Caterina Valenti—Cat to anyone who valued their eardrums, Catty only to brothers who enjoyed living dangerously—sat on the edge of her bed, surrounded by half-opened boxes that still smelled faintly of New York cardboard and moving-truck exhaust. A month in Markham and the new house still felt like someone else's life. Here everything was too neat, too quiet, too… polite. She flopped backward with a groan that would have earned applause in her old drama club.
Oh, how she missed New York!
She'd been born in London, a squalling bundle of mixed heritage in a tiny flat near the Thames, but her parents had packed up and crossed the Atlantic when she was barely six months old. Dad's IT job had lured them to the suburbs of New York—Westchester, with its leafy streets and proximity to the city's hum. That's where she'd really grown up: in a rambling old house with a backyard that doubled as her personal zoo. She'd spent endless afternoons there, building forts for stray cats, nursing baby birds that fell from nests, and dreaming up her future vet clinic complete with a sign that read "Cat's Creature Care" (pun very much intended). School had been a blast—her biology teacher had let her lead dissections, and she'd joined the animal welfare club, organizing bake sales to fund local shelters. Weekends meant trips into Manhattan: dodging tourists in Central Park while spotting squirrels and pigeons like they were exotic wildlife, or hitting the Bronx Zoo where she'd press her nose to the glass of the gorilla exhibit, sketching behaviors for her "research notebook."
And the food—oh, the food. Real New York pizza, folded in half and dripping cheese, bagels that actually crunched, and street cart falafel that Mom swore was better than London's. But mostly, she missed her friends: Sara, who shared her obsession with endangered species documentaries; Jamal, who'd sneak her comics about superheros and Japanese mangas; and the whole gang who'd turn sleepovers into fun marathons.
Here in Markham, everything was too… polite. No honking taxis echoing from the highway, no impromptu block parties with neighbors blasting everything from Bollywood hits to Italian operas. Why couldn't Dad's firewalls stay in New York? she thought, hugging her knees. This place is like a postcard—pretty, but no pulse.
From downstairs came the comforting chaos that at least felt like home.
"Papa, you're burning the garlic again!" Zuane's voice floated up, half-laughing, half-horrified.
"It's caramelizing, Zuane. There's a difference," Dad shot back. "And it's called soffritto, not 'burnt garlic.'"
"You say that every time, Vinny," Mom called from the kitchen, amusement thick in her voice. "Then we eat charcoal pasta and pretend it's gourmet."
Cat couldn't help the small smile. Even after all the moves—London to New York, New York to here—the kitchen arguments were the same. Dad, Vincenzo at work, Vinny to everyone else, half-Italian half-Brit, always trying to channel his Nonno's cooking skills. Mom, Nina, nurse with the iron spine and the softest heart, usually ending up fixing whatever Dad had "caramelized" into inedibility. Mom's side added its own flavor: her dad had been an Indian professor in London, strict about education but soft on stories from the Mahabharata, while her mom was Irish through and through, with a gift for baking scones that could make angels weep and a collection of Celtic knots she'd knot into scarves for luck. Between them they'd produced four kids who were a glorious cultural jumble and bore names from each of their cultures: Zuane (seventeen, formerly Giovanni until he'd staged a dramatic protest at 10 for the "more Venetian" spelling), Cillian or Ian (fifteen, he strictly calls himself Ian, got tired of people calling him Sillian and friends calling him Silly..well Cat does call him Silly anyways!), Cat herself (thirteen and perpetually sandwiched), and Ishaan (eleven, named by her Indian grandpa, none has found any jokes about it yet, shocker!). The only oddity again was Cat- her parents wanted to call her a British name, but her Nonna had insisted that this bambina be named after their heritage- Niente inglese, grazie!
Since her dad's Brit mom was not in pic(she had divorced her Grandpa, left long back, married again and maintained little contact), none felt too upset about missing out on a British name at home.
This diversity in their heritage and family showed up everywhere. Christmas trees tangled with Diwali lights, Holi colors on Easter eggs, Mom's butter chicken served with Dad's attempt at Yorkshire pudding. And the religious bits? Cat was vaguely aware of it all—Hindu tales from Grandpa's bedtime stories, Celtic blessings whispered by Gran over scraped knees, Christian prayers at Nonna's video-call rosaries. It was a patchwork she didn't think much about, except when holidays overlapped and the house smelled like incense, mince pies, and rangoli powder all at once. "We're a walking interfaith calendar," Dad liked to joke, while Mom just shrugged and said it kept life interesting.
She wandered downstairs just as Mom was setting the table. The smell of garlic (only slightly singed) and fresh basil filled the air.
"Feeling better, tesoro?" Mom asked, pressing a cool hand to Cat's forehead like she still had a fever.
"Yeah. Cold's almost gone. Thanks for the soup yesterday."
Mom's eyes crinkled. "That wasn't me. Auntie Wang from down the street brought it over. Congee, she said. 'Healing food for little girls who move countries too much.' She's lovely—insists I call her Auntie even though we're the same age."
Cat raised an eyebrow. "Auntie Wang?"
"Mmm. Very sweet. She has a son your age—Zihan, or Ethan. Same grade at Markham Secondary. Said she'd love to introduce him once you're properly recovered. Show you around before school starts, maybe."
Cat's stomach did a small, nervous flip. "Oh. That's… nice."
"She mentioned he's been helping another boy who just moved in too. Sponsored student from China, I think. Sounds like a good kid." Mom squeezed her shoulder. "You'll be fine, Cat. You always make friends faster than you think."
Cat nodded, not entirely convinced, but the warmth in Mom's voice helped a little.
After dinner—pasta that was only sixty percent charcoal—she retreated upstairs. The sun had dropped, streetlights flickering on in soft gold pools. She was about to yank the curtains closed when movement caught her eye.
A boy her age was walking slowly across the street. Not rushing, not slouching like most kids after dark. His back was ramrod straight, as if someone had tied an invisible string from the crown of his head to the sky. His face tilted upward, eyes closed, like he was listening to the night itself instead of watching the sidewalk.
*What an absolute idiot,* Cat thought, lips twitching. *Gonna kiss a telephone pole and blame the moon.*
But then he stepped directly under the streetlamp, and the light washed over him: tall for thirteen, lean like a runner, sharp jaw, high cheekbones, straight black hair tied back neatly. Quietly, intensely good-looking in a way that made her blink twice.
*Huh,* she admitted to herself. *Okay, not bad.*
She watched for half a second longer than she meant to, then shook her head hard. *Nope. No time for that. You've got a new school, zero friends, and a cold that's still trying to kill you. Focus, Caterina.*
She pulled the curtains shut with a decisive tug.
Across the street, Xuan stopped mid-stride. A faint, inexplicable tug ran along his spine, making him turn toward the now-dark window. He frowned, jade-green eyes narrowing.
Why did I… he wondered, the sensation already fading like mist. He'd been deep in his Heaven and Earth breathing, quietly sipping moonlight like it was premium spiritual tea, eyes closed because who needs vision when you've got divine sense? Navigating sidewalks blind was basically beginner mode for a cultivator. Yet out of nowhere—something soft, like a feather brushing his soul.
Not hostile.
Not demonic.
Just… annoyingly gentle.
What fresh nonsense is this? he thought, resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck like a mortal who'd just walked through a spiderweb. One moment I'm harmonizing with the cosmos, the next I'm getting spiritually cat-called by a random window?
He stood there for a beat, debating.
Option one: investigate immediately. Slip into the shadows, phase through the wall, peek in like a proper mysterious immortal. Classic move.
Option two: remember I'm in Markham, Canada, where phasing through walls is called "breaking and entering" and can get you arrested by very polite officers who will still ruin your night.
Also Option 1 is not possible because of strict instructions he had recieved when he left- "We of Xuanmen, do not use sect ways to solve human problems in human world; unless you're dealing with another of Mystic world and unless you've no other option, do not use our ways, charms or talismans. Adapt to the ways and rules with which humans are living now- that after all is what you're being send for'.
He sighed—long, dramatic, the sigh of a thirteen-year-old mystic forced to obey laws about break-ins.
Ahhhh, human rules are the real tribulation, he grumbled internally.
In Canglong I could've just flown over, checked the qi signature, maybe left a subtle protective talisman. Here? I'd probably set off someone's Ring camera and end up viral as "Weird Kid in Pajamas Staring at House at 2 a.m, unless I spend all my energy using an invisibility charm! Not worth it anyways"
He gave the darkened window one last suspicious glance.
Fine. Later. After all, I live just blocks away now, I will get many chances to investigate.
With that, he resumed walking, posture still perfect and continued absorbing energy in harmony.