By Elena Zhang
My brother lives inside of my ear. In the morning, I set him down on the kitchen table. He gives me a bow, then disappears down the sink drain. I never know what he does during the day. Killing bears, maybe, or wooing ghosts. I miss him when he’s gone, but I know he’ll come home in the evening. I’ll put him back in my ear, and feel the whirling of his feet as he dances. “Goodnight,” I’ll say. And, like always, he will say nothing back. This is how we become strangers—one tiny secret at a time.
Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, Wigleaf, and X-R-A-Y, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024, 2025, and 2026.
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