The subway jolts.
Li Zhe leans against the cold glass, eyes closed.
Music loops in his ears, but the smoke clinging to him makes it hard to breathe.
His thoughts drift back—far back.
At nine, his family abandoned him.
He scavenged bottles to trade for steamed buns,
and when hunger was too sharp, he stole from supermarkets—caught more than once.
Finally, he was taken to the police station.
For a month he wasn't locked up, but lived among the officers.
They shared meals with him, took him to bathe, even slipped him candy during night shifts.
It was one of the few warm patches in his childhood.
But the questions never stopped—his name, his address.
He never answered.
He feared that saying them meant being sent back to the place that terrified him.
In time, the station had no choice.
He was sent to an orphanage.
Life there was better than he imagined: regular routines, enough food, study hours.
But the days were long.
Thirty children in one dorm, each carrying stories, few sharing them.
Li Zhe grew habits of his own.
At dusk, while others chased each other on the playground,
he sat in a corner, knees hugged tight.
At night, when he couldn't sleep, he stood at the corridor window, staring at faint stars.
He learned silence. He learned to bury hope.
Three years passed like that.
At twelve, a stranger appeared.
Troy—almost fifty, already a well-known architect.
He stepped into the yard in a crisp shirt, eyes surprisingly gentle.
The children stared. Li Zhe kept his head down.
That was the turn of fate.
Troy chose him, took him away—to Vancouver.
At first, walls stood between them.
Troy spoke no Chinese; Li Zhe's English was clumsy.
Meals often relied on gestures and dictionaries.
"Are you hungry?" sounded like a scolding;
"Time to sleep" sounded like being sent away.
Misunderstandings piled up; Li Zhe flushed with frustration and stopped speaking.
He had already learned silence in the orphanage—
to swallow words, to avoid explaining, to protect himself by lowering his head.
Troy slowly understood.
He never forced speech, only waited, only explained again, only showed with small acts.
He drew pictures at the table, wrote notes in a notebook, left warm milk outside the door at night.
Li Zhe still wasn't talkative, but in front of Troy he began to respond—
with a nod, a glance, a small gesture.
Troy's favorite lesson was simple:
"Know the difference between need and want."
Needs keep you alive; wants are desire—nice if you have them, but you can't depend on them.
These simple words, repeated, sank deep.
Li Zhe remembered them, even without replying.
He learned independence, kindness, and how to keep dignity in hardship.
Now Troy is sixty-three, hair graying, still in Vancouver.
He has other family, but the bond between him and Li Zhe feels tougher than blood.
And whenever Li Zhe thinks of it, guilt rises.
Because he left, drifting alone in New York, leaving Troy behind.
The train bursts from the tunnel, light flickers on his face.
He opens his eyes to an unfamiliar night outside.
The music flows on.
And he knows: no matter where he goes, loneliness always follows.