"Go home, boy." The old man's words were dry and light as falling leaves. The hospital room was white and shades of gray and Thomas's ashen face was melting into the pillow.

Home? The first vision in Lucien's mind was the house on Upper Thomson Road; high walls, garden filled with palms and lush vines, rooms with whisper-quiet servants moving through the shadows, their light steps echoing on the teak floors. Mei Lin waiting in the dining room, her silk dress bright as a hibiscus bloom.

Father meant the house of Lucien's childhood. Lucien didn't know if that was home, but he went there because he had nowhere else to go when visiting hours were over.

At the door, Lucien raised his hand to knock but remembered this was his family home. He didn't need to.

Inside, he was enveloped with the darkness— walnut wainscoting, polished wood floors, dim plaster. He found himself going up the narrow stairs to his old bedroom, but it was gone, replaced by a feminine presence; flowered wallpaper, quilted bedcover, and the scent of roses.

He went back downstairs. The house was quiet but for ticking clocks, all slightly out of tune with each other, reminding him of a stuttering heartbeat.

The slightest sound from outside the kitchen. He moved silently, still not out of practice.

The old sunroom was off the kitchen. In his childhood, it had held his mother's orchids and was a place she could paint during the wet. Lucien would sit with a stack of books, reading.

The sun flared on the glass, blinding him. There was only the deep odors of loam, fresh leaves and lightly sweet blooms. And that rose perfume from his old bedroom.

A shadow moved in the brightness. A low woman's voice: "You've come home then."