Milly’s eyesight had been blurry for months. She’d hidden it, swapping her bi-focals for a stronger pair from the drugstore. But the eye doctor’s letter was clear: early-stage macular degeneration. The words “significant central vision loss” were a death sentence for a Mahjong player.

Milly stood in the doorway of her own living room, feeling frail. “I can’t. I can’t see the tiles anymore.”

On the third Thursday, her doorbell rang. It was Carol, holding a canvas bag that clinked.

Mahjong was the last thread connecting her to her mother, who had taught her on a cracked Formica table in San Francisco’s Chinatown in 1962. Her mother’s voice, a sharp Cantonese whisper, would echo in her ear: “The tiles don’t care if you’re old or young. They only care if you are paying attention.”