Chapter 4: The Twelve Flower Months of Remembrance

Returning to familiar lands was a relief. The little compass in Ace that had been spinning wildly recalibrated itself, showing him the way home.

Ace made it in time for the last train for the day. He boarded the train, the squeaking of his shoes against the hard floor forming a lonely echo. He scanned the mostly vacant train carriage for a seat and picked the priority seat. It was the best seat as there was a glass pane next to it. On regular days, that seat was out of bounds. If he sat in it, he would draw the stares of at least one person; two if he was in his school uniform.

The cool glass pressed against the skin of Ace’s temple. He could feel the vibration of the train as it moved off. He listened to snippets of a hushed conversation between a couple nearby. It was about getting a new flat. His attention quickly shifted to the man seated opposite him. The man was asleep with a book on his face, snoring lightly. 

Ace stared at the book on the man’s face as it started sliding off his face. It fell straight between the man’s legs, bounced off the hard plastic seat and clattered onto the floor. 

The light-haired man did not stir. It was understandable since it was a Friday night. The train carriage at this time of the night was usually a judgment-free zone. Who reads the Divine Comedy in this day and age? Ace thought as he studied the upturned book at the man’s feet.

Ace shifted his eyes onto the train board. As it passed by each stop on the line, the line of lit green lights shortened. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Couldn’t the train just go slower today?

“Next stop: Bishan. Change at the next station for the North-South line.” The announcement came over the intercom, signalling the impending end of his train ride. Ace got up and waited by the doors. He picked up the book on the floor and tapped the man on the shoulder. Realising that the man was dead asleep, he placed it on the empty seat next to him.

Ace got off at his stop and headed towards the bus interchange. Usually, he would take a bus to get home quickly. However, the last bus had already left the depot.

Even if it had not, he would rather walk.

Knowing the existence of phantoms made him much more aware of his surroundings. There were plenty of tiny critters that scuttled away from the light. Based on what Felix had told him, darkness gave them strength.

Was that a phantom on A-Pa’s neck? Ace wondered as he trod on.

The walk home was a haze. When Ace reached the foot of his block, Felix was waiting for him. Next to him was a woman, who was quickly introduced. “This is Lady Meng Mo Wang. You can call her Lady Meng.”

Lady Meng reached out and shook his hand. Her grip was gentle but firm. She stood straight, shoulders back. Her lips were curved into a warm and benevolent smile. Ace’s eyes quickly shifted to the large gold poppy hairpin that adorned her shoulder-length hair. The delicate golden frame glinted in the streetlights, throwing specks of gold across her obsidian hair. She donned a simple outfit: a white button-up blouse, a black skirt that flared out at her knees and finished with a pair of black heels. 

“She’ll carry out your request,” Felix said. "She specialises in this."

Ace’s lips parted into a soundless ‘Ah’. He gulped and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, rocking lightly on his heels. 

They… really do have a sorcerer for everything, huh.

***

Ace could hear his father snoring from outside the house, the television playing late-night soccer matches. The glow from the television barely illuminated the living room. He quietly stepped into the house. Lady Meng promptly closed the door behind them, leaving Felix outside to keep watch. She approached his father and placed a hand on his forehead. A purplish-pink glow emanated from his forehead. “Don’t worry, he’ll be asleep throughout,” she said as she took her hand away, revealing a poppy sigil. 

Lady Meng set down the heavy case she carried on her back with a thunk. It opened with a hiss, revealing several heavy tomes inside. Ace’s mind started to drift, his eyes unfocusing and his body slowly becoming numb.

“Mr Wang?” Lady Meng was crouched at his side, her eyes upturned in an expression that could be read as either pity or sympathy. Ace opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say. “Are you ready?” she asked softly.

Ace bit his lip and let out a shaky breath. He answered her question by bending down to her height. She placed her hand on his forehead, pulling out thin wispy streaks and weaving them together to form a thread. Many other threads soon joined it, and they wound together to form a yarnball of memories. When she was done, the ball split and the threads travelled in different directions.

Lady Meng placed a hand on his father’s forehead once more and pulled out a book from her case with her other hand. At the same time, more poppies bloomed along his father’s forehead. 

“It’ll take some time as it is an expansive and expensive technique. You should pack your belongings in the meantime,” she said, pressing a manila folder and a leather pouch into his hand. “Take your time.”

Ace nodded numbly and turned to walk to his room, walking past the dining area where the dinner his father had laid out had long turned cold. He swept his belongings haphazardly into the pouch they had given him. It had no limit on what it could hold, they had told him. It was probably the work of the runes stamped all over it. His belongings fell into the black void, and he could only trust their word that they were being held in this small pouch as they had claimed.

After emptying his cabinets, Ace went to his desk and stared at the wall of photos. He watched as he faded away, leaving behind an inconspicuous gap where he once stood. Yet, he plucked them off the corkboard one by one and slid them neatly into the manila folder. He paused when he reached his graduation photos taken mere months ago.

“Come on Ace… You asked for it.” Ace pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and breathed deeply. He sank back into his chair and stared at the very last photo he always kept on his desk in a wooden frame he made. It was a photo of his father and him on a carousel when he was five. A toy compass that his father had won at the same carnival sat next to it. 

***

“A-Pa, Pa-pa, I want that!” 

“Why would you want a compass? You don’t even know how to use it.” A-Pa directed the game operator’s attention to the compass toy. Ace snatched it eagerly from the game operator’s hands and shook the toy around gleefully, watching the needle go haywire.

“No, that’s not how you use it.”

“How do you know?” Ace pouted. A-Pa chuckled and pinched his cheek playfully. “You see this red arrow? It points in a certain direction,” he said, placing the compass on his palm. “I use it at sea quite a lot. They are a lot bigger than this one.”

Ace placed his eye close to the transparent dome, watching the needle wobble and rotate slowly until it came to rest. No matter how he turned the toy, its needle always returned to the same position. “What does this do?” he asked.

“This compass shows you know the way home.”

“What else does this com-pash do?”

“Compass,” A-Pa corrected his pronunciation. “It also tells me where to find you!”

A-Pa lifted him by his armpits and set him on his shoulder. Ace giggled and tugged at his father’s hair. “How do you do that if you don’t have one?” he asked playfully.

“I’ve one in me and it tells me where you are, always.”

***

Ace stared at the photo as he gulped down the reheated soup. He had brought it from his room to the dining table. As he sipped on the soup, he remembered complaining about it earlier in the day, but this time, it was especially bitter and harder to swallow. 

The quality of A-Pa’s cooking varied wildly, often depending on his mood. He was brutally honest about it, and he would proclaim that they should be grateful that they had food on the table. However, on days when A-Pa put in the effort to cook, he would ask excitedly, “How is it? Does it taste good or not?”

The frame shook in his hand as he clung to it. He stared at the photo, burning it into his mind. He dared not close his eyes. 

Until he memorised every single detail in it. 

Until he could see it even when his eyes were closed.

Until death had to pry that memory from his cold fingers.

As Lady Meng’s technique took him away from that photo, Ace gave his answer.

“It’s good but a bit salty,” he sniffed. “V-Very salty.”

***

“It’s done?” Felix asked as Lady Meng stepped out of the door.

She handed him the hefty tomes she had collected. “He said that he wanted to stay for a little while longer,” she said. “Should I check on him if he…”

“Let him stay for as long as he needs.” Felix shook his head gently. The books rested in his hands, and so did the weight of the boy’s world. He sighed as he turned them over in his hands. “Do we have to? The archives of the Poppy Manor could make some space for him.”

“It is what he wants, is it not?” Lady Meng said. 

Felix sighed. “Are you okay with this?”

Lady Meng avoided his gaze. She knew he had that mournful look on his face. She dug her hands into her pockets. They suddenly felt as though she had put rocks in them. “Even if it isn’t a Sacrificial Vow, we must honour his wishes.”

“But if he knew about Sacrificial Vows, would you still honour it?”

Still looking down at the ground, Lady Meng answered, “Yes.”

The pages fluttered as Felix flipped through a tome. “Meng Meng,” he said. “You aren’t doing a very good job at being a Witness.”

Lady Meng lifted her head and nodded. “I’m watching now.”

Felix closed the tome gently. His fingers ran down the leather cover, and he gave his command.

“Burn.”

At 3.13 am, 24 February 2018, approximately 6282 days of shared memories went up in flames. There was something about Felix’s flames that made the act of burning something so sacred, so graceful and so quiet. The ashes fluttered like grey butterflies, the smoke twisting and curling as the wind guided them to their final resting place.

Ace finally stepped out of the house as the last pages burned away. “Are you ready to leave, Mr Wang?” Lady Meng asked.

Ace stopped and rubbed his eyes on his sleeves. Lady Meng could hear him sniffling softly. “Uhm… Lady Meng," he steadied his voice. "Could I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“In the lift, you told me that you were here as a Witness. What does that mean?”

“It means that I have to document everything that led up to us finding you.”

“Do you document everything that happens in the… uh…”

“Yes.”

Ace stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and shuffled his feet slightly. “Can I just be known as Ace?” 

Ace had placed extra emphasis on ‘just’, quashing all doubt that Lady Meng had about all the requests he had made thus far. Others might have seen a boy having the courage to confront the unknown future, but all Lady Meng saw was a boy destroying the path behind him so that he would never tread on it again. 

And consequently, no one else could walk on the path that led to him.

“I will keep that in mind,” Lady Meng promised. 

Felix, who was quiet throughout the entire conversation, merely placed a hand on Ace’s shoulder. Ace wiped his eyes once more before he took a decisive step forward. There was a strength in that step that Lady Meng felt. It was an old strength she had witnessed before.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Lady Meng spoke up quietly as they made their way to the Beacon, “why do you still hang onto those photos?”

Ace looked at her with teary eyes and gave her a small smile. “I just… want to remember what they look like so that… they have at least one person who remembers that they are good people,” he replied as he held the folder close to his chest. “T-that’s… all.”

Lady Meng had to squeeze her hands in her pockets. Her nails dug painfully into her palms, almost certainly drawing out pinpricks of blood.

It was not to stop herself from feeling too much but to feel something.

***

Lady Meng lay on her side with a half-drunk glass of whiskey balanced on her pillow. Qingxiu often chastised her about bringing liquids into bed because she would always spill them. Tonight, however, Qingxiu’s side of the bed was empty. She had returned to Chongqing for a short family visit. 

Lady Meng continued staring at the glass longingly, willing it to topple. The sheets could be changed tomorrow.

But the glass stayed where it was, nestled comfortably in the pillow.

“Meng Meng.”

The glass disappeared from Lady Meng’s line of sight. She closed her eyes and sighed. “You got me,” she whispered. “Couldn’t get past your eyes.”

The bed creaked as Felix lay down to face her. “I didn’t have to use them,” he said as he tucked his hands under his cheek. “I’d have done the same thing.”

“What do you think about starting a stash, hm?”

“As long as you’re pleased. Not sure about the First Lady, though,” Felix laughed softly. “Restoring memories is a lot harder than wiping them, even with the most consequential memory. So, which one is it?”

“Wanna guess?”

“Ace’s birth?”

“Close but not quite. You can read the page if you want. It’s in the right drawer of my vanity.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.” Felix exhaled audibly. His warm breath tickled her face. Lady Meng scooted closer to Felix. He would know and he understood. She found herself pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her gently. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Stop bein’ cheesy,” Felix replied. “But you’re welcome.”

Lady Meng felt her eyelids droop. She resigned herself to Felix’s embrace, allowing herself to fall into a deep sleep. Though he could not make all her burdens vanish with a snap of his fingers, he would always be there to share them. 

===

There will only be kinship between the flame and the twelve flowers of remembrance. It is so in this life, in the next and the drowsy future of a distant universe, for he only yearns for the rose on the asteroid.