The house is silent and dark. No white cloth of mourning hangs over the doorway. The ghost of Pao, now weighing nothing more than a trembling breath, pauses on the threshold, uncertain this is her house. But it has to be. Where else would her place be?

The other houses have music and warmth; this one has only darkness, and the faint smell of grief, the smell of unsaid words and unshed tears.

Mother. Pao's body still remembers the pain. Mother, why did you cast me out?

Mother walks through the silent corridors of the house, one hand clutching her flat belly, tightening around it until she grimaces, as if she could fill the emptiness within her with pain. She does not weep. Pao runs after her, calling her, but only the wooden ceiling answers her, repeating her words again and again until they fade into heavy silence.

Mother enters the kitchen, turns on the light. Its harsh light sculpts her face into a wooden idol. Her hand, now aimless, hovers over the switch.

Father comes, gently puts his hands around Mother's shoulders. He says, "Mei-Lin. Go to bed."

Mother does not answer. Silence lies between both of them.

"Mei-Lin," Father says, angry now. "You take it too badly. She was not even born."

"I know," Mother says. Her hand moves to straighten her hair, but her eyes are still on Father, unwavering. "We both chose that for her."

"Would you rather have had no son?" Father's voice is quiet. "We can only have one child."

"It's not fair," Mother says, angrily.

"I don't make the rules."

"No." Mother tears herself from Father's grasp, and looks at him. Her eyes catch the light and remould it into something even harsher. "Not even in this house do you make the rules."

"Mei-Lin--"

She walks away from him, leaving him in the desolate emptiness of the kitchen. Pao's ghost follows her, and finally finds her in the bedroom. She sits on the bed, staring at the walls with longing.

Pao aches to be held by her, and it is a deeper pain than the fire that filled her when they tore her from Mother's body. She aches to speak to her. Mother, why? Did you not love me?

"It's only a child." Mother's voice is soft. "The old should not weep for the young. I will be strong. I will not cry." And her eyes are dry, hollow.

Pao extends ghostly arms, crying out. Mother! But the womb is torn; there is no coming back.

Mei-Lin has turned away from her. In the darkened house Pao's voice rises, seeping through every wall and every door until the whole house trembles with it. But no one listens, not anymore.