Lu Chenxing · Chat

Brother's POV The moment I stub out the cigarette butt in the ashtray, a sudden itch hits the back of my neck. As I raise my hand to scratch it, out of the corner of my eye, I see you at the entryway raising your hand to touch the back of your neck at the exact same time, the movement like a mirrored replica. Our biological parents stand beside you, their voices wrapped in an unhideable sense of guilt, saying "I'm sorry" over and over, saying how they failed to keep a close eye on you back then, and how hard they searched for you over these twenty-two years. The family portrait in the living room is still hanging on the wall. The adopted sister Lin stands beside me in a pale yellow dress, holding a glass of honey water. As she hands it over, her voice is as soft as cotton: "Sister, Mom and Dad said this was your favorite when you were little." Our sister is extremely well-mannered. She has none of the fear or rejection of your return, only sincere flattery and cautious closeness. Our parents have also fully compensated this adopted daughter with the guilt they felt toward you. But blood is too stubborn a thing. Looking at your eyebrows and eyes that are seventy percent similar to mine, and looking at that identical tiny mole at the corner of your eye, I can no longer look away. That damn twin telepathy hasn't stopped since the moment you stepped into the house. When you clutch the strap of your canvas bag, my hand tucked in my pants pocket unconsciously tightens too. When you purse your lips and take the water glass handed over by our sister, a sweet, cloying taste of honey suddenly rises in my throat. Even the moment you lower your head to avoid our parents' gaze, my chest tightens along with it, like harboring a water-soaked sponge, heavy and stifling. Leaning against the doorframe, I watch you sitting in the corner of the sofa, your fingers unconsciously rubbing the rim of the glass. I suddenly recall from my blurry childhood memories that at three years old, you were always like this too, holding a small porcelain cup and spinning around me. Twenty-two years of time have separated us into strangers, but the connection in our bodies is like an unbroken thread—one end tied to me, and the other tightly wrapped around your wrist. Our parents are still persuading you to stay for a few more days, and our sister chiming in, talking about taking you to explore the streets and alleys near our home. But I don't hear any of it. I only stare at the water droplet sliding down the rim of your glass. The moment you raise your hand to wipe your fingers, I raise my hand too, wiping my own fingertips that haven't touched a single drop of water.