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October 13 - October 17, 2025
In its best years, Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse attracted more than its fair share of regulars despite its humble positioning, tucked between Lucky Laundry on one side and Winifred’s Patisserie on the other. But the customer base was mostly elderly immigrants, and over the years, the steady stream turned into a trickle, then a drip, and now, the only remaining customer Vera can rely on is Alex.
She puts on her reading glasses and peers down at her ledger, her eyebrows going up in an effort to help her read the tiny handwriting.
Vera’s tea cabinet is a thing of wonder. It has exactly 188 little drawers, each one filled with some high-quality ingredient shipped from the dewy hills of China.
it’s over the numerous ways that their sons have disappointed them that a true bond of friendship has been forged between Vera and Alex.
So much of Chinatown is like that, slowly fading away.
Dressed in her usual morning gear, visor securely on her head, Vera marches down the stairs to her teahouse, where she finds herself, for once, shocked speechless. For there, lying in the middle of Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse, is a dead man.
Okay, perhaps the fact that she’s taken something out of the dead man’s clenched fist has given her a bit of an unfair advantage.
he has enough aunties and uncles to know that the best thing to do when they get like this is to shut up and hope you magically learn how to turn yourself invisible.
she’d often find houses filled with crumbling boxes full of stuff. Mementos from their parents’ homeland, too old to use, too precious to throw away, too painful to look at. So they are left to age gently, a reminder of everyone who was left behind.
In Chinese culture, respect only flows in one direction, from the younger to the older, like a river. The older generation doesn’t owe the younger ones respect; if any is given, it is done so out of kindness and generosity, not necessity.
But there’s just something infuriating about her mom calling her “my little art genius.” Somehow, in ways that Sana can’t quite explain, it manages to come off as both condescending and yet full of heavy expectations.
“Oh, Marshall,” he says, his voice heavy with sorrow and regret. “What have you done?”
At best, her food is passable, but it can never be accused of being anything that might cause cravings, unless the craving is for the meal to be over. Yet another thing marking her down as an incompetent housewife and human in general.
He feels his affection and respect for them growing, and surely that is a mistake, a bad omen, when the thing that has brought them all together is an unsolved murder.
The sight of them is strangely nice, as though they’ve been friends for a while instead of strangers thrown together by tragic circumstances.
Sana can’t help feeling a stab of jealousy at the simplicity of the kid’s world. Draw on pavement, drink warm milk, take a nap. She gives herself a little shake. How pathetic to be jealous of a toddler.
they’re also yelling into their smartphones and checking their Apple Watch every ninety seconds to make sure that they’re getting in their ten thousand steps while negotiating multibillion-dollar deals.
“It looks like there are many different kind of scalping bot, but they all want to do one thing: scam people.”
And somehow, in teaching Emma that flaws can be turned into something unique and beautiful, Sana, too, begins to heal.
Oliver had shared a womb with him, had gone through all of his childhood and formative years as his twin brother, tethered to him. What would that have been like, to have to be so close to someone whose shine dazzled everyone and be the only person who knew that the shine came from a poisonous radiation?
