"Where does your story begin?" the grown-up asked across the kitchen table. Kai set his spoon down. He did not answer.
Kai pushed his peas into a small brown mountain. He stared at the pile. He thought about where to start, but no answer came.
Kai climbed the stairs to his small bedroom. Yellow light pooled on the worn floorboards at the top. He opened the door and stepped inside.
He sat on his bed and stared at the wall. The house settled around him — creak, creak — like it was breathing. He listened.
Kai opened the bottom drawer of his desk. Something glinted in the back. He reached in and pulled out a small cedar box he had never seen before.
He lifted the lid. The wood smelled like the garden his mother tends — warm and green. Inside rested a folded piece of paper.
Kai unfolded the paper. It was a crayon drawing of his bedroom. A red X marked the bed. Three small words were written beneath it.
Kai's fingers traced the red X. He read the words again. His story had started before he was here. He understood.
Kai walked back downstairs. His hand tightened around the drawing. He needed the grown-up to see it.
He showed the drawing to the grown-up. "It started here," he said, tapping the red X. His voice was quiet but sure.
They sat together on the couch. The drawing rested between them. The house creaked around them, old and steady.
Creak. Creak. The house breathed around them, warm and familiar. Kai leaned back and smiled. This was where his story began.
