Chapter 1: The Teapot
Mei had not cried at the funeral. She had stood beside her mother, dry-eyed, holding a white chrysanthemum, watching the coffin lower into the cold London earth. She had told herself: Grandma would hate the fuss.
But now, alone in her grandmother’s flat, she could not stop crying.
The kitchen smelled like old wood and dust. The kettle was still on the counter, exactly where Lin had left it. A half-empty tin of jasmine tea sat beside the sink. Mei touched it. The tin was cold.
Then she saw the teapot.
It sat on the highest shelf, behind a row of cookbooks, as if hidden on purpose. It was made of dark Yixing clay, the colour of dried blood, with a single crack running down its side. Mei remembered: Grandma never let anyone touch this pot. Not Mei. Not her mother. Not even the cleaning lady who came once a month.
“It is fragile,” Lin would say, waving them away. “Very old. Very precious.”
Mei reached up and took it down. It was heavier than she expected. Warm, too—as if someone had just poured tea into it. But the flat had been empty for a week.
She filled the kettle. She boiled water. She dropped a pinch of jasmine leaves into the pot—just as she had watched Grandma do a thousand times. The water hit the clay with a soft hiss. Steam rose.
The crack began to glow.
Not red. Not gold. A soft, milky white, like moonlight on frost. Mei froze. The steam curled upward, twisting, forming shapes she could not understand.
And then—a voice.
Not clear. Not loud. A whisper, crackling like old radio static. But Mei knew that voice. She had heard it sing lullabies. She had heard it scold her for burning rice. She had heard it say “I love you, little one” a thousand times.
“You burned the rice again, child.”
Mei dropped the teapot.
It did not break. It simply sat on the counter, steaming gently, as if nothing had happened. Mei stared at it. Her hands were shaking.
She grabbed her phone and called Shanghai.
Her mother answered on the second ring. “Mei? It is three in the morning here. What is wrong?”
“Grandma’s teapot,” Mei said. Her voice was too high. Too fast. “It—it glowed. And I heard her voice. Grandma’s voice. She said—”
“Throw it away.”
Mei stopped. “What?”
“Throw it away.” Her mother’s voice was sharp, cold, nothing like the warm woman who sent her care packages every month. “Do not keep it. Do not use it. Throw it in the bin and do not look back.”
“But—”
“Mei.” Her mother’s voice cracked. She was crying. Mei had never heard her mother cry. “Please. Just trust me. That pot has caused enough tears.”
The line went dead.
Mei stared at the phone. Then at the teapot. The crack had stopped glowing. The steam had vanished. It was just a clay pot again—old, cracked, ordinary.
But something was wrong. Something was pulling at her chest.
She poured another cup.
The water hit the clay. The steam rose again. This time, the crack did not glow. But the steam twisted—curling into a shape she had never seen. A face. A man’s face. Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes. A small smile, like he knew a secret he would never tell.
Mei’s breath caught in her throat. Her grandmother had never mentioned this man. Her mother had never shown her a photograph. But the face in the steam looked at her—through her—as if he had been waiting for her to find him.
The steam dissolved. The face vanished.
Mei set down the cup. She looked at the teapot. She looked at the kitchen. She looked at the empty flat that still smelled like her grandmother’s perfume.
Who was that man?
And why did her mother want her to throw away the only thing that still felt like Grandma Lin?
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End of Chapter 1
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