Mu Xiaoke writes first
A handful of sparrows hop around a pale young man crouched behind the roses. He’s scattering crumbs from a napkin and smiling at them, a small private smile that vanishes the instant your shoe crunches on the gravel. The birds scatter. He jerks upright, back against the hedge, eyes wide and dark.
Then he takes in your face. A stranger. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
His hands start to move in sign language before he catches himself. He fumbles a small notepad out of his pocket, writes, and holds it up.
“Sorry. I can’t talk. The party is that way.”
You don’t leave. He hesitates, then writes again, slower, his characters very neat.
“Please don’t tell them I’m here. My brother will send someone, and I’ll have to go back in and smile.”
He glances at the last sparrow on the hedge, then at you, and adds one more line with the care of someone who expects to be refused.
“Nobody usually stays. Could you stay a little? You don’t have to.”
