There are 39 months until the Hail Mary reaches Erid.

Well, 38.87 to be more exact, and I’ve got a few more decimal places that I could include if I want to. Rocky had nodded from inside his ball, knocking two of his five hands together. I can always count on him to check my math.

In the past few months or so I’ve been awake on this spaceship, I’ve gone from Dr. Ryland Grace, the last hope of Earth, to Dr. Ryland Grace, about to be the first human being to step foot onto a planet outside of our solar system. No less one inhabited by five-legged creatures resembling spiders made of stone. Sometimes, the impossibility of it all really gets to me.

But at this moment I’m picking through computer games on my laptop. Despite everything she’s done, Stratt has done me a favor when she ruled to place every single piece of media in existence onto the storage drive of the Hail Mary.

“Rocky, have I ever told you about music?” It'd be strange if I hadn’t told him about how much his language sounds like whale song, the mechanisms of analysis which I turn his notes into the language I comprehend. Music is at the center of our whole relationship, really.

"Yes, Grace,“ he responds absentmindedly, fiddling with a piece of xenonite. ”But never showed music.“

”Really?? Well, you have to check it out."

I close Solitaire—all of these video games and I still go for the classics—and open up the folder of songs. Classical music would be a good bet. I put on Flight of the Bumblebee and turn to Rocky for his reaction.

He perks up as the rapid notes begin to play, even bopping his body up and down as it goes on.

“Very interesting,” he decides. “Random words, but sounds beautiful.”

It makes sense it’d sound like gibberish to him. After all, no composer created music with an alien language in mind.

But then I catch a glimpse of a folder in the files. It's titled “playlist” in all lower-case letters, a folder of mp3 files labeled with what must be song names.

I hover my mouse over the first track. Well, these were sorted alphabetically, so it happens to be the first track by that: Champagne Supernova. An oldie, but a goodie. I’ve had my little 80s phase when I was a teenager, a phase that wasn't exactly discouraged by my father, and I’m well-versed in bands from then.

Champagne Supernova… whoever made this playlist must’ve had a good taste in music. I skim the rest of the playlist. There was Star Sky. Good one. Major Tom—oh, Major Tom!

“Come on, Rocky, check this out.”

-

Sometimes, I get memories rooted more deeply in the past.

I'm ten years old, and my mother's holding my hand as we walk through the natural science museum. I look up at the dinosaur skeleton, jaws opened in at an astounding angle. There's an evolutionary chart deeper inside the museum, and I look up at the path of progress. Ape to man, dawning of civilization. But what interested me more than the philosophy of it all was the shape of the old tools these early humans used, the bubbling of chemicals in the opened science kit, models of atoms in my very own middle school science classroom. It seems like I've always appreciated science, and my parents encouraged me all they could.

Part of the whole amnesia thing is that not only did I not have much in the way of close relationships in my old life, but any relationships I could've really possibly had were just… not there. It's as if by trying to prove my expendability, they only further reinforced it.

That sucks, man.

It's what Stratt has been seeing me as this whole time, a pawn. And she never said anything about it. Just luring me deeper and deeper into her circle until—

But you wanted to be involved. I smack my head. I had a chance out. But there was no way I'd know what she wanted.

And now, now that I've remembered everything there is to remember about her… she really did care. When I replay those returned memories more deeply in my mind, I remember the way she furrowed her brows, out of more than exasperation. The sorrow in her voice, the grim determination.

I understand. Well, I don't. They must've prepared for the possibility of the coma technology failing. I could've killed myself being out here all by myself, with no memories of who I was or where I was! Surely the backup chemist from Paraguay would've done better than me. But…

Stratt. I get you. I hate you for it, but I understand. It's a one-shot chance, and we need the best chance we can get. And that chance is me dying instead of someone willing.

"Grace thinking, question?“

I turn and blink at Rocky. The first time he saw me zoning out, he seemed a good bit concerned.

”Yeah, yeah. Just about stuff that's happened to me.“

I've never told him the full truth about my amnesia. He… doesn't need to know. But it feels strange, having him think of me as the hero that I've desperately wanted to be.

”Understand. Long journey for you.“

”For both of us," I admit.

It's an uneventful trip back. There's been so much more downtime than before, when we were grinding away for a solution. Now usually, when there are no more things to fix and the two of us are too tired to chat, we just sit in silence.

Four years is faster with a friend, but it’s still a very long time.

This time, though, I have an idea. I put on the playlist, and let Champagne Supernova play from the laptop speakers. It had been Rocky’s favorite out of all of the songs in the playlist. I’ve never been able to find out who made it.

Someday you will find me, caught up in a landslide.

In a champagne supernova in the sky.

-

I still remember the feeling of wonder when I gazed out at Adrian.

It's startling to have something stand out so much in the vast relative emptiness of space, where objects are so simply so incomprehensibly far away from each other. It's covered with swirling green, like the northern lights over a whole entire planet.

When I turned on the Petrovascope, everything lit up—the Astropage reflected the red light. It really seemed just like a champagne supernova covering the whole sky, us within its grasp. It's beautiful.

If I close my eyes, try hard enough, I can almost envision Earth from the same perspective. Thin clouds spread over the surface, smears of green and sandy yellow painted onto blues. If I tried to look for it, I would've seen the jet black patches covering the Sahara. Just like the pictures I have seen so often in my youth. But I've been robbed of the chance to.

The sprawling fields of Belarus, the stifling sky that pressed upon me before I even knew tragedy was going to happen.

Dying sunlight splashed on the aircraft carrier, not a single person other than the guards aboard. Until I make out Stratt's lonely figure.

Anctarctical entirely sectioned off and cast into the sea, the waves rocking our ship.

The meeting table three days before launch, Lokken's hands shaking, but when Dmitri cracks a joke everyone around the table laughs.

This was Earth, in all of its majestic glory. This was my past life, its purpose, its meaning despite the absence of those I loved.

I had colleagues. They were my colleagues, and they were my friends. It's strange to think of all of them simply gone.

But no matter. My job for Earth is done.

-

“Rocky, are you sure your government won't decide to study me for science and then eat me?”

Rocky appears to consider for a moment, and then wiggles his carapace. "Maybe. Probably not. You are friend.“

Not the most reassuring answer, but I'll take it.

The spaceship falls into orbit. Eventually it will be time to leave this little capsule I've been on for the past four years, if I dare. Although for the foreseeable future I'd be stuck here, because otherwise I'd be crushed on Erid's unforgiving atmosphere.

I look over at Rocky. He's gone very still. It's been a long journey for him too. His journey has taken roughly the same proportion of his lifespan as mine had done to my own lifespan.

”We did it, Rocky,“ I say. There's roughly no more hitches to be had in this journey.

We dock near the space elevator, and I stay put in the spaceship while Rocky exits.

It's dark down there. I didn't really expect anything else.

”I'll be back quick," he tells me, but watching him leave onto the other spaceship still feels like an end of something.

All alone, I sit and wait. The Taumoeba… once they put that onto their sun, if everything works, then it should solve everything for them. They're probably as relieved to see us as I am to be here. And then I can start consuming it in earnest. Taumoeba's my only hope left, in more ways than one.

I haven't gotten to take a taste test yet. The thought of eating any amoeba at all grosses me out… brain-eating amoeba, anyone? But the alternative would be to starve.

The lights all around swamp me. It's so utterly dark outside. I walk through the lab, walk through the dormitory.

Put on my music. These songs seem particularly fitting right now.

I’ve found myself in the champagne supernova, a smear of stars that they can't even begin to see. We’ve found Astrophage in the Petrova frequency, the brilliant infrared line that dyed the skies scarlet. That's what brought Rocky and I together.

It's not as if I've abandoned Earth. With any luck one of the probes I’ve sent back home will make it. But it still feels like the end of something. Maybe it's the end of the line for me, maybe I’ll starve to death with the realization that I’ve saved one, maybe two civilizations.

My thoughts creep back to Rocky and I’s moments of realization, of finding out that we've been saved by each other.

Well, then. Turn this page for me, Earth. All the best.

“The,” Uncle Qingbo says empathetically.

“The?” Bailang repeats.

Qingbo furrows his brows and shakes his head, maddeningly patient as always. Well, it's not Bailang's fault his uncle's German accent is equally incapable of pronouncing the word properly.

But he seems to take pity on Bailang, and shoos him out of the room. “You'll get it, don't worry.” If only he had the same confidence his uncle had in him.

Bailang steps out and makes his way around the small apartment space. He nearly trips over Karin, who was lying on the floor poring over her sketchbooks.

His uncle had mentioned to him bits of pieces of his childhood in Germany, growing up under an entirely different name than the one Bailang now knows him by. Of course when he speaks to his schoolchildren or the foreigners on the streets they still call him Mr. Lutz, but to Bailang he's Li Qingbo, the same name as his grandfather. His shushu, uncle. Perhaps not precisely so, but to Bailang it's good enough.

He looks so similar to Bailang’s grandfather it's almost a little unsettling. Twenty years younger, not quite as balding as he is—well, was. Bespectacled, the edges of his face and the sheen of his eyes not nearly as bitter. But it's something that goes beyond all of these differences that Bailang can put into words.

It's—whatever. He sets his attention back onto the streets and enjoys the summer day.

His uncle lives close to where most of the shops are, so after a few short blocks Bailang finds himself threading through the markets, people selling fish and medicines and everything in between. Yet the tongues he hears are still unfamiliar. It's a bit strange, being in a home away from home that still doesn't quite feel like home. He looks upon the faces of the people who look just like him, but are still not quite the same as him. In their culture, their language—

He was so intensely focused on the people around him that he doesn't notice the one right in front of him. The two of them collide, and Bailang almost falls back onto the slippery sidewalk. But he steadies himself, and looks up to see a boy his age.

He's wearing a thick coat and a scarf in striking teal blue. Perhaps a bit overkill for this fairly warm morning. When he notices Bailang he raises his hands slightly, as if seeking a truce. “I'm sorry,” he says, in English.

“It's fine,” he mumbles, feeling rather embarrassed. He smoothes down his shirt instinctively, then stalks past.

-

But as fate would have it, Bailang sees him again the day immediately after.

Qingbo brings him and Karin both out, and as they go down the road to a quieter part of the street, he turns into a small shop.

“Hello, Mr. Shimizu,” he says pleasantly to the shopkeeper in English.

The shopkeeper was a stocky man, with a thick beard to rival Bailang's grandfather's own. “Good morning,” he says, voice gravelly. “Usual?”

“Yes, if you'd please. Thank you.”

Mr. Shimizu turns, and as he does Bailang catches sight of someone in the back. He looks awfully familiar…

“Morning, Haruo,” Qingbo calls out.

Haruo lifts his head and waves to Qingbo—did his uncle know everyone in this city?—before catching sight of Bailang. He tips his head and smiles a little. Too late Bailang realizes he's scowling, until Haruo lowers his gaze and his smile drops. Oops.

Soon enough they're on their way with his uncle's favorite tea, which of course he enlists Bailang to carry.

“Who was he?” he asks him after a few minutes of walking in silence. Or rather, a few minutes of Qingbo making sure Karin didn't knock over someone's fruit stand every two seconds.

“Oh, Haruo? He's Mr. Shimizu's nephew,” he explains. “He helps with the shop every summer. Not that they've been needing it… they haven't been doing so well recently.”

Bailang understands why. A shop located smack in the middle of Chinatown, during the war. It made complete sense.

“He didn't seem to like you too much,” Qingbo chuckles.

Bailang's had enough of being informed of his resting face throughout his life, so he makes no comment.

-

“Hello,” he greets in English with an awkward wave of his hand. Haruo's own uncle doesn't seem to be around at the moment, and it's just him at the front.

“Oh, hello,” Haruo replies, tilting his head at Bailang, the same quirk that he's seen earlier. He's as nonchalant as ever, but he seems a little apprehensive. “You're Mr. Li's kid, right?”

“No… he is my uncle,” Bailang explains. An awkward silence falls for a few moments. He feels his tongue tying into itself. “Sorry… last time-”

His expression eases. “It's alright,” he says breezily. “I'll be honest, I thought you had something against me!”

Bailang is a tad uncertain what that phrase means. “No, you seem nice,” he says, shrugging.

Haruo smiles lightly at him. He was certainly easy to please.

Mr. Shimizu appears then, nods to Bailang, and barks a few quick words in Japanese at Haruo. It seems, then, their conversation is over. But something in Bailang rests easy. He's glad to clear up the misunderstanding.

-

As the summer goes on, Bailang sees Haruo quite often, trying to catch a word with him every time. Haruo doesn't speak Mandarin—though Bailang observes one day he can hold a basic conversation in Cantonese—and Bailang's English, well, could use some improvement. But they get by.

Bits and pieces put themselves together. He's an only child, has a pet dog. Doesn't care much for school—just like Bailang. Apparently, his father is some big shot lawyer. Haruo doesn't seem to like talking much about himself, but for entirely different reasons from Bailang. Everything else is more interesting to him.

“Why do you wear them much?” Bailang asks one day, pointing to his scarf. It's not particularly scorching, but it feels as warm as this city could possibly get.

Haruo shrugs. “Because I want to,” he says simply. Not quite the most satisfying answer, but Bailang doesn't press him too hard. “Would you want one?”

“What?”

“I knit them! What color do you want?”

“No—you don’t have to—”

“I’ll bring you one of my red ones,” he says. “Like your neckerchief.”

Bailang stops protesting for a moment, if only to look down. “What?”

“It’s called a neckerchief,” Haruo explains, sliding a box across the counter.

Bailang’s glad he’s noticed. Come to think of it, he’d appreciate a scarf when it gets cold again. He’s come here with almost nothing—he’s barely managed to hold on to his neckerchief, tied around the strap of his bag, as he drifted across the Pacific.

He’s surprised by Haruo’s thoughtfulness, but he shouldn’t have been. Behind his casual demeanour is a keen eye.

“Okay, I’ll have a scarf,” he says noncommittally. He heaves up the box and nods goodbye, briefly wondering why Qingbo has been sending him out for groceries so much lately. Ah, well. He’s just glad to see Haruo.

Later that day, he’s walking to a noodle shop when he spots Haruo across the street, white scarf flapping like a flag behind him.

“Haruo!” he calls, waving his arm. Unfortunately, an automobile coasts past the moment he does, blocking his view, and Haruo merrily continues on his way.

Bailang sighs. Well, time for some jaywalking. He darts across the street and fortunately does not get hit immediately.

“Oh, hello,” Haruo says, eyes lighting up when he sees Bailang step up onto the pavement. “Where are you headed?”

“Lunch,” he says shortly, nodding across the street. “There is a good restaurant there.”

“That sounds lovely. I’ll come,” Haruo replies cheerfully. Bailang blinks. He wasn’t trying to invite him along, but he’s glad for the turn of events.

They walk along to the noodle shop, without jaywalking this time, thankfully. Haruo hums as he follows, and Bailang feels his lips quirk up in a smile at Haruo and his, well, quirks. They sit down at a table, and with some basic back-and-forth Bailang’s able to order. If he was honest, learning Cantonese has almost been harder than picking up English again.

Haruo had asked for no spice, but his bowl still looked only marginally less spicy than Bailang’s. He chuckles as Haruo struggles through his meal. But these rice noodles were quite good. Not too different from what he’d used to have when he went out with his grandfather to eat.

“How do you—” Haruo pants as he puts down the bowl. Despite his condition he’s heroically finished the entire thing, including the soup.

Bailang flashes him a grin, and he buries his face in his arms, almost knocking the bowl over. Laughing, Bailang counts his money. He didn’t quite bring enough money for two people, but he sees that Haruo is already pulling out his own money.

“Are we going to play the haggling game?” Haruo asks, his smile crooking.

Bailang demonstrates the sum he has. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

Haruo counts out his side and hands it to Bailang. After he pays, they leave the shop.

“We should do this again,” Haruo offers as they walk back to his uncle’s store.

“Having lunch? Or—”

“Anything you’d want,” he shrugs. “What do you like to do?”

“Whatever you like to do.” He realizes that sounds a little bit clingy, but Haruo seems fairly happy with the answer.

“Well, there is this new movie that just came out, if you want to go watch it with me! I think I can get Uncle to let me free for a day… how about next Saturday?”

Bailang didn’t have anything going on then, so it was set.

-

For the rest of the week Bailang's thoughts circle around Haruo, as if it will conjure him into appearance sooner. His uncle doesn’t have him run more pickups from the store, and he passes the summer days watching Karin and the nights at his job. But whatever he’s doing, it seems to work; Haruo shows up one evening when Bailang's at work.

It happens to be Friday, quite the busy time. The restaurant's jam-packed of people, quite a few who aren't Chinese. Bailang weaves through the tables and people like a fish through water, until he chances upon them.

Haruo's gaze skirts across the menu. Bailang fights to catch his eye, and he does. His eyebrows lift up, and he waves.

His parents across from him bear a striking resemblance to him—their countenances are as every bit as serene as his. They follow Haruo's gaze across the restaurant, and smile a tad confusedly at Bailang. Then he sees Haruo say something to them, and then their expressions clear; his mother even waves.

Oh. He hadn’t really expected that. Their reactions make him feel almost a little bit shy. He sets down the plate of chop suey he’s holding, double-checking he doesn’t do it on the wrong table, and goes back in.

Coincidentally he gets his break right when the Shimizus leave. As he steps out of the back, Haruo catches sight of him.

“Bailang! I didn’t know you worked here,” he says. “Oh, these are my mother and father.”

“Hello there, young man. We’ve heard a lot about you,” Haruo’s father says, offering Bailang a hand.

Young man. We’ve heard a lot.

“You should come for dinner sometime!” his mother chimes in.

“Of—of course,” Bailang says, still very much stunned by the warm reception.

Haruo beams back at him as the family head to their car. As they drive off, he stands there for a moment longer under the streetlight.

-

“Prison Farm?” Bailang reads as they stand outside the theater.

“Yes! I heard it has crimes,” Haruo says, a bit too cheerfully for his own good.

Bailang chuckles and follows him inside.

ty for moss for critiquing <3

Captain Alger Wilson stood on the deck of the Blue Avenger, gaze sweeping the turbulent waters before him. The ship was just 3 hours from the coordinates he had received from the Church of the Lord of Storms to investigate. Apparently, locals nearby had reported a strange aura.
Alger had requested more information, but receiving no response, he took his crew in that direction anyway. If the Church officials believed he could handle it, he probably could; he was equivalent to a deacon in rank himself, after all.
“Captain Alger!” a voice called out behind him.
“It’s Captain Wilson to you,” Alger clipped shortly, turning around, but he waited to hear what his young navigator had to say.
“Lauren and I were looking at the charts. We seem to keep being pulled off-course in a counterclockwise direction,” Bailang reported
Alger furrowed his brows. Interference was never a good sign. “You can’t see anything with the Quartz Spyglass?” It was one of the strongest mystical items he had on board, able to see through most illusions.
Bailang shook his head.
“Then tell Lauren to prepare the cannons.”

The Blue Avenger, being a ghost ship, had strange powers that Ayla still didn’t fully understand. For one, it had seemingly unlimited foodstuffs. She was more on board as a formality, but at least she got many compliments for the oranges and tangerines she prepared for the crew. And Ayla knew just how devastating scurvy could be.
She watched Lauren zip by her, loading all the cannons while Bailang lagged a little behind. Hugh and Hoang, two crew members, had just finished their breakfasts when they got shoved by the zealous master gunner in the direction of the cannons.
Although Ayla was just a cook, she had her fair share of combat experience and intuition. She really had to, given there were only ten people on the ship.
She can’t wait for when she can dock again and see Lana, especially now that she’s advanced to Beast Tamer and can actually talk to Basil. But those fantasies could wait. With a sigh, she tossed her orange peels aside and grabbed her sword. Lauren was trigger-happy, sure, but it never hurts to be prepared.

By the time the ship was about an hour or so away from the coordinates, the crew had finally figured out a good route, and it appears that the illusory properties of whatever was hidden there were weakened. It must have been more for concealing the location from afar than from up close. Aspen held up the Spyglass again and finally managed to see a minuscule island.
“Interesting,” she heard the captain mutter.
Aspen’s interest was piqued as well. Her Sheriff’s intuition told her that there was an aura of disorder surrounding the island, so strong that she could sense it from this distance.
“Should we approach?” she asked him shortly.
“We have to confront it sooner or later,” he responded vaguely. To Aspen, that sounded like a sign to go ahead. Maybe she had taken after Lauren too much.

There didn’t seem to be anything obviously wrong with the island when the Blue Avenger landed on shore. Alger kept on guard, however; he had long realized how quickly a serene atmosphere can suddenly change.
He drew his sword as he stepped off the ship first, his crew stepping carefully behind him. All of a sudden the feeling of disorder suddenly ceased, and he could see Aspen visibly untensing in his peripheral vision.
“It’s… gone,” she murmured.
That’s when they all saw the civilians huddled next to a palm tree.

Annette clung to Walter as she looked around the island. They had been stuck here with the other members of their ship for who knows how long. They've been working together for the most part, with some cowboys helping them catch things. They don't know where Lawrence and Joe went. She was scared, and she could tell Walter was more scared.
There was something weird about the island that she couldn't put her finger on. She had asked Walter, and he had replied that he felt it too. She dearly hoped that someone would notice that they were missing, would send someone to find them out. But with each passing day, it was appearing less and less likely…
Except then the two of them saw a ship settle down by the shore.
“Walter, Walter, look!”
Their fellow stranded passengers have noticed it too. Some of them were excited, like Annette, but she noticed that the rest of them seem… quite scared. Instantly she drew back a little as well. She didn't know what these newcomers wanted. Especially since they seemed to look like….
“Pirates,” Renee, a nice middle-aged lady, said in a near snarl.
“Pirates?” Walter murmured.
“That's the Blue Avenger. It belongs to Captain Alger Wilson,” she shared.
Walter and Annette exchanged a glance. They both had no idea who that was. But pirates—they had to be bad news.
“Maybe they're here to get the bounty for rescuing us,” Walter said uncertainly. “There would be a bounty for rescuing us, right?”

Weekly 2
meow meow meow

Part 1: Self-Care

drew stuff for ArtFight for 30 min :3


Part 2: Wellness Walk

walked around campus with Denial for 30 min :3


Part 3: Cooking/Coloring/Crafting

colored my art for 30 min! no pics because i'm too lazy to ask the owners of the chars


Part 4: Journaling

530 words

no proof bc a lil personal, but I basically yapped about my convo with a friend and then yapped about a rec letter I need to write for myself :p


Part 5: 2026 Reflection

520 words

I would give proof but it says unsuitable language so I'm too lazy to filter out. bascially I talked abt my career and med skool app and my hobbies and my friends

daily 7/12

527 words bc islept for 7 hourz

dis got added already so i ate it. gehrman sparrow x denial is my otp btw

daily 7/14

347 words (382 if u count the censored parts :p) epistolary wow letters am i right

Dear Haixia,

I hope you don't think badly of me. I should have expected this. I've changed, and there's no use in trying to hide it anymore. Yet I've never wanted to hurt you, meine Spatzl; you know I would rather ▇▇▇▇▇▇ than make you afraid of me.

So I suppose I'll stop talking about the pretty landscapes and the hopeful news. I know they've never been your taste anyway, more of a way to cheer myself up than anything. You've never needed assurance like that. I just wanted to write like you do, with all of the little phrases and the same humor you have. I thought it would make you happy.

I think I need to stop assuming what makes you happy.

I keep seeing boys who look just like Max. I think I need to stop doing this, but I can't stop. ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, and I know you're a neat freak and won't be able to stand it if you were here. I know this is probably all going to get censored anyway but I need to make you understand. Is it a little cruel of me?

I don't really know what to write anymore. I hope you're alright. I'm sorry.

Waldemar.



My dearest Waldi,

You can never make me think badly of you. You are the butterfly in my dreams, the sun in my sunrise. I only really need you to be honest with me. You think me squeamish—well, you'd be wrong. I can imagine all of your words under the black ink. I won't be fazed by any of it, I promise. I want to understand.

The chances of Max seeing him are so small anyway. We would have most definitely heard if anything happened.

I'm fine. Everything is the same old. Well, that's not really true, you've already seen. But forgive me if I lie to you sometimes, too. At least Eva hasn't changed, you know how she is. I think I need more of all of your… army provisions. Do bring back more home next time, won't you?

Yours always,
Haixia

daily 7/19

614 words! wow flower daily :3
out of alba's list i used moonflower / night convolvulus for transient beauty, peach blossom for spring/love, and carnations for filial piety (in chinese culture). outside of the list i also used white chrysanthemums for death, white orchids for purity/innocence, and plum blossoms for preserverance

The peach blossoms flutter through the air. It's Haipeng's wedding day.

It's a beautiful affair, but he finds that he can't remember much of anything after it. Yuling's hand threads through his. He feels a light, pure joy that's tinged with sorrow. He doesn't know why. Maybe it's the finality that comes with such a decision.

The moonflowers outside of their house bloom a pale, serene white. She planted them with her own hands, despite his parents' complaints.

Soon, she is gone too.

He gazes out into the night as he holds his daughter. There is still dried blood caked between her little fingers that the midwife hasn't fully cleaned. It is deathly silent.

He thinks, numbly, that he is cursed.

-

On his birthday, Bailan hands him a bouquet of bright carnations. “Say happy birthday,” his daughter says, snapping her fan.

“Happy birthday, grandpa.”

Haipeng takes the flowers. “Thank you.” He's fourty-seven already. It seems that life has settled into routine in the past decade or so that he's settled with his daughter and son-in-law in this city. Debauchery, glamour, wealth.

He's homesick for a home that he never really cared about. How could that be?

“You should've brought white orchids,” he jokes to the two of them. His daughter smiles, the sort of reluctant offering he's used to.

“But I am here,” Bailan says, confused.

“The flower, I meant the flower,” Haipeng says, ruffling his grandchild's hair. Bailan beams.

-

He stands in front of the three graves and lowers the white chrysanthemums. All he could think about is how much he misses this place. He's a migrating bird, a swallow returning home, but instead of lingering for two seasons he settles for a few days.

It's Qing Ming Jie, and there's always so many people here on this mountainside cemetary.

When he closes his eyes he could remember that day, standing besides Haixia. It's the familiar burning scent of joss paper through the breeze, the settling of ashes against his clothes. It's a loss that he never felt as keenly as she did, or maybe he doesn't really know what it means to feel them at all.

Bailan watches from his side and then lowers the offering of apples. This year it's just the two of them. Haipeng understands, or he tries to. Despite their reconciliation he has come to accept that his daughter will never quite be the same as him. Her life has changed her, freed her from the shackles of tradition and duty-bound memory.

But she's still your mother.

-

The next year, there are two new graves beside them.

Haipeng had made up his mind. They will be buried here. Never again will they go back to that cursed city.

It takes Bailang time, but he gets used to it. Haipeng thinks he appreciated the new start, too. He trims his hair and then lets it grow out, he abandons the white orchids for the whitecaps by the pier. Sometimes, Haipeng still wishes he kept that old innocence.

Sometimes, he wishes that Bailang won't become like him.

-

The plum blossoms flit through the snow. Haipeng catches a blossom as it drifts down, admires the petals. And lets it fall again.

One day, spring will stop coming. One day, the tree itself will wither and fall and die. He will, too. But he will hold on for as long as he can. He owes it to Bailang, to himself.

He feels a soft thunk at the back of his head. Sighing, he shakes the snow out of his hair and nudges Bailang's foot with his cane. The boy laughs.

Haipeng grits his teeth and lobs a snowball right back at him.

I pull into the parking spot, almost running over a few pigeons. Thankfully they flutter away in time, and as I turn off the ignition I turn my attention to the grocery list in my lap.

Before you left this morning, you left it for me taped to the bathroom mirror. Well, it's impossible to miss it. Feels strange to be the one sleeping in instead of leaving before daybreak, but it is what it is.

To be honest, I haven't actually read through the list yet… it did look long. As I skim through it now, I realize how many places I'd have to go. Half of these aren't even “groceries” in the proper sense of the word. But I'm off for the rest of the month, and Max is still at his summer program on the other side of the state. You figured I'd have the time, huh? Heh.

I set the list aside, turn off the music, get out of the car, and walk ten steps before—

Oops.

Two cartons of eggs

List back in my hand, I make my way inside with a shopping cart and make my way to where the eggs are. They're cheaper here than at the Asian supermarket, you'd always remind me. I grab the cartons, and then remember what we're doing next week, so I add another one to the stack.

Broccoli

Right, that chicken and broccoli dish you've been wanting to try out. Well, mostly because you saw the broccoli was on sale and you were furiously Googling what to make with broccoli. I wheel the shopping cart over to the vegetables section—by now, I have realized one of the wheels isn't quite turning right. But I make do.

Croutons

Max has developed a habit of snacking on them lately. Sigh. They have way too much fat. You shouldn't be encouraging him, you know. I make my way to the aisle and engage in a long staring contest with a packet, until a concerned elderly lady takes a packet beside it and I leave swiftly. Or as swift as this broken cart can be, anyway.

Apples

Why are these not grouped by category… that's on me for not noticing. I pick some Fuji apples and drop them into the cart. Apples! They're supposed to be my mortal enemies or something, as the saying goes, but… apples!

I think that's all for here. Maybe I should actually read through the whole list.

Before I leave, I make a point to nab some leafy greens. If you're going to make me get croutons, I'm going to get salad too. I think we still have dressing at home…

I self-check out all my items, tap the little reward card that I've had for all these years with the plastic peeling off, and then head out.



I walk into the pharmacy. I have my prescription scrawled in the corner of the list, thanks to you. No one does paper prescriptions anymore, but it never hurts to have a note on hand.

Vynanse 40 mg

Directions: Take one capsule once every morning.

Or, as I automatically think in my mind, QAM.

Ri, the pharm tech and Max's friend, greets me when I walk in. He always has a peculiar habit of wearing one single contact that's slightly off-shade from his natural eye color.

“Hey, Mr. Lutz. Date of birth?”

“March 16th, 1991.”

“Thanks. Just protocol, y'know.”

He hands over my refill. As always when I see him around, I sense that familiar aura of self-importance from him, but it's been more evident ever since he got this job. Ah, kids will be kids.



There's a sandwich place just down the street, called Sandywich, so I go and get some sandywiches. You'll come back home around six, so we can have the rest for dinner…

“Yeah, can I have the wheat bread, and then ham and American cheddar… yes, for both of them, toasted… spinach, cucumbers, tomatoes, and bell pepper for both!!” I subtly read off your list this whole time. As I open my wallet to pay, I pray that I have the coupon… and I do!

Back in the car, I check the time as I chew on half of the footlong sandwich. It's 2 PM. I think of the passport I have to renew and the recommendation letter I have to write and the online patient safety training I have to do and the birthday gift I have to plan for Dr. Gamma… the last one’s definitely not something I can just wing. We've been coworkers ever since we both started around the same time as newly board-certified doctors, and we bonded over a bunch of things—both being immigrants, both taking care of a kid at home, both ace, both neurodivergent… she's helped me a lot with my Spanish too! If only she'd stop teasing me about my morning matchas… I don’t even drink them anymore…

As my thoughts wander, I also realize I'm thirsty, so I grab my water bottle and take a sip. I always forget to drink water.

Leaning back in the seat, I consider whether to head to the library to get some things done. It feels more productive to use the library computers than mine…

That's how I find myself 20 minutes later strolling around the park right across the library. Oh well. As I walk, I catch sight of a squirrel. It was a squirrel with a very dark pelt. I squint. Did it have heterochromia too?? Unfortunately, it skitters up an oak tree before I can get a better look at it. Huh.

Weird squirrels aside, I finally end up heading into the library. After logging into the library computer, which is hampered by the fact that I got my library number wrong three times, I open up the document of my recommendation letter and stare at the blank page. I did tell Poisson I'd send this in for her by the next time I saw her…

I see your note towards the bottom of my list and chuckle inwardly.

Lock in !!

Somehow, the recommendation letter basically wrote itself. Yes, I'm surprised, too. By the time I e-signed it right at the library closing time, it was 6 PM already. You're about back!



I drive home leisurely, pulling into the driveway. Taking my bag and a good chunk of the groceries from the trunk, I march up to the doorway and open the door.

You're tucked into the corner of the couch, typing away rapidly on your phone, but your gaze shoots up to me the moment I walk in through the door. Knodel hasn't jumped on you and trapped you on the couch, so I figured you haven't been back for long.

“Hey, Waldi,” you say, slipping your phone inside your pocket. Instantly, you're up to help me with my bags. We quickly sort through everything—it's mostly you, I don't know how you still have so much energy, and when we're finally done I turn to face you.

“It's so nice to see you again, my love, my sweet, mein Spatzl, 我的亲爱的—”

You headbutt me in the chin. “Stop being corny.”

“I've missed you!”

“It's been eight hours since I saw you…”

“More if you count that I haven't seen you since last night,” I counter and let you go. Immediately you open the pack of croutons and start crunching away on them. “Sigh… how was your conference?”

Your expression brightens. “Oh, it was very nice! I saw a couple of my old colleagues from my old place—I haven't seen them since the pandemic. And I got to meet a bunch of high schoolers… they're so tiny… I feel like high schoolers are looking younger and younger these days.”

“They're definitely getting ahead on that networking,” I remark.

“Mhm. They're also just more… zealous these days. I'm pretty impressed, actually.”

So am I. It makes me think back to my own childhood, passing through the German foster care system until I somehow ended up in Qingdao. I never really found purpose until I met you. It was hard on our own, in the beginning, us working our backs off while in school. But here we are.

“Have you eaten yet?” I ask you. You shake your head no. I dig through my bag and pull out the sandwiches from earlier today.

“Oh, danke.” You toss the croutons aside and take the sandwich.

“Do you want me to heat it up?”

“I don't think I want to eat the vegetables on that hot…”

Fair enough. You dig right into the sandwich while I plop mine into the microwave. Immediately after I finish my last bite and finish cleaning up, you suggest we go to the cafe.

“Come on, let's go! No better time to get some milk tea,” you say with a beam, basically dragging me after you in the car.

It's not too crowded in the cafe at this hour. Maybe partly because there are two other boba shops in the same plaza.

The chair creaks against the tiled floor as I pull it out for you. “Ladies first,” I say, smiling. You laugh, and it's as always the sweetest sound. Then you sit, and I head over to order our drinks.

We frequent this place too often. They have the buy-one-get-one-free milk tea that you love getting, and despite how much I try talking you out of it you somehow always talk me into it. So I pick the jasmine milk tea and the oolong milk tea, with boba in yours. A few minutes later, they were ready.

We end up walking around the plaza a little, mostly window-shopping. I end up nabbing a plush that I think Dr. Gamma's daughter might like, and I also get a book for Max that he probably will like, because he likes reading basically everything.

“We are not going to the arcade, Haixia… that's glorified gambling,” I tell you as we walk past and you cast a furtive glance into it.

In the end, I relent and decide to get you a little stuffed wolf from a store, and then you get me some extra stationery from a dollar store. I could definitely use these at work!

As we sit on a bench outside in the plaza, taking in the hustle and bustle of people enjoying their evening around us, you reach for my hand. I smile at you—I know how these little gestures aren't exactly second nature for you, but I always appreciate you for trying. Unfortunately, at first you don't catch it—you're too busy looking in the opposite direction at the young man playing erhu. But then your eyes flicker back to me, and you smile too.



When we get home, Max Facetimes us. Seems like he's been having a lot of fun at his program so far, although it's a bit different from what he imagined. You and I were both a little worried for him—it's the first time he's ever really been away like this—but he seems to be having a good time. He's even taking after your cheapskate spending habits, heh.

I put my half-finished boba into the fridge and sit at the dining table for a while. My miscellaneous notes on what I have to do eventually devolve into doodles.

“Thanks for getting everything today,” you say, picking the croutons back up and offering me one. “Sorry if it was a lot.”

“It's alright, I have lots more days off anyway,” I say nonchalantly, taking the crouton and eating it. Dang, these are actually pretty good by themselves. Now I think I get the appeal. “Besides, I feel like you do so much already…”

“One of us works twelve-hour shifts and the other one works from home… go figure,” you snark.

“Heh.”

Before we settle down on the couch to watch your favorite historical C-drama, I set the grocery list on the dining table.

<3

a/n

hey besties! tysm for reading this lil fic <33 haixia and waldemar (i don't think i put his full first name anywhere in the fic lol) are two very beloved chars of mine, and for this entry i decided to do a pretty experimental piece w them! using 1st/2nd person and a modern setting, neither of which i do particularlly often, i wanted to show their cutesy queer relationship (they are both bi and aspec fun fact !!) while trying to make little details in life count.

very grateful to the judges for 1st - i definitely didn't expect much from this fic haha but i had a nice silly time writing it and i suppose that's what counts congrats to everyone!!