Mrs. Liang’s gaze followed a bead of rain sliding down the window, her lips moving in a faint whisper no one else could hear. She sat hunched in her chair, fingers gently patting the hem of her cardigan. “Mei will be home soon,” she said.

​

Anna carefully set down a tray with tea and biscuits, once again noticing the faint brownish stain etched into the wood’s edge. It looked old, but it pulled her eyes longer than it should have. “It’s Anna,” she reminded softly. “I’m here with you.” But Mrs. Liang’s clouded eyes brightened at her. “No, you’re Mei. Gentle as always, but you still make the tea too bitter.” She chuckled, then her smile faltered, leaving Anna uneasy. She’d been called Mei dozens of times before. Still, on mornings like this, when Mrs. Liang’s tone carried both tenderness and accusation, Anna felt as if she were impersonating a ghost.

​

Hours slipped by — her medicine untouched, comb untangling through the brittle strands of hair, old songs hummed faintly. Between the slivers of the routines, Mrs. Liang spoke of recollections. “She wanted to leave,” Mrs. Liang muttered, staring out at the rain. “She said she hated me. The whole house shook when she slammed that door.”

​

Anna paused, the comb frozen in her hand. “Who, Mrs. Liang?”

​

Mrs. Liang turned and her eyes stared sharp. “Don’t pretend, Mei. You know.” Her fingers clamped Anna’s wrist. “You always come back, though. You never really left.” Anna forced a smile, though her eyes narrowed, catching on the edge of doubt. She had worked here for months, yet not once had Mei herself visited. She’d asked, but the subject was always changed.

​

That afternoon, as Anna carried the emptied tea cup to the sink, a clap of thunder shook the windows. Behind her came the crash of ceramic: Mrs. Liang’s hand had knocked a vase off the countertop.

​

Anna rushed over. “Are you all right?”

​

But the old woman wasn’t staring at the shards. Her gaze was fixed on Anna—clear, steady, and terrifyingly lucid.

​

“You’re not Mei,” she whispered. “I know that now.”

​

Anna froze. “Mrs. Liang?”

​

Her lips trembled. “She’s gone. And it was my fault.”

​

The room seemed to tilt. Anna knelt by the chair. “What do you mean?”

​

Mrs. Liang went on, “She wanted to run away. I told her no, not after everything I’d done for her. She screamed that she hated me. I struck her—just once—but she stumbled back, hit the table. The edge… the blood—”

​

A sudden crack of thunder split the air, rattling the windows, as if the sky itself recoiled from her words.

Mrs. Liang’s hands shook as though the moment were replaying before her. Tears streaked her lined cheeks. “I didn’t mean it. I only wanted her to listen. By the time I called for help, she was—” Her voice broke. “She was gone.”

​

Anna’s breath came shallow. She wanted to dismiss it as another fragment of dementia. Yet Mrs. Liang’s eyes were sharp with a dreadful clarity.

​

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” Mrs. Liang begged. “Please. And if I forget, if my mind lets me off, don’t let her pardon me. I can’t live with that.”

​

Minutes ticked by in silence, broken only by the rain. Finally, Mrs. Liang slumped back into her armchair.

​

When she opened her eyes again, “Mei,” she said brightly, as if nothing had passed. “When you get home, will you help me make dinner? I’ll cook your favorite.”

​

Anna rose unsteadily. She tucked a blanket around Mrs. Liang and whispered, “You should rest now.”

​

Outside, the rain had thinned to mist. Anna stood beneath the dripping eaves, her hands trembling. Perhaps the confession was nothing more than memory disturbed by her illness. Perhaps Mei had left years ago, alive somewhere far from here.

​

And yet, Anna couldn’t shake the image of Mrs. Liang’s eyes, clear as glass, her voice raw with guilt.

​

She glanced back at the window. Mrs. Liang sat smiling faintly, waving as if to a daughter returning home.

​

Anna returned the wave, and in that quiet motion she took on a weight she knew might one day break her.