The house where Grandpa Chen lived was tiny and poor. James' adult mind could see that immediately, even through infant eyes. One room with earthen walls and a roof that leaked when it rained. A fire pit in the center with a hole above it that lets smoke out and weather in. Almost no possessions beyond absolute necessities.
But Grandpa Chen treated James like he was precious beyond measure, as if he were the greatest treasure in all the world rather than an orphan infant he'd taken in.
When there was only enough food for one person, which was most days, Grandpa Chen would insist he wasn't hungry and give his portion to Mei, the neighbor woman who had become James' wet nurse. She lived in an equally poor dwelling just a short walk away, but she came daily despite having her own struggles, her own mouth to feed.
"The little one needs to grow strong," Grandpa Chen would say with a smile. "These old bones don't need much."
But James could see the lie in the tremor of Grandpa Chen's hands, in the way his movements became more deliberate, more careful, as if every action required consideration of whether he had the strength to spare.
When nights got cold, and they were growing colder as winter approached with merciless inevitability, Grandpa Chen would wrap Yang in his own blanket, the only warm thing they possessed, and sit shivering by the dying fire, holding him to his chest.
The old man's ribs became more prominent with each passing day, pressing against James' small body.
He's killing himself to keep me alive, James realized with growing horror. This man, who owes me nothing, is literally giving up his own life for me.
The guilt was overwhelming. Here was someone sacrificing everything for a few-month-old baby who wasn't even related to him, and that baby had the mind of a grown man who should have been able to take care of himself.
But James was trapped. His infant body demanded constant care, constant feeding, constant attention. He couldn't tell Grandpa Chen to save his own strength. Couldn't explain that he understood the sacrifice being made on his behalf.
All he could do was lie there and watch this saint of a man slowly waste away from his own generosity.
James could see the cost. Grandpa Chen's clothes hung looser each week on his already thin frame, his movements slower. He was burning himself like a candle to keep James' small flame alive.
I have to remember this, James vowed silently during one of those long nights when Chen dozed fitfully by the fire. When I'm old enough, when I'm strong enough, I have to pay him back. I have to make his sacrifice worth something.
He tried to recall what skills he'd had in his previous life, what knowledge might be useful. But the memories were too fragmented, too incomplete. He could remember the feeling of competence, of being good at something important, but the specifics eluded him.
It doesn't matter, James decided. Whatever I was before, I'll find a way to be useful here. I'll find a way to take care of him the way he's taking care of me.
Winter came early and harshly. The thin walls provided little protection from the cold, and fuel for the fire became scarce. James' infant body shivered constantly, and he could see his breath in the freezing air inside their small home.
But Grandpa Chen never let James feel the worst of it. The old man would hold him close to his chest, sharing his body heat.
One night, James woke to find Grandpa Chen sitting by the barely glowing embers, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The sight broke something in Yang's infant heart. This man, who had given everything, was finally reaching his breaking point.
Yang wanted to comfort him, wanted to promise that better days were coming, wanted to somehow communicate that his sacrifice was seen and appreciated and would never be forgotten.
But all he could manage was a soft sound, half coo, half sigh. Grandpa Chen looked over and smiled through his tears.
"Don't worry, little Yang," the old man whispered, reaching over to stroke the baby's cheek with a finger worn smooth by decades of hard work. "Grandfather will take care of you. Always."
James wrapped his tiny fingers around that weathered digit and held on as tight as his infant strength allowed. It wasn't much, but it was a promise. A vow that someday, somehow, he would return every kindness this man had shown him.
Grandpa Chen's smile widened, the sadness lifting from his features for a moment.
"You're going to be strong, aren't you, little one?" Grandpa Chen murmured. "Grandfather can see it in your eyes. You understand things. You're going to do great things someday."
I will, James promised silently, his grip tightening on Grandpa Chen's finger. I'll be strong enough to protect you the way you're protecting me. I'll make sure you never have to cry alone in the dark again. I'll make you proud.
The fire popped softly, sending tiny sparks up through the smoke hole. Grandpa Chen began to hum again, that wordless melody that seemed to carry all his love and hope for James' future.
And James, despite the cold and hunger and overwhelming responsibility he felt, closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. This was his family now. This broken-down mud hut was his home. These people who had nothing were giving him everything.
I won't waste it, James vowed as sleep pulled him under. Whatever chance I've been given, whatever reason I'm here, I won't waste it.
Grandpa Chen's humming continued long into the night, a lullaby for the abandoned child who carried the soul of a man determined to repay a priceless kindness.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new hardships, and new tests of their fragile family's endurance.
But tonight, wrapped in love that asked for nothing in return, James felt something he couldn't quite remember from his previous life.
He felt like he belonged.