The door to Tao Hua’s chamber creaked open, and in popped the tired slump of a gloomy man. He was careful not to make a sound when entering and even more so when closing the door behind him. But as soon as he did, he remained standing before it, staring down at the fingers that loosely sat on the gold.  

He wasn’t sure how long he remained there, but after a considerable amount of time, that very handle began to flow as if dancing underwater. Rather, it was subjected to the scrutiny of hallucinatory frustration.  

Nothing shutting his eyes couldn’t handle. 

Thus, he did just that. He gently closed them, and his shoulders fell with a long, light breath. This repeated a few more times, his rhythm of in and out matching the books that scraped against his chest. 

Each book was thin and stacked up plenty, and as Tao Hua steadied his breathing, his nails gradually dug into the plainly textured covers. 

It was a poor way to treat books for someone who handled paper better than his own life. 

But enough of the door; it was already starting to aggravate the poor soul of a bookworm. Which was a rarity, stated plainly. 

Tao Hua turned to face the room, and when he did, he was inundated with the peacefulness of the evening quiet. There was little light, but that’s exactly how he liked it. 

Warm in tone—warmer than anywhere in the Tao Estate, and that was assisted by the orange that shadowed through the lattice window. It drew whimsical patterns of birds and flowers along Tao Hua, and the gentle backdrop of the rouge-painted walls. 

Truly, there was nothing more tranquil than the silence that welcomed the croaks and clicks of the late summer howl. 

And yet? Tao Hua didn’t enjoy it one bit. 

He couldn’t focus on the beauty, nor could he appreciate the frogs and crickets. Instead, his eyes reeled down to the books in his hands, remaining emotionless with the tiniest hint of irritation. 

Each one of those books was like a representation of all that caged him. They were repulsive, covering topics such as “successful marriages” or “what to do after marriage.” 

Things that disgusted him more than the food offered at a rich banquet. It made Tao Hua’s face twist with both antipathy and anger. 

They were better off burnt and thrown into hell. 

In all that was his growing displeasure, Tao Hua took those books and threw them against the wall. His shoulders heaved with every sharp breath, and his eyes narrowed. But he wasn’t looking at the wall, nor was he looking at the books on the ground. Instead, his eyes trailed down to the sole book that survived his already terrible toss. 

And unfortunate that book was, for it landed on the worst place possible. 

His boot. 

Tao Hua’s entire body vibrated aggressively, and yet froze all the same the moment he read the title on that leather cover. It was the exact book his father had forced him to read—of all the luck in the world, this one just HAD to fall on his boot. 

“Turning out like your mother,” Tao Hua mocked in a voice so obnoxiously nasally, it hardly sounded like him. Though he was trying to mimic his father’s natural, deeper voice, there was much to be desired in his attempt. Regardless of this, he still continued. “Marriages are a by-product—I blame your grandfather—SHUT UP!” 

Upon whispering the words “shut up,” Tao Hua lifted his foot back and swung it forward with all his might—which wasn’t much. Still! He kicked that book so hard that it bounced a few metres away. 

Good enough! 

See, this was also a rarity. Not often did Tao Hua express anger, which was the ultimate problem here. When these negative feelings surfaced past the dissociation, he had no tools to quell them. Think of it like a blanket draped over him. When he tried to remove it, or even just rip it off, it would smother him breathless.

The only thing that typically calmed him was the book he often carried. But for the first time in, well, his entire life almost, he didn’t need it. 

It wasn’t the pages in a book that calmed him this time—in fact; it wasn’t even a thing. Tao Hua found his breath slowing at each word repeated in his head.

Three words, to be exact. 

Until next time. 

The cheeky little phrase returns once more to be over-thought! Lovely! 

Bringing his hands up to his chest and picking at his nails, Tao Hua’s breathing finally eased. He really did like those three simple words. Better put, it was an obsession at this point. 

Though he did have to admit one thing: those three words made him feel strange—but not in a bad way. It was a weird and overwhelming feeling that made him want to indulge more. Like when he’d think about a story so thoroughly written, his mind couldn’t venture elsewhere. That, but even more profound. 

Of course, Tao Hua was well aware that the sentiments were most likely unrequited. As were most things in his life, but he was nothing if not resourceful. Therefore, he’d daydream away the pain shamelessly. 

Since his mind was a fortress carefully protected, he could do whatever he wanted in there. This was a philosophy he’d mastered when learning not to bite the fingers pointing at him. 

Once Tao Hua found himself stable enough to move, he gradually made his way to the end table. On it were the books Lord No-Name had bought for him, though in questionable shape from being tossed in his earlier excitement. Some were neatly opened on the desk, while others fell on the floor, and few even on his bed. 

That was no way to treat a book, let alone one gifted to him. 

He picked up one of those books and closed it, patting down the cover. With a sympathetic expression—one unable to bend into even a twisted smile—he mouthed an apology as if the book could hear him. “Fronted all this damage just for me to come back angry.” 

Gathering each book, Tao Hua carefully piled them to flatten out the bent pages. However, his expression nearly softened into a smile, had it not been for a realization. 

He sifted through that pile, flipping the titles over and reading them carefully. This repeated five times over until his expression entirely fell. Thus, he tossed those books onto the table and jumped onto his bed. 

So much for not treating the books badly. 

Ripping off the quilt, it went flying behind Tao Hua, almost tangling his hair and dragging him back in the process. But he didn’t care; he was too busy patting his hands around that bed to spare the quilt any more time. 

This game of tipsy-tossy emotions was starting to feel less like a blessing to Tao Hua, and more like a curse. Why was it such a pleasant day had to always end bitter? Did the world not want him to be happy? 

He breathed a single laugh. Of course it didn’t want him to be happy. When did it ever? 

But there was no time to offer self-loathing—maybe next time. Tao Hua patted his hands across the sheets and stretched out the folds. He crawled around that mat until he was certain what he was looking for wasn’t anywhere on the bed. 

Despite his smaller build, his horror was enough to almost prod two holes in the mat with how hard he pressed his hands into it. His eyes trembled, jumping from the jumbled mess of his sheets to the pillars that held the bed’s curtains. But of course, there was nothing to anyone’s surprise. 

So, his head whirled around, turning to look at the other pile of books. 

*The bad pile. 

“…” His forehead wrinkled at the whisper of: “Why would it be in that pile? I didn’t bring anything with me to Father’s study.” 

Bouncing a bit, he stared at it until deciding to hop off the bed and sprint toward it. Even if he knew it was hopeless, there was always the possibility that he could be wrong. 

Even if it was only a 0.000000000009% possibility. 

But even that hope would dwindle to a cold zero percent. From kicking aside the bad books, Tao Hua eventually conceded and fell to his knees. In all that was hopeless, he simply stared at the wall while his lower lip quivered. He was surrounded by a disastrous room, and yet, it had nothing on the state of our princess’s mind. 

Just what was it that had Tao Hua so up in arms? 

The book—the one he carried with him to The Bookstore, and the one he carefully cradled as if his own life depended on it. 

And it was now missing. 

To many, it was just a small, insignificant book that could easily be replaced. Those people, to Tao Hua, sucked. They didn’t understand the importance of items, and how they could symbolize something much bigger than money. 

That book of his was a book he’d carried for ten years, gifted to him by his grandfather. Inside were countless drawings of tales read to him, just so he could see the words come to life. They were special, and no book in the world could ever replace them. 

How could they if the artist was dead? 

To add to this ever-growing problem, Tao Hua had spent those years filling out each page with his own writing. He’d match those illustrations carefully, using them as an outlet for his own poor treatment. Now, this wasn’t like a journal; this was a different type of outlet. 

This outlet denied Tao Hua any opportunity to cry about his terrible life and instead pushed him to create short stories out of the bad. Each tale whimsically matched his grandfather’s illustrations and would transform dreadful tears into happy endings.

Even if happy endings were starting to feel less and less pragmatic, ink never had to follow those foolish standards. Tao Hua rejoiced in that small win of his, and generously so. 

Considering all that, the stakes rose. To lose ten years of hard work and illustrations that couldn’t be replicated? Well, Tao Hua never thought he’d face such a plight. 

He really didn’t have any solution, nor was he equipped with the ability to figure one out.

So, he just kowtowed. His shoulders shook aggressively, but not to the beat of tears. Instead, he looked like someone on the verge of crying yet not quite there; eyes reddened and his nose running. 

And he tried…so hard to maintain composure, but his face clearly presented a man on the brink while still trying to keep everything together. 

And the problem with this image was Tao Hua was no more effective than a wooden dam holding back lava. 

Forehead pressed to the wood flooring and hands nearly smudging its sweat along each board, Tao Hua resisted the urge to slam his forehead against it. It was like a dark shroud of doubt, falling over him and blanketing him in claustrophobia. 

So, like emerging from the depths of deep water, Tao Hua snapped back and loudly inhaled. He hadn’t realized that in his moment of misery; he had forgotten to breathe. But even that relief of breath only washed over him colder than submerging into those waters. 

Plainly put, reality hit Tao Hua. 

“All for a stupid connection,” Tao Hua muttered, reaching his hands up to his temples and staring down at each crack in the floorboards. “All because I wanted to make a friend with someone who probably doesn’t actually care. What was I thinking?”

He laughed desperately. “Am I really that miserable?” 

But he shook his head and lowered his hands. The question was rhetorical. He already knew the answer, so why ask it? Was it his last attempt at trying to control something in his life? 

Swallowing what little he had in his mouth, Tao Hua sluggishly got up to his feet and said, “Tomorrow. I’ll check tomorrow. No one ever goes to A Land Lost in Time.” 

With a pause, he side-eyed the window. Now, there was a bit of hope in him saying this, but that too was dwindling worse than the lantern seemingly dangling by a thread.

He watched as it dangled, lighting him up every-so-often. Even on a night with little wind, the weakly tied lantern could still dance. How envious he was of it. 

Unconvinced, Tao Hua eased his breathing and quietly reassured himself. He said, “It’s fine. Everything is fine. It’ll be there—why wouldn’t it be fine?” 

Though that only worked momentarily. There was still the imminent threat that if someone picked up the book, they would find out every subtle detail describing his sad excuse of a life. They’d also find out that he wasn’t as strong as he once pretended.

To Tao Hua, that was more humiliating than being rejected by an entire village. 

So, he trudged through the melancholy, straight to the end table that held the books. They all sat in miserable condition still, but this time he didn’t care; he just picked one up, glanced at the title, and then mindlessly moved to his bed. 

Before him was a mess, but he just stared at the chaos of his sheets, uncaring. And then, those very sheets puffed outwardly with the flop of his body—like a dead fish. Face first, arms glued to his sides, and book lying next to him. 

Flipping onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling with a look that was no more telling than it was emotional. His mind wandered between all the upcoming events and Gui Chang, the lost book, and finally landed on the one thing that held him hostage all day. 

With a few taps of his fingers against his stomach, he finally relinquished all the grief and reached for the book. He felt the cover of that book, running his thin fingers along it. It was pleasant and had that “new book feeling.” 

Tao Hua found it both comforting and somehow reassuring, but it wasn't the book he had to thank.

What was responsible...well, that was neither here nor there and better left unsaid. 

He flipped around once more and placed the book on his pillow. Propping his hands against his cheeks, he ventured deeply into another world, and this would extend into the late hours of the evening until he passed out. 

Face straight into the scent of a newly bought gift. 

Chapter end.