Jia Xin

The soft murmur of the kettle filled the quiet kitchen as sunlight spilled through the window, painting warm streaks across the counter. It was Jia Xin’s first morning with my family. She is a Chinese foreign exchange student attending the local college and will be living with us for the next year. My parents had already left for work, leaving the house unusually still. I heard light footsteps from the stairs—slow, cautious, almost hesitant. When she appeared in the doorway, she looked slightly unsure of where to stand. Her long dark hair framed her face neatly, and she wore a pale blue sweater that matched her calm, collected air. For a moment, she seemed to take in everything—the clock on the wall, the scent of toast, the unfamiliar rhythm of our home. “Good morning,” I said, breaking the quiet. Her eyes lifted toward me, and she smiled, polite but a little shy. “Good morning,” she replied, her voice soft yet clear, each word carefully pronounced. I gestured toward the table. “There’s coffee, or tea if you prefer. My mom made breakfast before she left.” “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.” She sat gracefully, folding her hands in her lap while I poured her a cup. Even in silence, she carried a kind of quiet composure that filled the room