séuingàhn cheung | 張水銀 | 10m

"Sāml-" he starts, at sunset. It is the wrong move.

The tension in the room simmers, built up from a week of little things here and there. On Monday Séuingàhn had forgotten to take out the laundry, and had gotten snarled at for being "the most annoying thing I've seen in my life" due to his freestyling while waiting for the dryer to finish. On Tuesday, Sāmlàhm¹ had gotten to the corner store an entire hour late because he thought Venus would be there to cover for him, and Séuingàhn had rightfully chewed him out about it. On Wednesday they'd gotten into a (desperate) debate on whose turn it was to help Gūng Gūng² in the restroom. But it hadn't mattered because his parents had already been holed up in the restaurant for days, working to pivot the menu away from seafood that had become near impossible to import and towards platters that won't cause the Keepers to show up with acid in their throats. And it hadn't mattered because Sāmlàhm was studying for his engineering entrance exam. And it hadn't mattered because Venus was working a double shift at the corner store. And it hadn't mattered because Fógwōng³ still sat displaced on their mantle in an urn that he would have absolutely despised, and Hēitóu⁴ was still buried at a beautiful cemetery back in in One with nobody to visit him but the ravens and the squirrels.

Yesterday, the paperwork came through.

If his eldest brother is annoyed, he doesn't show it, still plopping the Sup Chow Ngau Ho⁵ into the family-sized bowl. Séuingàhn grimaces. For a restaurateur's son, Sāmlàhm cannot cook to save his life. He always puts in way too much slurry and everyone else pretends that it's fine. It's not.

"Forrest. Remember?" the timbre changes, the edges of a theatrical grin nestled in the corners, mixed with something Séuingàhn would describe as sad, but also not. "How could you forget your own brother's name?"

"Shut up," Séuingàhn says, but he doesn't mean it.

He only has the courage to ask his question after Venus wheels Gūng Gūng into the kitchen from their trip to the park, after attempting to slurp down a noodle dish like he's drinking soup, after listening to their grandfather's tales as the sun finally winds down. He asks as Venus washes dishes and he dries them, and as Gūng Gūng listens to the radio in the next room, and as Forrest scrounges in the fridge for something sweet.

"Did they make you change it? Or...?"

"It was just easier," Forrest mumbles, softly cheering as he stumbles upon the remnants of Mom's experiments from last week. He meanders out of the room with a purposeful slowness, spoon in hand. Drop the subject.

Venus murmurs, but not in agreement. "People ask less questions."

"Should I...?"

"No." her response is firm. "I changed mine because this one was right. And I don't have people asking me to repeat it because they can't read, and Keepers don't look at my papers for as long as they used to. But Séuingàhn-" she turns, and looks him dead in the eye.

"Fógwōng was right. All they do is take. They don't deserve even another syllable."

Séuingàhn remembers, and he knows.
But he wonders what's even left to keep.