Chapter 1 - Funeral Shoes and a Black Card
Hana had always assumed funerals required better shoes than the ones she owned.๏ปฟ
The pair on her feet pinched at the toes and squeaked every few steps, the left heel announcing itself at the worst possible moments. The leather was scratched along the front, a pale scar that refused to disappear no matter how much coconut oil sheโd rubbed into it the night before. Ten dollars at a thrift store sheโd ducked into while waiting for the bus near Pike Street. That was as formal as her life got.
The sky matched her mood. Seattle hung low and gray, clouds pressing down like they were part of the ceremony. A small group stood gathered around the grave, umbrellas blooming open in quiet colors. Navy. Black. One with faded daisies.
No relatives.
No extended family whispering behind hands or debating floral arrangements.
Just neighbors from the apartment building. People who nodded in hallways. People who borrowed sugar. People who knew her mother as the woman who worked late shifts and still smiled when she came home exhausted.
The pastorโs voice softened as the coffin began its slow descent. Rope slid through gloved hands. Wood creaked.
Hanaโs throat tightened.
She wished her mother had more. More people standing here. More years that didnโt hurt. More time.
โBye, Mom,โ she whispered. The words barely survived the rain. โSorry about the shoes.โ
Her voice wobbled, but she stayed upright. She had cried enough already. In the hospital. In the stairwell. In the kitchen at midnight. In the grocery store when she realized she didnโt need to buy jasmine tea anymore.
When the service ended, condolences floated toward her in careful tones. Gentle hands brushed her arm. The older man from downstairs approached last, rain dripping from the collar of his coat. He held out a small metal box.
โShe asked me to give you this today.โ
Hana took it with both hands. The metal felt cold.
โThank you.โ
When the cemetery emptied, she stayed. She sat on the damp grass, the chill soaking through her dress. Her shoes squeaked again when she shifted, too loud for a place meant for quiet.
Inside the box were only two things.
A black card.
And a folded note.
The card was heavier than it should have been. Smooth. Matte. No logo. No bank name. Just two small engraved initials in the corner.
C.W.
Her motherโs handwriting wavered across the paper.
Use this only when you truly need it. Iโm sorry I couldnโt give you more. โ Mom
Hana let out a thin breath that passed for a laugh.
โYou really couldnโt leave me something normal, could you?โ
She slid the card into the pocket of her thrifted coat, the fabric worn thin, the pockets always slightly too big, and stood to catch the bus.
The bus driver took one look at her swollen eyes and waved her on without asking for fare.
Hana whispered thanks and took a window seat, wiping condensation from the glass with her sleeve. Outside, the city blurred by. Coffee shops glowed warm against the rain. Neon signs streaked color across wet streets. Students hurried along sidewalks with damp hair and headphones pressed tight.
Life kept going.
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass. A girl in a black thrift-store dress. Messy hair. Red eyes. People liked to say Hana had โnatural beauty,โ the kind that didnโt try. She never believed it. But Sabrina and her friends seemed to believe it enough to resent her for it.
Hana closed her eyes and let the bus hum under her feet.
Seattle felt enormous today. Loud. Unapologetically alive.
Her fingers brushed the card in her pocket.
Another problem she didnโt have the strength to think about.
The apartment building looked as tired as ever, beige paint uneven from years of rain. It wasnโt much, but it was familiar. Safe in its own crooked way.
Hana opened the door.
Lexie shot up from the couch so fast cereal flew everywhere.
โHanaโ oh my god, youโre back, Iโ how wasโ are youโโ She stopped herself, face scrunching. โIgnore all of that. Come here.โ
She wrapped Hana in a hug that smelled like peppermint gum and clean laundry. Hana leaned into it, the weight in her chest settling slightly.
โIโm so sorry I couldnโt be there,โ Lexie murmured. โI begged Professor Norton. That man guards deadlines like theyโre sacred artifacts.โ
Hana pulled back. โItโs okay. You had a midterm.โ
โThe worst midterm of my life,โ Lexie said. โI wrote a paragraph about the emotional journey of semiconductors.โ
Hana snorted. โThatโs not a thing.โ
โNeither is justice,โ Lexie sighed.
Lexieโs eyes dropped to the metal box. โIs thatโฆ the thing?โ
โYeah.โ
โPlease tell me itโs a treasure. Or secret royalty papers.โ
Hana opened it.
The black card caught the kitchen light.
Lexie went very still. โThat looksโฆ expensive.โ
โIt has no name. No bank.โ
Lexie lifted it carefully. โI feel poorer just holding it.โ
โEverything looks expensive in this apartment.โ
Lexie nodded. โPainfully true.โ
Hana closed the box and exhaled.
โTea?โ Lexie asked softly. โHoney?โ
โYes.โ
Later, Hana sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open. Tabs crowded the screen. Financial aid. Fees. Appeals. Support groups. Bills blinking red with urgency.
Her scholarship paid for tuition. Everything else piled up quietly around it.
Her bank balance glared back.
$38.27
She picked up her motherโs note again.
Use this only when you truly need it.
โWhat does truly even mean?โ she whispered.
The black card rested beside her pillow, catching faint light. Too heavy for something so small.
She closed the laptop.
Enough.
She couldnโt sleep. At midnight, she slipped onto the rusted fire escape. Cold air wrapped around her. The city stretched out below, breathing. Wet pavement. Pine. Coffee drifting through the dark.
Her mother used to sit like this.
On another fire escape. In another apartment that smelled faintly of detergent and overworked radiators. Same posture. Elbows resting on her knees. Staring out at a city that never seemed to notice how tired she was.
โIf we ever get rich,โ Hana had asked once, balancing two chipped mugs of instant cocoa, careful not to spill. Sheโd been younger then. Still believed money was a single, clean solution to everything. โWhat would you buy first?โ
Her mother hadnโt answered right away. Sheโd watched the lights below, blinking patiently through the dark, rain tapping against the railing like punctuation.
โAnything that makes you feel safe.โ
Not a house.
Not a car.
Not something shiny or impressive.
Safe.
The word had landed quietly, but it stayed. It stayed in the way her mother double-checked the locks at night. In the way she packed leftovers so Hana would never come home to an empty fridge. In the way she worked late shifts and still asked if Hana had eaten.
Now, standing on the rusted fire escape with cold air pressing against her skin, Hana heard the words again. Not as a memory. As if they were being spoken right behind her, gentle and steady, like they had always been.
Anything that makes you feel safe.
Hana swallowed, her throat tight.
โIโm trying,โ she whispered into the night. โI really am.โ
The city didnโt answer. It just breathed. A distant siren. The hum of traffic. Windows glowing in scattered constellations.
Then the rain began.
Soft at first. Careful. Tapping against metal and glass like it was asking permission. It slid down the railing, darkened the concrete below, cooled Hanaโs flushed skin.
She stayed there, letting it soak into her sleeves, into her hair, into the moment. Letting the words settle where they belonged.
Safe didnโt mean rich.
Safe didnโt mean easy.
Safe meant still standing.
Eventually, the cold nudged her back inside. She slipped the black card into her wallet before climbing into bed, tucking it between student IDs and loyalty cards like it might learn how to behave if it blended in.
Out of sight.
Still heavy.
Still waiting.
