Chapter 9 - The Room of Woven Red
Grandma Lin’s rented room on the second floor was narrow, drafty, and smelled of dried herbs, cold brick, and paraffin oil.
The furnishings were sparse but kept with extraordinary care: a single narrow bed covered in faded cotton quilts mended with colorful scrap cloth, an old cast-iron coal stove with only two cold briquettes remaining in the iron bin, a low pine table with two stools, and stacked woven baskets containing thousands of yards of crimson silk cord, embroidery needles, and carved peach-wood blocks.
Yet despite the bitter cold that seeped through the cracked window glass, the room felt like a sanctuary. A small red paper lantern hung from the center ceiling rafter, casting a warm, amber glow across the whitewashed plaster walls.
Kenneth stepped across the threshold, ducking his head to clear the low wooden doorframe.
He walked over to the coal stove, touching the iron flue with his bare hand. It was cold as river ice.
"The building's chimney flue cracked during the first frost last month," Grandma Lin explained softly, lighting a small glass kerosene lamp on the table. "The smoke was pouring back into the living space, so I haven't lit the coal during the day. Meimei and I fill two glass soda bottles with boiling water and wrap them in wool socks to keep our feet warm at night."
Meimei scampered onto the bed, wrapping a quilt around her shoulders like a cape, holding up a beautifully carved wooden horse to show Kenneth. "Look, Uncle Ken! Grandma carved this from an old branch that fell in the harbor park! She says horses carry your dreams over the mountains!"
Kenneth sat on the low wooden stool, his long legs folded carefully beneath the pine table. He took the wooden horse into his large, scarred hands, tracing the smooth, loving contours of its carved mane.
"Your grandmother is an artist, Meimei," Kenneth said softly, his voice full of reverent respect. "Her hands have held more dignity than anyone I have ever known."
Grandma Lin brought over a chipped ceramic bowl of hot water, setting it before him with a humble sigh.
"Ken," she said, sitting across from him on the wooden bench. "You have achieved great things. You have become a man of immense power. But you shouldn't spend your wealth on an old woman and an alley full of dust. A hot baked potato and a red knot twenty-seven years ago aren't worth millions of dollars."
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Kenneth looked across the table, his dark eyes burning with profound sincerity.
"A kindness given to a dying child when no one else would look at him is beyond any price, Auntie," Kenneth said, his voice dropping into a tender murmur. "Gold can build skyscrapers, but it cannot buy a soul. You gave me the will to survive. Everything I own in this world belongs to that fire in the boiler room."
