Against the Algorithm

Chapter 67: What She Never Said Aloud

Yao knelt down, resting her hand over Da Bing's fur, the other reaching for Xiao Cong as he pressed himself against her thigh with a dramatic, possessive purr. "This feels like the first time I've been able to breathe in years."

"You're not alone now," Sicheng said, crouching beside her, his hand settling lightly over her back.

"No," she whispered, stroking her fingers along Xiao Cong's spine as her eyes lifted to the sunlight streaming across the hardwood floor. "I'm not."

Yao stepped softly back down the hallway, passing the sunlit bedroom and guest room, her steps slowing as she reached the office again. The door was still open, and the scent that greeted her, a faint mixture of cedar, paper, and the dusty remnants of lavender tea, felt like walking into a conversation mid-sentence. She hesitated at the doorway, then crossed the room in quiet, deliberate movements and lowered herself into the chair behind the desk. The seat creaked just slightly, worn in a way that told her someone had spent long hours here. Her fingers hovered over the laptop before shifting toward the drawers instead. One by one, she opened them, slowly.

Pens. Files. Old receipts from a bank account closed long ago. But then, in the deepest drawer, she found it, a folded stack of documents, neatly bound with a soft gray ribbon and labeled in her mother's handwriting. Her breath caught. The papers inside were personal correspondence, drafts of letters, email printouts, shipping manifests, even a map of Shenzhen with property circles marked in soft red ink. There were lists of elementary schools. Notes about how to transfer her father's medical records. Detailed cost breakdowns of living expenses, and a long, annotated checklist of everything they would need to restart a life here.

It hit her like a whisper.

This wasn't just a condo.

This was a plan.

A home-in-waiting.

Her parents had been preparing to relocate from the States. They'd chosen this city. This neighborhood. This building. Every detail in this unit had been intentional. The books, the spare room, the untouched linens, all of it was part of a life they'd meant to give her.

A future.

Yao's hand trembled as she refolded the documents and tucked them back into the drawer. When she left the room, she didn't speak. Her steps carried her down the hall and back into the third room, the small storage space she'd barely glanced at earlier. She knelt before the box labeled Spring clothes. Yao, fingers brushing once more over her mother's familiar, flowing handwriting before she opened it. Inside were carefully folded garments, tiny dresses, pastel sweaters, a small navy cardigan with a missing button, and the faint scent of clean fabric and old memories. Each item was unmistakably hers from when she was much younger, seven, maybe eight. Some were clothes she didn't even remember owning. She pressed a hand to her mouth, blinking back tears. Behind her, soft footsteps approached, stopping just a pace away.

Sicheng crouched beside her silently, his shoulder touching hers. His voice came low, quiet, far more careful than it usually was. "When did they die?"

She didn't speak at first. Her fingers traced the edge of one small pale-yellow dress before her lips finally moved. "I was six." The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It wasn't cold. It was reverent. Like something sacred had been placed between them, and neither of them dared to speak over it too quickly. "I remember my aunt saying it was a car accident," she said quietly. "It was late. Rainy. They were coming back from dinner. I stayed with my nanny that night because I had a fever." Her voice trembled slightly. "They never made it home."

Sicheng reached out, slowly, and laid his hand over hers inside the box. Not to take. Just to be there.

"I've never told anyone that," she added after a moment, her eyes fixed on the cardigan she hadn't worn since her seventh birthday. "Not really. Not the whole thing."