Chinese article here
The plane landed past midnight. Through the window, Toronto’s lights shimmered like a quiet river under the damp sky. Three years had passed since I last returned – the distance stretched, then folded back in an instant. The arrival hall was too bright, the air dense with echoes: alarms, announcements, the sound of luggage wheels. When the sliding doors opened, a gust of cold air mixed with the scent of jet fuel and dust. I breathed it in, half to believe that the city still remembered me. My friend was waiting beyond the rail, smiling with the exaggerated warmth of reunion. We hugged, wordless for a moment. On the drive downtown, the radio played a faint melody we both ignored. We talked instead – about who had moved away, who had married, who was still circling the same routines. Streetlights retreated one by one into the fog, wrapping the city in a layer of memory that refused to fade.
We stopped at late night Chinese restaurant we used to love. I asked for congee, only to be told they no longer served it. It felt like a quiet reminder: cities move on, even when we are not watching. We ordered a few dim sum dishes instead. The flavours were familiar yet dulled by time. Afterwards, she patted my shoulder and said, “Let’s go. It’s late – you need rest.” She drove me to another friend’s new apartment. She whispered that her roommates were asleep and apologised for the clutter. The basement smelled faintly of detergent and metal from the air conditioner. A cat looked at me from the corner, meowed twice, then vanished into the shadows.
I didn’t sleep that night. The fan hummed softly as my body floated between time zones. When dusk came, I heard footsteps upstairs. We had planned to visit Niagara Falls, but my friend overslept, so we visited a nearby plaza instead. Shoppers Drug Mart, Walmart, Dollarama, Bulkbarn and others we wandered through various anonymous aisles. That vast, empty quiet reminded me of my first year in Surrey, British Columbia. Back then, the mall was my only refuge – the place where I learned to wait: for language, for friendship, for the world to open. Walking again across a parking lot warmed by cold sunlight, I realised some kinds of waiting never end; they simply change form.
That evening, my friend hosted a backyard gathering. String lights hung above the grill, laughter rippled across the lawn. The air smelled of grass and smoke. I stood among the crowd, yet felt a thin film separating me from it all. The rhythm was familiar, the faces new. I watched conversations unfold like scenes from a life I once knew. Eventually, fatigue took over. I sat on a bench beneath a tree and drifted asleep to laughter and summer music looping in the dark.
The next morning, my friend picked me up again – this time for a funeral. Our professor’s mother had passed away. He was my advisor for my previous startup Tenatch and the co-founder of PhilosoTea, our small morning reading circle that somehow lasted five years. The service was held at a synagogue – no sunlight, only soft light and quiet voices. The atmosphere was solemn yet tender. One by one, family members spoke. My professor’s voice was steady as he recalled his mother’s kindness – the way she made everyone feel at ease. There were no long stories, only gentle fragments that carried warmth. Listening, I understood that compassion, once lived, continues through those it shapes. After the ceremony, people embraced in silence. When I approached him, his eyes were tired but peaceful. “May her memory be a blessing,” I said. He nodded, and his hug was firm – the kind that communicates understanding without words. In that moment, I realised grief is not always a fracture; sometimes it is how we remain connected.
On the drive back, my friend and I spoke about growing up, about distance, about the people who stay within us even when they are gone. We laughed, saying maybe the meaning of life is not in what we leave behind, but in how sincerely we say goodbye each time we part. Later that afternoon, she dropped me downtown. I walked alone through the autumn air – the city sounded slightly different, but still reassuring. By evening, I met my brother and his girlfriend. She drove us home to meet her parents, who greeted us at the door. The house was filled with the fragrance of Persian food – saffron, grilled meat, herbs – complex and warm. The dinner was welcoming, conversations floating between Taiwan and Canada. My brother spoke of work, of plans, with a calm confidence I barely recognised. Time had turned him into someone I had once only imagined. The meal’s tenderness wasn’t in the food, but in the quiet sense of belonging.
After dinner, his girlfriend drove me to the subway station. Streetlights slid across the windshield, and I memorised the peace of that moment. That night, I met another close friend I hadn’t seen for years. We talked in her car first, then upstairs in her apartment, our conversation drifting between reality and memory. There were no conclusions, just the soft awareness of how time had changed us both. When I finally looked outside, it was already past midnight. For the first time since returning, I felt truly back – not because the city welcomed me, but because someone still chose to stay and talk until the dead of night.
The next morning, I went to Lakeshore. The air was crisp and clean, the water calm, the skyline wrapped in mist. Runners passed by as I stood still, watching the light ripple across the lake’s surface. It wasn’t nostalgia I felt, but a quiet steadiness. I walked back toward downtown – past the CN Tower, Kensington, Chinatown. The smell of coffee, the wood scent of used bookstores, the faint music from corners. Everything moved in rhythm. The city had not disappeared; I had simply missed its tempo. That afternoon, I visited my alma mater, the University of Toronto. The maple leaves had begun to turn. The stone walls and towers stood unchanged. At the School of Cities, where I once worked as a research fellow, I met my former mentor and another startup advisor. She had stepped down as dean – a gentle symbol of closure. We spoke briefly, her calmness unchanged. As I left, I looked back at the building, feeling as if I were softly closing a door.
The values I hold most – inclusion, empathy, equality – were seeded here, but they first took root at Jarvis Collegiate Institute, my high school. It was a mosaic of languages and cultures, a place where stories intertwined and differences met with understanding. Walking its quiet corridors again, the classrooms empty, I found our graduation photo still hanging on the wall. My face looked so young I barely recognised it. And yet, staring at it, I realised that the lessons of respect and compassion I learned there have long become part of my bloodstream – shaping how I see the world.
Further down the hall, I stopped before a display case. Inside was an old photo – a few of us with our chemistry teacher, the one who first encouraged my dream of science. The smiles in that picture glowed like a beam across time – a reminder of when we believed effort could bend the world in our favour. That belief remains, quieter now, deeper – like an undercurrent flowing toward the future. I took a photo and sent it to a few classmates. Some replied immediately, others not at all. That evening, I met one of them for dinner – a friend I’ve known since Grade 10. We talked about work, about time, about what it leaves and takes. I had a flight to Ottawa that night, so she offered to drive me to the airport.
In the car, soft music played. I handed her a box of pineapple cakes. “Happy Mid-Autumn Festival,” I said, “though it’s not quite a mooncake.” She laughed, opened the box, and we shared one together. The sweetness melted slowly, and I thought: perhaps going home isn’t about a specific geographical location, but about the people willing to share a small dessert with you before you leave. At the airport, we hugged goodbye. “Keep in touch,” she said. I nodded, knowing time would blur the promise – but it didn’t matter. Connection, however brief, was real.
As I boarded, I looked back at the city lights. They glittered like unfinished stories scattered across the dark. Three years later, I finally understood – home isn’t something fixed. It exists where we are remembered. The plane taxied, lifted, and the city faded into blue. I closed my eyes, thinking of the lake’s morning mist and the laughter by the street corner. Ahead was another city – Ottawa – quiet, dignified, waiting to continue the rhythm of this journey.
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