Winter had already settled in when Senmei fell in Taiwan on January 24, 2026 (Monday). She was ninety-four. The cold entered her body before she reached the floor, sinking deep into her bones. The pain stayed—unyielding, heavy, unwilling to move on.
She lived with her eldest son, Bao, and his wife, Ping, who was twenty-five years younger than him. The house ran on routine: efficient, busy, never pausing long enough to notice stillness. When Senmei spoke of her pain, her words landed softly and vanished.
They told her it was normal. Just old age.
One morning, the house was empty. No footsteps, no voices—only the cold lingering in the air. Senmei put on her coat, opened the door, and stepped outside. She did not think of it as running away. She thought of it as going somewhere she might be heard.
She walked to a nearby community center. A social worker listened—truly listened—and asked careful, deliberate questions. By afternoon, phone calls began crossing the ocean. In the United States, her daughter answered, suddenly alert, suddenly afraid. Names were exchanged. Numbers gathered. Her sons in Taiwan were contacted.
Bao hurried to pick up his mother.
On the way, distracted and rushing, he was involved in a minor car accident. No one was seriously injured, but everything slowed—traffic, plans, time itself slipping out of rhythm.
All day, the daughter carried her phone from room to room. She turned the volume up. Set it down. Picked it up again.
At 9:30 p.m. in Taiwan, the phone rang.
“I am alone,” her mother said.
The line was clear—almost unnervingly so. No crying. No trembling. Just facts.
“Bao is looking for Ping in the dark of Taoyuan City.”
The daughter stood motionless, imagining winter streets she had not walked in years. Headlights searching, engines idling. Her mother waiting inside the house, coat still on, the cold quietly finding its way back to her bones.
An hour passed.
Then the phone rang again.
10:30 p.m. in Taiwan.
“They came back,” her mother said.
Nothing more followed. Nothing needed to be asked.
The daughter kept the phone pressed to her ear long after the call ended, listening to the silence—grateful only that, for now, the night had finally stopped moving.