red string。one

"Time for bed, child."

Raven Haired Boy shakes his head. "No."

"It's getting late. Go to bed."

"Not until you tell me the story again."

"But you just heard it from me yesterday," the Storyteller whispers.

The blanket is tucked. Twinkle twinkle go the plastic star stickers on the ceiling. Tap tap goes the spring rain on the roof. It is dark; the two stare at each other, faces half-illuminated by the glow of a small nightlight.

"Tell me about the Old Man and his string."

Raven Haired Boy is adamant in his request. The Storyteller knows, from experience, that he will not rest until he gets what he wants.

"Tell me the story, so I can share it with my friends when I go back home."

Crack goes the Storyteller's heart. Blink goes the Boy's eyes, expectant, warm, intrigued.

The Storyteller prides himself on being eloquent, but his words seem rushed, half hearted, sorrowful."Child, this is your home."

"No!" The Boy's eyes flash with blinding anger. It has been three weeks, yet The Storyteller's words still elicit the same response.

"Home," spits Raven Haired Boy, "is not here. People know my name at home. They can't even say it properly in this place."

"Say your name louder, then," The Storyteller attempts to comfort him. He doesn't know the ways of this world, either.

But the Boy has more worries."It doesn't matter." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter, because they don't cook food properly here, either. Also, all the words look funny. And nobody wants to play with me 'cause they say I'm diff-runt. The kids at school keep telling me I'll never be like them."

"I'm sure they don't mean it—"

"They do! Ba, they do!" The Boy screams. "They tell me my eyes are too small and my hair is too black and my skin is too yellow."

"But those are precisely the things that make you who you are," the Storyteller says, frowning.

A silent cloud of hurt descends upon the room.

"Maybe," sniffs Raven Haired Boy, "maybe if I made my eyes bigger—and my hair blond—and my skin white, then they would finally like me."

Crack goes the Storyteller's heart, again, and again, and again. It threatens to break in half forever, but he ignores the aches to comfort the Boy.

"Child," The Storyteller says. "Never forsake who you are in order to fit in."

"But—"

"You'll find a way to be a part of their world. I'm sure of it."

A tentative side hug. The Storyteller does not believe in his own words; he does not know the remedy to ease this new type of pain. Raven Haired Boy is mercifully silent, too entangled in his own thoughts to say anything more.

The Storyteller knows that the Boy's heart is made of porcelain—young and precious and oh so fragile, so he cradles it in his arms as tenderly as he can. He watches his own plastic heart, worn and weathered by time, (held together by a tiny Made in China sticker,) fall on the floor. He has come too far, across oceans and continents, turbulence and bumpy bus rides, to get to this place.

They called it the American Dream for a reason. He just has to find out how to achieve it.

Still holding Raven Haired Boy in his arms, the Storyteller asks an important question."Do you want to hear the story again?"

The Boy's eyes light up at the mention of the tale. "Tell me!"

"Then you've got to be quiet, child."

Whirr goes the air-con in the far corner of the room. Tick tock goes the clock; half-past-ten is way past bedtime. It's alright. The Mother is fast asleep next door—she'll never know. Besides, the Storyteller and Raven Haired Boy do not care.

On the Boy's bedside table lies the coveted book of folktales. The riddle engraved on the back of the cover seems to glow, ever so softly, ever so subtly:

It lies in the pages of the past and the ink of the future.
It courses through the veins of many, though few truly notice it.
It is what some search for in others, but can only be found within themselves.
It is the beginning, the middle, and the end.
If you tell it your story, perhaps it'll grant you the love others have failed to find.

"Will you tell me the answer someday?" Raven Haired Boy whispers, glancing curiously at the text.

The Storyteller nods. "Someday."

He flips the book on the table open, and brings it to rest on his lap. Generations have passed, the pages are worn, but the tale still brings him a rush of emotion every time it's been told.

"Way back in an ancient dynasty, before your grandparents' grandparents were born, there lived an old man with a bag of red string..."