it," because I didn't know what would happen if I did. At the orphanage, liking something didn't matter. Liking something didn't mean you'd get it.
Mom seemed to understand what my eyes were saying. She didn't ask again. She just hung the dress over her arm and kept walking.
"Come on, let's keep looking."
She led me through the racks, one piece at a time.
A white dress with little strawberries on it. A sky-blue sundress with two tiny sunflowers on the straps. A pale yellow princess dress with a full, layered skirt. A soft lavender shirt dress, quiet and delicate.
She held each one up in front of me, tilted her head, and said, "Pretty."
I stood there like a coat hanger and let her compare. I didn't know what to say.
When she got to the fifth one, she turned to me. "Xia, is there anything you like? You can go look around yourself."
I looked at the rows of racks.
Then I walked slowly toward one of them.
Hanging there was a very small dress — off-white, with a row of hand-stitched little rabbits around the collar. Their ears stood straight up, embroidered in pale pink thread.
I stared at those little rabbits for a long time.
Then I reached out and touched one of the ears.
"You like this one?" Mom appeared beside me without my noticing.
I pulled my hand back quickly and shook my head.
But Mom had already taken it off the rack. She checked the tag, then smiled. "Rabbits. Just like Boo. This one is definitely Xia's."
She said "definitely Xia's."
Not "we could get this for Xia." Definitely Xia's.
Like this dress had been waiting here for me all along.
My nose went a little tight. But I didn't cry. I pressed my face into the top of Boo's head and said very quietly, "Thank you, Mom."
So quiet. But Mom heard, because she reached out and touched my ponytail.
My brother was sitting in a chair outside the fitting rooms, swinging his feet, looking like he was about to fall asleep from boredom.
Mom took me inside one of the rooms.
She helped me into the pink dress, smoothed out the hem, and walked me out to stand in front of the mirror.
There was a little girl in the mirror.
She was wearing a pink dress, her hair in two pigtails, holding a stuffed rabbit. The dress came to just above her knees. The little flowers at the collar sat there quietly.
That was me.
But she didn't look quite like the me I was used to.
The me I was used to wore the gray jacket from the orphanage, sleeves rolled up three times, neckline loose and drooping. But the me in the mirror looked —
"Beautiful," Mom said from behind me.
Then a voice drifted over from the direction of the chairs.
"Not bad."
My brother. He'd been staring at the ceiling, but at some point he'd turned his head. He looked at me — just once, quickly — then looked away.
"Not bad" — three throwaway words.
But he looked.
It was the first time he'd actually looked at me in new clothes.
Mom bought seven pieces.
Seven outfits, two pairs of shoes, a pack of hair ties, and a small rabbit barrette.
She'd spotted the barrette at the register — pink, with ears that wobbled. She held it up against my head for a second and dropped it in the bag.
I had never owned this many things.
All the bags hung from Mom's arms and she still looked graceful. My brother had been assigned two bags to carry. He carried them with a sour expression.
"Come on, let's get something to eat," Mom said.
I followed behind her, one arm holding Boo, one hand gripping the edge of her skirt.
The department store was even more crowded than when we'd arrived. Legs and footsteps everywhere. My eye level hit somewhere around most adults' waists — all I could see was a swaying blur of hems and shopping bags.
Mom stopped at a counter and bent down to look at a bottle of perfume.
I stood beside her and waited.
Then a group of people came from my right. They were walking fast. Someone's shopping bag brushed my arm. I stepped back — another group came from the left. I stepped back again.
I turned to reach for Mom's skirt.
My hand closed around air.
Mom wasn't there.
No — I wasn't where I'd been anymore.
I looked left, looked right. Legs everywhere. Legs in heels, legs in jeans, legs in long skirts. But none of them were Mom's.
I turned in a circle.
Then again.
The crowd flowed past me like water, and no one stopped to look at me. I was too small. Swallowed up in a world of adults, like I'd fallen into deep water.
I held Boo and stood very still.
A voice inside me, very soft, very small, like a mosquito humming near my ear —
Of course.
Of course I was going to get left behind.
They'd been shopping and they'd forgotten me. Maybe they were already gone. Already on their way home. Already realizing it didn't matter that one person was missing.
Just like all those people who came to the orphanage to adopt. They'd look at me once and walk away. Every single time. They came, they looked, they took someone else, they forgot me.
This was the same.
I pulled Boo up to my chest and held him as tight as I could. Then I crouched down.
My knees touched the cold floor.
My head dropped, my forehead resting against Boo.
The sounds around me went far away. Footsteps, voices, music — all of it blurred together, like thick cotton wrapped around my ears.
I didn't cry.
At the orphanage, crying never made anyone come. It only made your eyes swell up, and then one of the staff would say, "Stop crying. You're old enough to know better."
So I learned not to cry.
I closed my eyes and made myself as small as I could.
Boo's ears were soft against my cheek. I told him in my head: It's okay, Boo. We were on our own before. It's okay.
Across the floor, Mom set down the perfume bottle.
She turned around. Her eyes swept the area — Xia had been right beside her just a moment ago, right here, holding the edge of her skirt, quiet as always.
But that spot was empty now.
"Xia?"
No answer.
"Xia?" Her voice rose.
The crowd moved past her. Not one face was that small, pigtailed one she was looking for.
Mom's shopping bags slid off her arm.
Three paper bags hit the floor. Clothes spilled out. She didn't even look at them. She crouched down, dropping her line of sight to a child's level, peering through the forest of legs.
Nothing.
She stood up, took a few steps back, then a few steps forward. Her heels struck the marble floor in quick, urgent beats — click click click click — nothing like her usual unhurried rhythm.
"Xia! Xia!"
Her voice had started to shake.
A saleswoman at the nearby counter leaned over. "Ma'am, is everything okay?"
"My daughter — my daughter is missing. She's small, seven years old, pigtails, she's carrying a stuffed rabbit —"
By the time she finished saying all of that, her eyes were already red.
Her name was Aiya. She had walked countless runways, faced hundreds of cameras, and never once lost her composure. But right now her hands were trembling, her voice was cracking, and her tears were one breath away from falling.
Because she knew exactly what Xia would be thinking.
That child wouldn't cry out for her mom. She wouldn't run to the information desk. She wouldn't grab a stranger's sleeve and say, "I can't find my mom."
She would crouch down. She would make herself small. She would hold Boo and sit quietly and tell herself —
Of course. They don't want me anymore.
At that thought, Aiya's tears finally fell.
She wasn't afraid Xia was in danger. What she was afraid of was this — that the child who had only just begun to believe she had a home was right now, somewhere in a corner, quietly taking back every bit of trust she'd started to give.
"Mom!"
Gu Chen was standing a few steps away, still holding a bag of clothes, his expression asking what was wrong.
He'd been trailing behind, idly scuffing the floor tiles. But then he saw his mom crouching on the ground, bags scattered everywhere, eyes red —
He had never seen her like this.
"Xia's gone." Mom's voice was barely above a whisper, but every word trembled. "Chenny, she's gone."
Gu Chen stood still for one second.
Then he dropped the bag in his hand, turned, and ran.
He didn't know why he was running so fast. He didn't know why his heartbeat had suddenly gotten so loud. He only knew — that quiet little girl who had been trailing behind them, not talking, not calling out, the kind of girl who wouldn't make a sound even if she got lost — she was somewhere out there alone right now.
He ran through the cosmetics section, through the handbags, past rack after rack of merchandise. He kept his gaze low — not looking at adults, just scanning the floor. Looking for a small, crouching shape holding a rabbit.
I don't know how much time passed.
Maybe one minute. Maybe ten. Maybe a hundred years.
Then a voice cut through from somewhere far away.
"Xia!"
My brother's voice.
I didn't move. I wasn't sure I hadn't imagined it. Maybe someone else was calling a different Xia. Maybe I was so scared I'd made up the sound in my own head.
"Xia! You're here!"
Footsteps. Fast, urgent, running toward me.
Then two hands grabbed my shoulders.
I slowly lifted my head.
It was my brother.
He was crouching in front of me, his face flushed red, sweat on his forehead. His eyes were wide, and there was something in them I hadn't seen before — not anger, not impatience, but —
"Why are you just sitting here!" His voice was loud, like he was scolding me. But his hands were shaking.
The hands gripping my shoulders were shaking.
"Do you know how long I was looking for you! Why didn't you stay put! Why didn't you call out!"
He said it all in one rush. Every sentence sounded like a scolding. But his eyes were red.
I looked at him. My mouth opened a little.
I wanted to say sorry. But something was blocking my throat.
"You —" He stopped mid-sentence.
He looked at my face. Like he saw something there. Maybe my eyes. Maybe my fingers clutching Boo. Maybe the way I was crouched on the floor, curled into myself.
His expression changed.
From frantic to something else. Something quiet. A little lost.
He let go of my shoulders. Two seconds of silence.
Then he stood up and held out his hand.
"Let's go."
Just two words. Much quieter than before, like he'd pressed them down on purpose.
I looked at his hand.
His fingers were much longer than mine. His palm was a little damp — sweat from running.
I tucked Boo under my arm and slowly, slowly reached out.
My fingers touched his.
He closed his hand around mine right away.
Tight. Like he was afraid I'd disappear again.
He pulled me to my feet and didn't look back at me, but he walked slowly. Much slower than he usually did.
His hand was so warm.
Different from Dad's warmth. Dad's hand was thick and steady, like a wall. My brother's hand was narrow and hot and trembling just slightly.
He led me through the crowd.
He wasn't tall — he was only ten, shorter than most of the adults around us. But the way he walked in front of me, he was like a small, hard wall, parting the crowd.
About three minutes later, we found Mom.
She was standing near the same counter as before, still holding her shopping bags, her face a little pale. A department store employee in uniform stood beside her, apparently helping her search.
"Mom! Over here!" my brother called out.
Mom turned.
The moment she saw us, her face went from relief to red-rimmed eyes in an instant.
She walked quickly toward us, crouched down, and pulled me into a hug.
"Xia… you scared Mom to death…" Her voice was shaking, her arms wrapped tight around me. "I'm sorry. Mom wasn't paying attention. I'm so sorry…"
She was apologizing to me.
She was apologizing to me.
At the orphanage, no adult had ever said sorry to me. Whatever happened, it was always the child's fault. Running too fast — the child's fault. Knocking something over — the child's fault. Getting lost — your own carelessness.
But Mom said, "Mom wasn't paying attention."
Not my fault.
She was blaming herself.
I sat in her arms and breathed in the soft floral smell of her. Her hand moved up and down my back, patting gently, like she was soothing something.
My eyes burned.
But I didn't cry.
It had been so long since I'd cried. I wasn't sure I still knew how.
Mom held me for a long time before she let go.
She dabbed at the corner of her eye, then stood up and looked at my brother.
"Chenny, you found her?"
"Yeah." His voice was flat. "She was crouched in a corner. Like a little mushroom."
"How did you find her?"
"I was walking back and I saw someone crouching on the floor. I figured it was her."
"You ran to find her?"
"I walked."
But the sweat on his forehead hadn't dried yet. He'd definitely run.
Mom looked at him and smiled — a particular kind of smile, like she'd seen something that put her at ease.
"Chenny, thank you."
"…It's nothing." He turned his head away. His ears were a little red.
After that, we went to the food court.
Mom ordered three bowls of noodles. She sat beside me; my brother sat across from me.
Something was different from before.
After he sat down, my brother didn't immediately look at his phone. He glanced at me, then looked at the space beside me, then looked around at the people nearby.
Like he was checking something.
The noodles came. I bent over my bowl and ate, slurping softly.
"Don't eat so fast. You'll choke."
I looked up.
That was my brother.
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his own bowl. But he'd definitely been watching me.
"Okay," I said quietly.
I slowed down.
Halfway through the meal, Mom stood up. "Mom's going to grab some napkins. Wait here."
She walked away.
My brother and I sat across from each other.
About three seconds of quiet.
Then my brother said, out of nowhere, "If you get lost again, just stay where you are and don't move."
I looked at him.
"Don't wander around. Don't crouch down. Stand up. That way you're easier to find."
He said it, then picked up a chopstick-full of noodles and put it in his mouth, like he hadn't said anything at all.
But I heard him.
He said "again."
Again meant — he thought there would be a next time.
Again meant — he planned to take me out again.
Again meant — he intended to find me.
I looked down at my bowl. The corner of my mouth moved.
Not quite a smile. But almost.
On the way home, I sat in the back seat. Mom drove; my brother sat beside me.
The shopping bags were piled at my feet, stuffed with new clothes. When the car turned a corner, one bag tipped over and the rabbit dress peeked out from the top.
I bent down to fix it. My brother bent down at the same time.
Our heads almost knocked together.
He got to the bag first, straightened it, then shifted a little toward the window.
"Clumsy," he said under his breath.
But he wasn't looking at me when he said it, and his voice was so light it barely made it out of his mouth.
I held Boo and looked out the window. Streetlights slid past one by one. The sky was slowly turning orange-red.
Then I felt a gaze.
I didn't turn my head. But I knew — the brother sitting beside me had snuck a look at me.
Then another.
He thought I didn't notice.
But Boo noticed.
Because Boo's face was pointing in his direction.
When we got home, I helped Mom carry the bags inside.
Dad was back. He was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. When he saw us come in with all those bags, he put the paper down and stood up to help.
"You bought all this?"
"Xia looked so cute in everything. I couldn't help myself." Mom laughed and set the bags on the table.
Dad glanced at the clothes in the bags, then glanced at me. The corner of his mouth moved again. I understood that now — that was Dad's smile.
"Go wash your hands. Dinner soon." he said.
My brother had already gone upstairs. His door closed with a thud, same as yesterday.
But different from yesterday — before he went up, he paused in the entryway for two seconds.
He looked at the shoe rack.
Two new pairs of small shoes had appeared on it. Pink and white, sitting side by side next to his blue sneakers.
He didn't say anything.
But he looked.
That night, I sat alone on my bed, Boo resting beside my pillow.
I'd taken all seven outfits out of the bags and laid them on the floor in front of me, one by one, and now I crouched beside them and looked.
Pink. White. Sky blue. Pale yellow. Soft lavender. Floral. And the rabbit one.
They were beautiful.
They were brand new.
They were mine.
I reached out and touched the little rabbit ears on the collar of the rabbit dress.
Soft. Just like Boo's ears.
I picked Boo up and set him on top of the rabbit dress.
"Boo, look. You have family now."
His glass eyes stared up at the ceiling, like he was saying: Mm-hm.
I lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket up.
Tonight, I didn't curl up in the corner. I lay a little closer to the middle of the bed than I had yesterday. No wall behind me — just the soft mattress and the small glow of the night-light.
I closed my eyes and ran my fingers along the edge of the blanket.
So much had happened today.
I got new clothes. I got lost. I thought they didn't want me anymore. But my brother found me.
My brother's hand was warm.
He was shaking.
The way he came running — it was like he really —
Really was afraid he wouldn't find me.
Why would someone who doesn't like me be afraid of not finding me?
I couldn't figure it out.
But I remembered his hand.
Warm and narrow, holding on so tight.
Like it was saying something he didn't say out loud.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin and said something softly.
A little louder than yesterday. Loud enough that I could hear myself —
"Good night, big brother."
The room next door was quiet.
But I had a feeling that on the other side of that wall, someone was still awake.