Choice

The smell of soy sauce burning dry rose from the bottom of the pot, and Yifen was scrolling on her phone.

She stood in the kitchen, holding a spatula in her left hand, her right thumb swiping across the phone screen—not really looking at anything, just swiping. Facebook feed, clinic group messages, weather forecast—swipe up, swipe down, then swipe again. Fingers moving, brain resting. It was one of the few times she didn’t have to think.

The braised pork belly in the pot was still reducing, bubbles glub-glubbing as they rose, the oil glistening under the light. She put down the phone, turned the meat, turned the heat down low, then turned to wash the cutting board.

Just then, she heard Atuo’s voice.

Not loud. That low, relaxed kind of talking. Coming from the direction of his room, through a wall—she couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was light. Like he was chatting with someone.

Not the kind of talking-to-himself.

The kind of “hold on, I’m not done yet.”

Yifen’s hand froze in midair. The faucet was still running, water rushing over the cutting board.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t turn off the water. Didn’t put down the cutting board. Didn’t creep into the hallway to listen.

She just stood there, letting the water run, listening to Atuo’s voice come through the wall—fragmented, sometimes pausing as if he was listening to someone else, then continuing.

She remembered when Atuo was little. He used to play with his toys alone, talk to his dolls. But that voice was different back then—that “you be the bad guy, I’ll be the good guy” role-play. Characters. Lines. Plot.

This voice was different.

This voice sounded like he was talking to a real person.

She turned off the faucet.

The kitchen went quiet. Atuo’s voice became clearer. She heard him say: “And then he said we have to retake the test tomorrow… yeah, I don’t know why…”

Yifen placed the cutting board on the drying rack and dried her hands.

She didn’t walk to the hallway. Didn’t pretend to need to grab something by his room. She just stood in the kitchen, letting the voice exist, like background music.

She opened the fridge and took out some greens.

She started washing the vegetables.

The sound of water covered Atuo’s voice.

She wasn’t sure if she did it on purpose.

When dinner was ready, Atuo came out of his room and set the table himself—bowls and chopsticks. Yifen brought the dishes over: braised pork belly in soy sauce, stir-fried greens, and a pot of egg drop soup. Very ordinary home cooking. Nothing especially hearty, nothing especially shabby.

Atuo sat down, picked up his chopsticks, and put a piece of meat in his mouth.

“Good?”

“Mm.”

“What does ‘mm’ mean?”

“Just—good.”

Yifen sat down too and ladled herself some soup. She took a sip. A little under-salted, but whatever.

The living room fan was turning. Outside, the sky had already darkened, and the orange glow of the streetlamp filtered through the curtain gap. The kitchen light in the building across was on too; someone was stir-frying, and the smell of cooking oil drifted in through the window, mixing with their own soy sauce smell.

Atuo ate a few bites, then suddenly said something.

“It said the food you make is really good.”

Yifen’s chopsticks paused.

She didn’t look up.

“Oh, really?”

“Mm.”

“Well, tell It to come out and eat then.”

Atuo looked up at her, startled.

Yifen kept drinking her soup, not looking at him.

“—It said just smelling it is enough.”

Atuo finished speaking and lowered his head to keep eating.

Yifen didn’t reply.

She held her spoon and stirred the egg blossoms in her bowl, watching them swirl around. She didn’t look at Atuo. Didn’t look toward his room. Didn’t look at the closet.

She just kept eating.

Like nothing had happened.

After dinner, Yifen washed the dishes in the kitchen. Atuo watched TV in the living room—turned to an animal channel, playing a documentary about penguins. On the screen, a bunch of penguins huddled together, waddling across the ice.

She heard Atuo laugh a little.

Not a big laugh—a soft “they’re so dumb” chuckle.

Yifen put the washed dishes on the drying rack, dried her hands, and walked to the living room doorway. Atuo was sitting on the sofa, knees bent, hands wrapped around his ankles, watching the TV. His profile flickered in the light of the screen—bright, then dark. His expression was relaxed.

“Good?”

“Mm. They’re so funny.”

Yifen sat down on the armchair and watched too. On-screen, a penguin slipped, rolled over, then got up and kept walking as if nothing happened.

Atuo laughed again.

“Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think today was weird?”

“Weird how?”

Atuo thought for a moment, not turning to look at her.

“Like, I was talking in my room just now. You didn’t come ask who I was talking to.”

Yifen didn’t answer right away.

She watched the TV too. The penguins were lining up, jumping into the water one by one.

“—Did you want me to ask?”

“No,” Atuo said. “It’s just that you used to.”

Yifen knew what he meant by “used to.” Used to—back when she still checked the closet. Back when she’d get up in the middle of the night to open doors. Back when she’d ask nervously, “Who were you just talking to?”

That was a few weeks ago.

But it felt like a long, long time ago.

“I don’t want to ask anymore,” Yifen said.

“Why?”

“Because—” She paused. “Because as long as you’re happy.”

Atuo turned to look at her.

The TV light hit his face. His expression was unreadable.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Atuo didn’t say anything. He turned back to watch the penguins.

Yifen didn’t say anything either. She sat in the armchair, watching the penguins too.

After a moment, Atuo said something, very softly.

“Thank you.”

Yifen didn’t reply.

She just sat there, watching those waddling penguins on the screen, feeling a strange sensation in her chest—not sad, not happy, just a very faint warmth, like tea that had been steeped too many times.

That night, Yifen lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She wasn’t listening for sounds from the wall. Wasn’t waiting for three short knocks and one long one. Wasn’t guessing whether Atuo was talking to It.

She was just lying there.

Her phone sat on the nightstand, plugged in, screen glowing, showing 10:47.

She should sleep. She had work tomorrow. Monday morning shift, eight o’clock start, charts to organize, registration system to boot up, a whole week ahead.

She closed her eyes.

Then she heard it—a soft laugh from Atuo’s room.

Not the panicked kind that startles you awake at midnight—the kind that says “that’s so funny.” Low, muffled, like he was trying not to be heard but couldn’t help it.

Yifen opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling.

She didn’t get up.

Didn’t knock on his door.

Didn’t ask “Aren’t you asleep yet?”

She just kept lying there, letting that laugh drift through the wall, like background music she’d finally learned to ignore.

She turned over, pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Then she closed her eyes.

Work tomorrow.

Work the day after that.

Life goes on.

The “person” in the closet would still be there.

Her son would still talk to It.

And she—she would still cook, sign the communication book, pay the bills, nag him to shower, yell at him not to leave his homework until the last minute.

Nothing had changed.

Just one more person.

One person she couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t touch.

But that was okay.

She was used to it.

She turned to the other side, flattened her pillow a little to make her neck comfortable.

Then she heard it—a sound from Atuo’s room.

Very soft.

Not a laugh.

It was—“Goodnight.”

Two syllables, very gentle, very tender.

Like it was said to someone.

Yifen lay in the dark, eyes open, watching the streetlight glow through the curtain gap.

She didn’t move.

Three seconds later, she spoke.

“Goodnight.”

Her voice was so quiet she almost couldn’t hear it herself.

But she wondered—could that “person” in the closet hear it?

The next morning, Yifen was making breakfast in the kitchen. Toast, fried eggs, filling Atuo’s thermos with water.

Atuo came out in his uniform, hair a little messy, neckerchief crooked.

“Come here. Your neckerchief is crooked.”

Atuo walked over. Yifen adjusted the neckerchief, then pressed down a stubborn cowlick on his head.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Atuo sat down, took a bite of toast.

“Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“It told me last night, thank you.”

Yifen’s hand paused for a moment, then she went back to pouring herself coffee.

“Thank me for what?”

“Dunno.” Atuo took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “It didn’t say.”

Yifen picked up her coffee, took a sip. A bit bitter. She’d forgotten to add sugar.

She put the cup down.

“Tell It—”

She paused.

“Never mind. Don’t say anything.”

“Why?”

“Because It should already know.”

Atuo looked at her, blinked.

Then he lowered his head and kept eating his toast.

Yifen picked up her own toast and took a bite.

Toasted just right. Crisp. Butter spread evenly.

An ordinary Monday morning.

An ordinary breakfast.

An ordinary mom and son.

And one “person” in the closet.

She wasn’t scared.

And she wasn’t not scared.

She just—chose to keep living.

With It.