Love, Baba. I read them before we speak. Technological advancements and campus protests takes the place of bedtime adventures. The subject matter changes, but the ritual does not. When my phone lights up with another message from her, sent over WhatsApp or Gmail, followed by a string of emojis she is still experimenting with, I think back to the stories she once told me and the ones I once read aloud, the chuckles that filled the room when something sounded too implausible for my seven-year-old mind. The ritual looks different now. I read carefully. I call her back. And somewhere between her questions and my answers, we are still sitting together inside that small circle of light. Working Hands Lillian Liu ’27
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