River of Fire and Other Stories (Weatherhead Books on Asia)

“The sound of heavy footsteps above my head continued throughout the night.”

Living in a small room makes you notice every sound through the wall. You start to feel like your neighbors' lives are actually your own.

“My mother’s hands were rough, and they pulled at my scalp without mercy.”

Watching a mother brush her daughter's hair can feel like a silent battle. There is so much resentment hidden in those simple, repetitive motions.

Childhood memories of the war stay tucked in the corners of a house. Even decades later, a simple noise can make a grown woman feel small and trapped again.

“The smell of rotting food seemed to be coming from deep within the walls.”

Grief looks a lot like a messy kitchen that nobody wants to clean. Life just keeps piling up while you stare at the same spot on the floor.