"Tai sees things in black and white. He'll understand when he's older. Or will they create a bad impression of me, once I'm gone? Doesn't matter. I won't let this gift go to waste."

"Was starting to think you changed your mind," Charu's voice echoed from behind me.

I fumbled with Liam's pocket journal, picking it up from the floor. Its leather bindings were delicately falling apart. Brushing my knees, I stood up. I forgot I had not been able to float like a ghost, but falling on my knees wasn't terrible, and the ache in my knees would be a light bruise at its worst. Leading up to this day, I had steeled myself to be intimidated by bright studio lights, plush seats, state of the art equipment, and a sensory-overload worth of people. Of all the places I had expected to meet a celebrity known for refined and melancholy songwriting, the abandoned TTC Lower Bay subway station was not it.

Especially not in the middle of the night. But they had a busy schedule, I couldn't sleep, and I did tell them to accommodate for my sensory differences. When else could I explore this relic of a past failure in peace?

I turned away from the stairs and escalators which were blocked off with orange mesh. Charu stood a few meters ahead on the station platform, flanked by two dilapidated pillars.

"I got here ten minutes ago," I informed them. "I just didn't know where you were hiding in the gloom. Mind turning on some lights?"

"Ten?" They frowned and looked up. "The hinges on those doors screech."

Passing through the walls was the easy part, but those stairs sure gave me a scare. Should've only popped my head first next time. I shrugged. "I'm a quiet person. And I wasn't sure if I was interrupting your filming," I rambled.

"How considerate. Next time I'll choose somewhere less unorthodox," Charu mused. They moved around the sleek filming equipment arranged along the platform, turning on a light here and there. The station turned from dark shadows to off-white walls and peeling paint. "Contrary to popular belief, I do not prefer conversations in darkness. A train might pass by us. Only kept the lights off to rest my own eyes. Cameras and flashing lights do that to you."

"Being in the spotlight must take a toll," I said.

"Some people aren't made for it," Charu agreed. They gestured to a faded red bench. Brushing away non-existent debris, they sat and invited me to do the same. I opted to stand. "So, how can I satisfy your curiosity? What more could I possibly say about Hidden Stars to convince you off the road to self-ruin? You've wiped your songs and content. Your fans have noticed."

@adaana_: "Why did he delete everything??? I had so many favourite songs!"

@sosul5star: "I get needing space but wiping off his entire platform is drastic."

@tinyapothecary: "I'm worried for Tai"

@aastha_dur: "You can't just break down after a little mess-up like that"

@me.mwaxanare: "Are you coming back?"

Charu interpreted my silence as a sign of doubt. "There's not an artist who's been where you are," they said sympathetically. "Why hide here though?"

Anything to escape the scrutinizing eyes of my family. Going back to Quan's restaurant to apologize to him in person was one thing. Having my grandparents loudly whisper my mistakes on stage was another.

"Statistically speaking I have more to lose than gain from signing a record label," I said, drawing upon my research. "I have...a sizable audience already. I'd rather keep a bigger percentage of my earnings and royalties, than have to pay Hidden Stars for their marketing services. That would necessitate attracting a bigger audience and earning more streams on my songs. Factoring in the costs to have that bigger audience in the first place, I wouldn't gain much."

"But you get a family," Charu interjected. "You get people who care, who are on the same level and understand the stakes. Don't you find it frustrating when no one around you speaks your language? Why the chord progression isn't perfect, or why your audience matters so much?"

I looked at them warily. They wore a drab sweatshirt and jeans in place of their typical refined clothing. Judging by the sheen of sweat that broke through their expensive makeup, they had a long day. If they hadn't changed out of their filming attire--because surely, they wouldn't break their brand to be as underdressed as I--then their words might have held more authority.

"Those types of people are few and far in between," I said. "Joining a record label won't change how different I am compared to everyone, both in and out of the music world."

While I paced back and forth, Charu disappeared and reappeared behind the old platform pillars, watching this strange scene play out. I was in a rambly mood. If my ability flared up, hopefully the shadows and film equipment and being obscured by the pillars would cause them to mistake it for the trick of the eye.

"Phiona told me that Hidden Stars lied to her. But I want to hear your side of the story," I continued, glancing at Charu. "I thought it'd be a fair chance for me to form my own opinion."

"You could read that online. My success story." Their tone was light, like teetering between being offended and caution of overstepping into being conceited.

My sneakers squeaked and slid a little on what must be laminated plastic, so I stopped pacing. "So it's true then? How you're self-made and climbed to the top with nothing but your blood, sweat and tears?" I said skeptically.

"First. I don't claim to be self-made. That's the narrative that tabloids like to spin." Charu counted off their arguments on their hand. "Sure, I did not have much support. But I did benefit from inheriting a roof over my head, food to eat at home, and a somewhat functional support circle outside of family.

"Secondly, Hidden Stars was far ahead of other record labels," Charu continued. "They genuinely cared about supporting their artists. By the time Phiona joined Hidden Stars, it was one of the biggest record labels known that had short contracts, abolished recoupment clauses so artists could get paid in a timely manner, and separated copyright claims from licensing the product. Transparency above all else. Again--things you could have researched instead of asking me."

I had confirmed this information with Gülay. "Sounds great on paper."

"It was all thanks to miscommunication." Charu leaned forward and put their elbows on their knees. "Look, I won't go into detail and ruin whatever image you have of Phiona. But part of signing with a record label is collaboration. If you can't be a team player, then you can't expect to be helped."

I shuddered at the corporate term meant for exploitation and gaslighting one's mental health. No wonder Phiona had dissuaded me from probing on her behalf.

"Do you wonder how celebrities and public figures handle themselves with composure in front of the cameras? Do you remember how you'd ask me for advice? Charu is fluent in the language of charisma. They can choreograph a dance around the subject and you'd be too busy enjoying it to notice. You'll only heighten their suspicions."

My face fell.

Phiona sighed. "Ask them what you want. You'll hear the story soon enough."

My mouth had gone dry. I ran a hand over the cool pillars, frowning at the unexpected texture. "I prioritize artistic freedom over income."

Charu lifted a shoulder. "Then be ready to toil away and give more than you receive. Record label or not--No matter how hard you try, putting on a front is the cost of being in the spotlight."

I realized why the pillars were so shiny and new-looking. My nails traced wrinkles in thick laminated plastic. I could feel the grooves of old brickwork underneath it.

Figures--places like this didn't fit with Charu's artist persona at all.

"So losing yourself is part of the cost. You're fooling yourself," I said.

"Please. It's respecting your audience's time and effort. You've picked a part and agreed to play it, so why disappoint your lifeline? In this industry, public interest dictates your rise and fall."

I gritted my teeth. "Then I must not share this industry's gift for glamourizing the ugly. Like what you're doing with this useless subway station."

There was a steady silence in which I'd feared my words only proved their point. What did their target audience care about authenticity? To them, music was a commodity one could package and sell.

Then Charu stood, and it started.

It was as if my cloak of invisibility decided to grow crystals of osmium--osmium was the densest material on Earth; it had a blueish gray hue to it and its crystallic structure was as deadly as it was mesmerizing--for what? Why now? I glared at the space where my proprioceptors informed me my fists were. Of all the times for my power to flare up.

Charu's head turns sharply. They scan their surroundings, their gaze running over me several times, not knowing I'm right there. A half-hearted puff of laughter escaped them. "We're adults here. What, have you changed your mind?"

I stopped, not daring to move my feet, and give away my position. It was like someone controlling this simulation had clicked and deleted my voice box, I looked down, I was invisible. My guts twisted uncomfortably.

"Don't make me laugh," Charu said. Their tone sharpened as I continued to stay hidden. A shadow fell over me. I looked up. Charu was scanning the pillars and any potential blind spots. "I'm responsible for making sure no one is in here when I leave. What's your aim here? To ruin my relations with the TTC just because I have differing opinions from you? What else do you have planned?"

I sank to the floor in silent discomfort. I bit my lip to stop any sounds from escaping.

Charu scanned the brightly lit subway station. In the end they chose to keep on half of the lights. "I'll ask the security guard to keep the door unlocked. Can't have you trespassing through Museum station," they muttered.

Charu climbed the stairs. I fixed my eyes on the rusted subway tracks and counted the seconds.

Before closing they declared, "The truth is hard to face. There isn't an artist that hasn't been in your position." they said with an air of something I didn't know how to interpret as anything else but sincerity, "but you've squandered perhaps one of your best chances."

A wooden door stopper appeared, propping it open. I heard Charu talking with the security guard, who was unhappy, but must have personally known them. The lights in the subway dimmed while a bulky shadow stood guard at the doorway. I wasn't trapped, but I didn't want to leave either.

---

I sat on a pale red rectangular bench. A spare flashlight I brought with me lessened my eye strain and illuminated the sleek filming equipment scattered about like giant technological insects. With a UV light pen in my hand and Liam's journal in the other, I flipped through the pages filled with paragraphs French, searching for his genuine thoughts hidden in invisible ink. The French passages sounded like he had them copied straight from his homework. He must have done so to deter our parents from reading them. (Neither of our parents had learned French in Vietnam.)

"My parents give my younger siblings a free pass. They can mess up and be human. Not me. I have to be the perfect son."

My grandparents had forced me to return to Quan's restaurant and give an in-person apology to him. To say they were disappointed was an understatement; I might as well have caused a funeral. Humility was the remedy to pride. Around them, my parents had lost all strength, a stream whose currents parted and crashed at the smallest rock.

"All my parents do is watch TV and Youtube and be miserable. None of my friends' parents are like this. They smile and laugh and hug. But for us, secrecy and mistrust is the language of love. I don't want to be miserable like Dad or Mom when I grow up. Especially Mom..."

Thank Buddha I had an apartment to escape to. My lurkwarm sort-of mended friendship with Monty was preferable to dealing with my parents' never-ending questions. What would I do next? Why had most of my artist information been wiped off online platforms?

"Kimmy is so entitled. There's all this crap about men making it harder for women, but women like Kimmy and Mom are the real root of the problem. They whine and complain like they own the world, and nobody cares. If I cried, I would have lost all face...."

I impatiently flipped to other passages with no luck. Only one page had what I was looking for, and I had already read it before stealing it from my parents' basement: "I did it. I got through! It had been a while since I felt excited and alive like that. As a memory, Lower Bay was creepy and almost disappointing. There were so many rats. But it was proof I could pull it off. Tai would get a kick out of this! I can't tell him though. He's great at hide-and-seek but a terrible liar. When he's older, I'll show him the pictures and videos I took on my phone. He can't accuse me of making this stuff up."

How in the heavens did Liam sneak into Lower Bay Station? And how did he get out? "Don't tell me he actually walked on the tracks back to Museum station," I grumbled. Nah. TTC workers still used this station for transporting subway cars and training employees. He wouldn't had risked his life like that.

And if he did, well, it was a good thing I no longer looked up to my big brother.

I sprang to my feet and searched for a distraction before remembering the predicament I put myself in. What now? I walked along the platform, following the long tail of the Y tile pattern before stopping at its divergence into two paths. I hadn't dared surf the web with my power acting so volatile. Tonight had been its most painful flare-up, and what if it had other side effects I wasn't aware of? What if I could "delete" more than just digital software and concepts?

My mind latched onto the delicious downwards spiral of rumination. All those years gone to waste. It didn't matter if I had backups on my laptop, assuming I hadn't deleted those as well. The timestamps, the very existence of my posts, and the comments that each belonged to a face behind the screen and a heart that resonated with my art--outside of my memory, they might as well not have existed.

A soft blue beam of light--different from the orange glow of my flashlight--pierced the darkness and stung my eyes. Someone was here!

I ducked behind the cross-corridor wall and peeked out. A familiar figure stood at the top of the stairs. Murmured conversation was exchanged with another person, presumably the security guard. Warm guffaws. I must have spaced out to have not noticed this development earlier. He turned around and began his slow descent backwards.

"What's this clutter? Someone filming a movie?" my dad remarked when he reached the bottom, clutching the railing like a lifeline. The dying light from his safety helmet danced around the darkness. I stifled a snort. The sound gave my location away. He looked at me. "I thought you'd be here," he said softly. "Come here."

I reluctantly helped him over to sit on the bench.

"I have a coworker who used this station briefly while it was open," Dad said, looking around. This was not new information. I had been obsessed with this station as a kid and visited it at Doors Open Toronto, only to be driven away by the screeching of the active Bay station above and the clamor and the lights and unpredictable movement of people. "It was confusing, he said! Poorly designed. He was late to work many times. These, ah, parallel tracks--"

"They're called cross-platform transfers," I cut in, falling for the trap.

My dad beamed and eased himself on the bench beside me. He did not pay attention to the journal in my hand. "And?"

"It didn't work," I said. "They thought it'd be beneficial for people going between the suburbs and downtown to have a single train. But having a train run along multiple lines and switch between two different directions disrupted traffic flow. One malfunctioned subway car can jam up the entire system. It also became a safety hazard as people waited midstep on the stairwell to sprint to whichever train comes first. People who are in a rush aren't going to read the Next Train sign. It is easier to just switch between Line 1 and 2 if you are commuting eastbound. The overcrowding at St. George and Yonge stations was just a problem they had to accept. It's sad," I said and looked up at the dilapidated ceiling. Exposed pipes and wires glinted from water-damaged chunks of missing infrastructure. "They spent money for a solution that wasn't meant to be."

"But Lower Bay still serves a purpose. Several," Dad gently countered. "You can train employees, rent the space out to movie makers, serve as an alternative during construction--"

"People don't care. Above us, no one thinks about this place when they're going to work or school, because why would they? Here, I can exist in peace without the eyes of thousands," I said.

I swung up my legs to sit cross-legged and rocked back and forth. "Mom is probably screaming her head off because of me--"

"Đương nhiên."

"--but I don't want to go home."

Dad sighed and took off his helmet. It was a miracle the light still worked. "The underground has bad feng shui."

"You're the one who works in the basement."

"What will you do here? Befriend the rats?"

A couple of said critters squeaked and scurried away on the tracks. I grunted.

"No? What about the ghost?" he pushed. "The Lady in Red will not be happy you snuck into her home."

I rolled my eyes. An urban legend. She'd communicate with me if that was the case. "Everyone thinks less of me."

"Your singing brought tears to my eyes," Dad said gruffly. He had his face turned away. "If only you saw your Mẹ's expression. No number of mistakes would have made us less proud of you. Our boy, singing in Vietnamese."

I shrugged, testing the waters. "For you, Ba. I believe you. But anything less than perfection for Mẹ is nothing. If she wanted to sing so badly, she should have let me do so from the beginning."

He rubbed his face. "We are the product of our environment. Don't you too become a different person depending on who you are with? As men, we can disappear from obligations for days without losing face. Your mom had no such luxury. Will never have."

My cheeks heated. Time and time again, Ba would come up with these life lessons spun into logic and reason, separated from the volatility Mẹ lived for. I no longer had the overconsuming emotions of a teenager, the emotions that made me think the gravity of my problems dwarfed everyone else's.

It must have choked her. Or were allistic people's brains more pliable to outside pressures? Easier to dissect passion from the heart. Keep it beating in the preservatives of obligations.

"She only has us," Ba said.

I shot up to my feet like he had set me on fire. How? How could she treat Liam like that--Ba wasn't much better back then, don't you remember him hitting Liam with the belt? You're excusing him because you like him more--and Ba still believed in her like this?

I lowered my gaze. "I shouldn't have judged him for disappearing. He was pretty good at that."

Then I connected the dots. He had known. And the rest of my family, too. And he had let me sit with this secret in silence to figure it out alone. Why else would no one ask about my disappearing act on stage?

"Don't disappear on us," Ba said.

"Then teach me how to control my power."

"I can't. You and Liam are the only ones who are still living," Ba said, distressed.

"What? Liam could--" I spluttered. "You're saying invisibility runs in our family? I thought it was completely random. I thought--"

I thought I was alone.

"I had a feeling you'd be here," Ba sighed. "Liam would often hide underground too. In the most secluded and boarded up places. I had a friend from security unlock the door tonight, but I am sure Liam did not have such connections with TTC workers. That's when I knew he pushed the limits. I was worried you did the same."

"What are the limits? I want to master it. If I can control it, then it won't control me."

The sparkle in my eyes faded as Ba looked up at me somberly.

Sighing, he rose to his feet and stretched his neck, weighing his words. "Master our gift and it will become your master instead. No. It is best to not dig. I'll guide you, so you may better harness your power."

---

"How many folk stories do you know?" Dad said abruptly.

Dust tickled my nostrils and I sneezed, sending a plume of dust bunnies into the far corners of our basement. Stepping over half-completed carpentry work, I navigated the maze of Kimmy's old dorm furniture from her university days, miscellaneous boxes, and fitness machines to where Ba was hunched over an open drawer of paper files. Sweat poured over his sun-tanned face despite the remarkably cooler temperature in the basement compared to upstairs. Briefly, my heart was struck with a premonition of him being very old, with oxygen nasal prongs in his nose, as the doctor delivered bad news after a knee replacement surgery....

"Tai." Ba said patiently. He had found what he needed--an old picture book bound with string. Or was it a collection of watercolour paintings? In pencil-thin script the cover read, The Invisible Cloak.

Folk stories. I knew a few thanks to Paris By Night skits. The woman and child who turned to stone on Núi Vọng Phu, forever waiting for her husband to return. Tấm Cám, the Vietnamese version of Cinderella with satisfyingly dark twists. And who could forget Truyện Kiều, or Kiều's ballad of woe as she survived unspeakable hardship to reunite with her family.

"Not a lot," I admitted.

Ba did not mention how he and Mẹ used to sit us down and tell us many of Vietnam's folk stories. My siblings and I were more interested in consuming attention-grabbing Western media with self-made heroes and happy endings.

"Then let me tell you another one. It is about Dương Tự Minh," he said.

Ba invited me to sit on two random stools he plucked out from the junk. I sat, if this was kindergarten and it was story-reading time. The bound book Ba held looked like it was falling apart. "Long ago, since time immemorial," he began, and flipped to the first page, where there were ink drawings of a fisherman and his tools, "in the Cao Bằng province, a young fisherman by the name of Quan Triều lived. He was generous and helped those around him. One day there was an old beggar underneath a willow tree. Seeing he had no clothes, Triều took off his short and gave it to the beggar. Triều went on his way. Later, their paths would cross again as he followed the sound of a flute. The beggar from before was playing it. He thanked Triều for his generosity and gave him a cloak that made him invisible. Then the man disappeared. He was a Tiên."

"A fairy," I said. I was familiar with the pattern of honest folk characters doing good deeds and being rewarded by a Tiên.

"So Triều used the cloak to steal food from the rich and give it to the poor, because those were in need. He did not use it to hurt others. There was rumour among the poor, of a Tiên watching over them."

"Robin Hood," I said.

Ba nodded. "During one of his escapes, he got unlucky. His cloak got torn on a bamboo fence and ripped a hole. He hastily patched up with a scrap of cloth that looked like a butterfly."

"But the scrap of cloth couldn't be magical," I pointed out. "What difference does it make, if no one can see Triều? He should've left it alone."

"And leave the hole to grow bigger? How disrespectful it would be, to leave a stranger's gift unmended! You must face your problems sooner than later."

I bounced my knee. "A bad solution makes it worse. He should've learned how to sew."

Ba smiles, and the crow's feet in the corner of his eyes crinkle. "Continuing the story. At this time, the king of a neighbouring country wanted to invade, and our king was losing the fight. So he permitted Triều to lead the army with his cloak, and he won." Broad watercolour strokes, round shapes and pencil outlines depicted watercolour paintings of Triều charging into battle atop a stallion. His patched-up cloak flew behind him like wings. "He was dubbed a new name, and gifted the title of Marshal defender of the Kingdom. Nowadays there are temples for him in Cao Bằng and other provinces. Some folks celebrate him too, on the nineteenth day of the first moon."

The Cao Bằng province was in northern Vietnam, if I remembered my geography classes late night Google sessions correctly. Yet both of my parents' ancestry were rooted firmly in the south. "I haven't heard this story before. Or either of his names."

Ba waved a hand. "What does it matter? Common folk like to change their names when they become heroes, reaching their--what's the English word?- apotheosis. Scholarly sources I had had no consensus or consistency on the names or story. Not uncommon, but other stories were more famous. At the time it was hard to approve funding for this book. My professors and faculty advisors would not hear of it. But I did it anyway, and my colleague volunteered his artistic talents. He did so only for his portfolio. In the end I got what I wanted, and that is all that matters." He shrugged. "Interesting, yes? Triều had a purpose. He lived in more dangerous times. But here and now it is peaceful."

Storytime was over, so I got up--before observing the lack of room available for me to safely pace around without poking myself or banging into three different objects. I groaned and sat back down, fiddling with my bracelet. "Don't tell me we have a family heirloom of an invisible cloak somewhere. Or that we're related to Triều."

"According to what your Ông Nội told me, and the stories I weedled out of my brothers, it runs on my side of the family. Skips generations. Only passes down to the sons," Ba said carefully.

I scratched my head. "Triều was a hero. Vietnamese folk heroes don't struggle with their powers; they're just magically competent. If there's a variation where he had a learning curve, no one wrote it down."

Ba shook his head with a laugh. "You love your explanations, my son. I have none for you. But today I hope to give you a tool, to guide you. Now where did I put it...?"

He got up again and muttered to himself, bending over clutter and shifting them around. My gaze wandered and landed on our dusty karaoke machine. Funny. Our family used to be big on karaoke. My parents would sing to their hearts' contents at Vietnamese family and family friend gatherings. Not anymore. There was no reason for it.

Ba brought out a rectangular object, covered by a thin cloth. He handed it to me delicately. In my hands it felt lighter than I expected. Was it an ornate chest carved from teakwood? An ancient looking heirloom dulled by time, its beauty only preserved with generational love?

I removed the cloth and blinked at the box furnished from light-coloured maplewood. There were no decorations, only a pair of functional metal hinges and a clasp on its front. Bits of fresh wood shavings sprinkled onto my lap as I braced the box against my chest and flipped the clasp, opening the lid.

Resting on a white velvet cushion was a modern compass. The needle swirled as if saying hello. Was the needle made of jade? I couldn't mistake the shard of pale green stone for anything else. I fingered the fine silver chain attached to the compass, wondering if Ba intended for me to wear it as a necklace. It'd take me weeks of hanging in my room within line of sight just to get used to it.

I looked up. "Where did you get it?"

Ba coughed. "Called in a favour from a friend for the stonework. Used your mother's old earrings that refused to wear after it broke years ago."

I looped the chain around my fingers, paranoid the small compass would slip out of my palm. "Did your friend know what they were doing? They shouldn't have used jade for the needle. Look, it's broken already! Not pointing anywhere close to north."

No matter how I positioned the compass, its slightly off-centre needle pointed towards me.

"Keep it on you," Ba advised. "I rather you find it useless than need it and not have it."

"But why do we have this power in the first place? What's its purpose?"

Ba rubbed the back of his neck.

I wracked my brain. "It wasn't a survival tactic during the war right? I thought you said our families lived away from the fighting."

I snapped my mouth shut as Ba shifted on his stool. His shoulders were raised as if under attack. This was the most uncomfortable I'd ever seen him. The picture book sat on his lap, forgotten as he finally said, "You are correct. Triều lived in a time where the difference of invisibility swayed the tide of a war. He used his gift for the greater good. However, for us...for us it is a reminder of our mistakes. Think of it as a reflection."

The basement door clicked open, loud as thunder. Kimmy looked down at us.

"I dropped off the grandparents at the airport without incident," Kimmy announced, sliding her feet into flipflops to shield against the dusty floor. "The mother is occupied with a doctor's appointment and an outing with the aunties. By the time Mẹ returns, she's expecting her son to restore whatever you did to your online music platforms and answer her texts and voicemails. Other demands include not disappearing on her like our brother did." Under her arm were some clipped papers; perhaps print-outs of job postings for Tienne. Her new shellac nails sparkled as she typed on her phone with one hand. Kimmy must have treated herself after the stressful drive; either that or I had not been paying enough attention. Most likely the latter.

I gripped the compass, its cool metal reassuring against my rising temperature. "Thanks for being her messenger pigeon."

"My pleasure is mine."

"I will come with you to Quan's. Talk it over some drinks," Ba offered kindly.

I put the compass back in its box. Kimmy asked no questions; knowing everything, or pretending to, was her superpower as the de facto eldest sibling.

She sighed dramatically. "Mẹ's being easy on you. If it were me or Tienne? Stupid daughters dragging down the family's name? This house will never find sleep."

I turned to Ba, hoping he'll take my side. "Other's opinions shouldn't matter. You should stand by your own kids and defend them first."

"Tai," Ba said gently, "we do defend you unconditionally. Any Vietnamese family would expect nothing less of us. We just want you to be respected." His tone softened as he leaned a little closer. "I want you to have the confidence to go out there and sing again. The world deserves to hear your music."

A second social outing? I might curl up and die. I clutched the wooden box to my chest and eying the best way to dodge Kimmy who was guarding the staircase. "Fine. I'll talk with Quan. But if people expect me to return to the music scene right away for the sake of pride or saving my face, they're mistaken. I'll perform again when I'm ready to. Or switch gears and do something different."

Ba visibly relaxed.

"Then you'll need this." Kimmy stepped forward and unceremoniously plopped the bundle of papers next to me.

At the sight of familiar printed photos and captions, I set down the box like it's on fire and grabbed the papers, stray sheets drifting onto the floor. I sifted through the faintly pixelated records of my digital life, not believing my eyes.

I could recite most of my posted content by heart. Music ingrained itself in my brain like my native tongue. But the photos? Of years and years at different gig places, memories of triumphs and failures, and people I no longer talked to but played an integral part in my journey as a musician. Those were irreplaceable, and until now I thought my power erased it all.

Reading one of my blurry caption headings in particular made my lip tremble. I had passionately written out my research and breaking down the method to my madness in music composition:

"Music is instinctual. Or so I thought when I first started songwriting. A lot of it is actually attributed to my past experiences. I've talked to other musicians before and many agree at some point you hit a plateau. For me, that plateau was realizing how small my Vietnamese well of inspiration was.

"My song "Can You See Me" was largely inspired by what my parents listened to and the songs I was exposed to growing up. Mostly Paris by Night. But creating a song without knowing its origin can be problematic. At least for me it felt important to understand the history of what I planned to manipulate and put my own creative flair on it. I wanted to share with you what I learned during my research.

"Nhạc vàng is what I and probably other Vietnamese diaspora families grew up listening to. It uses traditional string instruments but at its core there's a clear tonal structure that plays on tension and release. Similar to a story where there's a beginning, middle and end. Or think of the 5-part story structure in writing.

"However, what one might consider as "traditional" Vietnamese music isn't what I originally assumed. One common method that older Vietnamese music used was reduction. This technique somewhat simplifies the melody. You pluck out the most important notes--like the musical equivalent of sketching. Capturing the form's flow instead of focusing on precision. Then while playing, the musician improvises with the notes in between. Each line, and in fact each performance, becomes unique.

"Initially I wanted to follow these hard rules. I wasn't sure if writing nhạc vàng would be received as a political statement or how effectively it'd accomplish my goal of catering to my audience. My real audience though, if I'm being completely honest, is my parents. I still don't know.

"But each artist has their own style right? I've only ever written songs with a western tonal harmony because that's what I'm used to. I've decided that's okay. I did my research to understand my roots, and while I do want to incorporate aspects of it into my music, some creative projects take longer than others to refine. For now, I'm trying to emulate music that reminds me of my home, and my definition of home happens to include my parents and what they listened to.

"I've heard speaking in another language is using someone else's words with your rules. You can say it applies here."

I looked up with wide eyes. "My appeals were rejected. The Instagram administrators said they couldn't recover a single piece of data."

Kimmy inspected her nails. "Did you forget? Mẹ likes saving what you post--as in, she makes me take screenshots and document everything." She tugs at her ponytail, its ends streaked with new pink highlights. "A shame I couldn't get your most recent posts. Here, use one of my binders. I have a million of these lying around from my university days."

I sifted through my posts once more. My past comments, the songs I had written, were filled with passion and dauntless courage. I wondered if I'd ever be able to reclaim it and shed the sting of my mistakes.

Ba must have seen my reluctance. With a hefty sigh he braced his hands on his knees and rose. He methodically slipped his homemade picture book in a protective plastic sleeve and put it under his arm. "I'll talk to your mother, Tai. You can slip out while she's distracted." He winked. Before I could object he was halfway up the staircase.

With his bad knee I didn't have the heart to stop him. Part of me wanted to reread the picture book and sleuth out the hidden answers that must be hiding behind symbolism.

Scratch that. Symbolism mattered in songwriting but I needed practical answers for how to control this power of mine. Ba made it sound like an ultimatum: Get back on the stage, eventually, or...

Or what? End up like Liam? Did I really reach that crossroad?

"What's with the long face?" Kimmy asked.

"I wanted to ask Ba more questions about...this." I tapped the wooden box. "He was more cryptic than Mẹ."

Kimmy leaned against a tall metal drawer. A strange expression crossed her face, an emotion I forgot the name of. "Nevermind," she said finally. "You and Ba have a decent relationship. I won't ruin it."

Again? I scoffed and walked past her, Ba's gift and printed out Instagram posts in tow. She loved alluding to vague things like that, as if my gender and occasionally unemployed status equated to stupidity.

In Liam's old room I slid down the wall. The wooden box sat open on the floor, the jade needle of Ba's compass pointing at me with accusation. I allowed myself a few minutes of staring at the wall before pulling out my phone like it's dynamite.

Winter frost crawled up my shoulders. It took no time for me to disappear. My reflection in the full-length mirror regarded the blank space in front of it like a second person. I envisioned my digital drawing software and dragged my finger through the air. Gradually, deliberately, my reflection softened to 80% opacity. The black screen of my phone asked me silently: Did I have the courage to build art from the ground up again, or was this my last try?

"This too will pass." I repeated my mantra as I switched on my phone. A cacophony of notifications screamed for my attention. Among untasteful insults and cheesy positive reassurances, one made me straighten with anticipation, the kind that woke every cell in your body: The promise of a stage. Cameras. Not a performance, but something more important. I had to prepare for the R4E group interview.