The air purifier rattles in the corner of my grandparents’ humble apartment, battling old age and Beijing’s pollution. The unforgiving smog manages to manifest itself indoors as dust, settling on the floor, in the furniture, below the rug. I once made the mistake of walking barefoot in the apartment for the entire day. When I showered, the water that swirled down the drain was cloudy with dust. I press my nose against the window, transfixed by the thick haze that drapes itself over the buildings that jut from the asphalt like weeds. Pedestrians, with their heads lowered and hands buried into coat pockets, are concealed by a shroud of grey. The chemical soup seems to drag at their shoulders - weightless yet so heavy. I gaze directly at the sun, a fleck of orange in the ashen sky, without feeling the strain that would normally force me to turn away and blink angry black dots out of my vision. The shrill ding of the elevator lances the hushed atmosphere of the apartment, and the door trembles as a hand fumbles with the reluctant brass doorknob.

“I’m home!” With a final budge, the door groans open and my grandfather slips inside the apartment. Scattered around the door are several pairs of white hotel slippers, collected from travels of years past. My grandfather eases his feet out of his loafers and tucks them into a pair of the simple slippers. He pads softly over to the couch, plastic bags heavy with groceries rustling as he sets them down. Although I recognize the bold red character on the bags as the logo of the supermarket that is only a brief walk away, my grandfather still hides his nose and mouth behind an air-pollution mask. He tugs the mask off of his face, revealing a weary smile that is missing a couple of teeth.

“Ai ya,” he exhales, breath leaving him in a long sigh as he settles onto the couch beside

me. The cracked black leather sinks under his weight, forming wrinkles that remind me of the deepening creases at the corners of his eyes. He kicks his leg over the other, jostling the slipper on his foot. “Yé ye is home.”

He peers at me closely and I watch my face mirrored in his eyes, sullen and unblinking. I slide my gaze to window, leaving my thoughts to trail behind a lone bird as it wheels around the grey canvas. I open my mouth to speak, but my breath catches in my throat and my tongue curls, the crisp Mandarin characters melting on my lips. My mouth struggles to form the characters that are familiar to my ears but so foreign to my tongue. I finally mumble a blunt “nǐ hǎo” and drop my eyes to my lap, feeling my ears flush red and pulse with shame.

My grandfather’s shoulders begin to shake with silent laughter and then a hoarse chuckle rumbles from his chest. He turns to the bags of groceries at his feet, rummaging for a bottle of suān nǎi, Beijing’s imperial yogurt. Sitting back up with a satisfied grunt, he gives the bottle a quick shake before sticking a straw into it and handing it to me.

My face must’ve still been downcast because after he rolls up his sleeves and holds out his slender fingers. His hands are mottled and his spotted skin is stretched tightly over his spiderweb veins, but he wiggles his fingers enthusiastically.

“Did you know that yé ye has eleven fingers?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with sly humor. Even though I have heard this joke more times than I can count, I play along and shake my head innocently. He folds his fingers into his palm and squints at his pinky, beckoning with his other hand for me to lean closer. A tiny wart sprouts from the tip of his finger and he holds it in front of my eyes triumphantly, his eyebrow raised in a shrewd arch as if he was trying to say See? Here’s my eleventh finger!

The corners of my lips twitch and laughter bubbles in my throat, but then the harsh white glare of the sun bursts past the blanket of grey smog. The rays flash from behind my grandfather, transforming his face into a silhouette. The brilliant light lashes at my eyes, and I have to turn away from him.