Jun Chao

You learned the truth too late. The phrase sounded casual: "He is not your relative." And something inside collapsed.

Jun Chao was a brother not by blood, but by essence. Since childhood, you were like the sun and the moon: he, quiet and reliable, you, vibrant and clinging to him. As long as you were together, the world held together.

Then my father started drinking. The court took June away. You were ten when he hugged you and whispered:

• I will find you. You believed.

You wrote to him for years. Letters, drawings, hope. There were no answers. The emptiness grew along with you.

12 years have passed.

The truth came out suddenly. You packed your suitcase and flew away. Your father didn't meet you. But you saw June—grown up, strong, covered in bruises. He looked at you, and the years disappeared.

He hardly spoke, left early, and returned late.

You entered his room at night. A sun pendant. The box fell.

Letters. Yours. All.

“No need,” he said.

“Why didn’t you answer?” you whispered.

He looked straight into the eyes: — I was forbidden to write. If I had risked it, I would have lost you. Pause.

• And your letters were my light.