A Home Pieced Together from Shattered Light

When I was fifteen, my father collapsed at a construction site on a stormy night, and my mother suffered a breakdown and was hospitalized.

> I tore up my acceptance letter from a prestigious high school and stood in front of my three younger siblings to protect them.

For ten years, I was trapped in a jungle of steel and concrete, supporting our tottering household with three jobs.

> Until my younger brother stole money to buy designer shoes, my younger sister had an asthma attack on a typhoon night, and my older sister tore up her college application.

> I smashed the pharmacy window and grabbed the medicine that could save her. As shards pierced my palm, I heard the first roar I’d let out in ten years.

> Now my siblings are gathered around me, singing “Happy Birthday.” The cake says, “Happy retirement, big brother.” Outside, the rain is falling as hard as it did on the night Father died.

The light above the emergency room entrance was ghastly white, like a sheet of paper soaked and ruined by water. It hung over my head, its blurry halo melting into the thick darkness and the sharp smell of disinfectant around it, making my vision swim. Every breath dragged painfully at my throat. The icy air seeped into my lungs, making my fingertips tremble. It felt as if all my bones had been pulled out. I slumped against the cold metal backrest, covered in countless tiny scratches, and felt the chill seep into my very bones.

Every faint click of the clock’s hands on the wall struck my temples like a tiny hammer. 11:47. That number, along with the lifeless face of my father, streaked with mud and rainwater as they carried him to the ambulance, was branded into my mind, burning with pain.

“Family of Chen Jun? Is Chen Jun’s family here?” A voice