We had been wandering by the Auderheimian countryside for days… In the morning, a traveling musician asked if she could rest by our camp… The director agreed. Never seen him being so kind to others. The lady’s playing an instrument I had not seen before, but apparently, the director knows how to play it. It is similar to guzhen, only with fewer strings and shaped similar to a bird’s wing, with the third string having a two-note interval with the second string.

  The search for the script had not been easy, but chatting with Xihua keeps me alive, I suppose.

  ….

  The Belt of Fatherland is spectacular! We and the folks from the troupe had to take a long way around…

  The director is complaining about the script again, Existence knows what his problem is. He keeps mentioning it but never says what it is for…

  It is still raining, I wonder how the weather is back at home. Ah, I miss the moonlight of Siyue and the taste of dumplings mom made…

  I hope I can return home soon. Where is Xihua now? I haven’t talked to him today yet.

  The director is calling for me, so I guess I’ll continue this page tomorrow.

  Neon flipped the old travel journal again and again. Her fingertips went through the words as if she could touch the past days. Hand held the leather-like cover of it, like she was holding the hand of her mother.

  She could recite the travel journal backward. Neon would imagine what her life would be if her mother had not passed away a decade ago. How more wholesome a new year would be, how many more flavors of moon pancakes she could have in Mid-autumn, when her father visits Canvas, she could’ve had her mother with her as well, perhaps even teaching Acryl some Siyuenese folk songs.

  She didn’t worry about Acryl coming home later than he promised; it didn’t happen often, but it wasn’t uncommon for him to pay a visit to the art store or take the longer route.

  As she looked through the paragraph, she heard a light knocking on the front door. She rolled down the bed, sliding the diary under her pillow, and half-jumping barefoot sprinted down from the second floor. Past the piled-up art supplies and dust-covered second-hand cheap furniture.

  From the glass door, she saw Acryl, his face worried as he looked around.

  “Did you forget the keys again?” Neon said as she opened the door. Cold air crept in, contrasting with the warm acrylic-stained walls.

  “I’ll remember next time…” Acryl responded, closing the door as soon as he entered. He looked as if he was entering a stranger’s house.

  “…What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “…I went to Cambric Street,” Acryl said, untying his shoelace. Neon could see sweat rolling off his forehead. Cambric Street, it was not that she had bad memories of that place, but no memory at all. She had never been there due to the warnings from locals when she first arrived and from the words of Canvas.

  “…Neon…how many canvas frames did we leave here three years ago?”

  Neon looked back. Between the shelves and the wall was a stack of linen canvases. All of them are still in their packages.

  “I think…twelve?” Neon said as she counted. She had not noticed it before; perhaps she was too tired from that encounter, but some supplies were significantly fewer or more than they had been three years ago. Neon picked up a photo frame dropped on the ground. It was a picture of Canvas, Acryl, and herself. Acryl was nervous as always, she compared the Acryl in the picture and the Acryl in front of her. Somehow, she felt that something had changed. She couldn’t name what it was, perhaps the expression looked softer, perhaps the eyes filled with things other than worry.

  The Neon in the picture did not change too much in her mind. She felt that she had stayed the same. Being alongside others while against everything, is still able to crack a smile.

  “Then why is there now fifteen?” Acryl said, standing up. His shoes were half on his feet. He shuffled through the piles of sketchbooks. Pulling and pushing the drawers as if he were operating a machine. He was swift with it, each drawer opening and closing in the blink of an eye. Neon would bet that he could do it with his eyes closed.

  “Stencils…gone, sketchbooks…no, these are not the brand he uses…gouache … missing ocher and white…brushes,” Acryl muttered as he picked up a brush and rubbed it against his hand’s back.

  “…Where do you think Canvas will be?” Neon asked as she stood next to Acryl.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “I doubt it,” Acryl said as if talking to himself.

  “What?”

  “…I doubt that he had been to the remnant zone.”

  Neon listened to what Acryl had learned on Cambridge Street. She also doubted if Canvas was truly dwelling in the remnant zone, but when Acryl mentioned the “Troupe,” she remembered the troupe her parents were a part of. Perhaps the accident was more than it seemed. Neon did not want to feel like she could not just be a companion. She wanted to help, but the missing Canvas, now looking, had a definite connection with the world of Realm-art and arcane, and without Realm-art, she could hardly walk in that world.

  They both stayed silent as Acryl walked to the small kitchen, taking off the apron hanging by the wall. Neon knew that Acryl didn’t like cooking while another person was near him, and with tiny steps, she went upstairs. Back into her room, Neon felt like the bed was a magnet, pulling her toward it and curling up on the soft mattress. Her hand reached for a book from her shelf as she let her body fall onto the familiar bed.

  Neon wanted something. She felt like she could change something about it. If there are things that could be done without being a caster, she will do it. Investigating, keeping track of local news, asking things around, she tried all that- nothing. The open book fell on her head while she wasn’t paying attention to the words in it.

  As Neon sank into the mattress and deeper into the cycle of her emotions, Acryl called:

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  …

  “Are you really going there? What if it does not ‘reveal its secret’ to you?” Neon said, concerned. She wobbled in her chair as Acryl gave her a bowl of warm soup. It was fresh right out of the pot. The scent of spice made her already-empty stomach even hungrier. Acryl’s cooking skills hadn’t always been this good. It felt like it was the most useful thing Acryl had learned in Siyue.

  “I can come with you if you need,” Neon said as she grabbed her spoon. She saw her reflection in the soup. Warped, filled with disbelief and concern. The soup was colored in a hue that screamed for her to drink it, to drain its content, and leave the bowl on the empty, non-reflecting surface.

  “…I’m afraid it refuses those without Realm art,” Acryl responded, eyes looking away as he sat down.

  “I don’t have to go in.” She responded while stirring the soup. The reflection of her broke, reminding her of the homeland’s moon.

  “But I think it is best if only I go,” Acryl said, almost whispering. His hand reached for the sour cream. It was the habit of Canvas, spoons of sour cream, almost more sour cream than soup, into his bowl.

  “You weren’t this independent with your homework back then.”

  “Hey! It only happened once…don’t talk like you didn’t peek at my worksheet!” Acryl exclaimed as he noticed a smile on Neon’s face. His face blushed as he realized that he, too, had attempted to cheat off that test.

  “I’m just saying, I’m just saying that you’ve changed, alright? There is no meaning behind the literal one.” Neon responded, putting down the half-empty soup. Bits and parts of un-molten spice whirled as she looked Acryl into his eyes. Neon couldn’t tell why, but she couldn’t trust people’s eyes more than their other facial expressions. Every raise in the eyebrows and every wobble of the pupils speaks more than words for her. She took a sip from the bowl again.

  “Have you decided? It’s fine to ask for help…to me…to anyone.” Neon said as she put the empty bowl down. The sound of the spoon clanging was as loud as she heard her own heartbeat.

  “I don’t think I should decline Kaspar…but whatever his plan is, He doesn’t want others to know,” Acryl said, finishing his food. His bowl was as clean as an unpainted canvas.

  “Well, I haven’t heard a single word about it.”

  “…Will you come with me then?” Acryl said as he finally looked in Neon’s direction. His eyes reflected a light that Neon had only seen the day his Realm-art sharpened. Filled with determination.

  ….

  The night had fallen. Euthian is keen to keep their sky clean, and so is Acryl, keeping his bed organized before sleeping. Untying his braids and putting the rubber bands away. He held the envelope of Lily’s brotherhood. The meeting was about to begin.

  He closed his eyes. Letting his body sink into the familiar bed, his body was used to. He thought that three years in Siyue would make his body strange to his own bed, but it didn’t.

  Acryl couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Neon during the day.

  “Sage is an Auderheimian student…Yarrow is from Treisaules…Parsley is Siyuenese, now that I know Suiming is Forget-me-not…oh…and Iris…I didn’t expect that she’s the Letter-Writer…what is the pattern here?”

  As he slowly sank into thoughts, late-night inspirations, and awkward memories, the darkness was taken over by a field of white flowers. The shadowed sun illuminated the flowers with shadows as the untouched area remained bright. Acryl is amazed every time he sees this scene, but he cannot carry anything but his clothes into this place. He tried to capture the scene on paper once he woke up, but he felt that something was missing.

  By the table, some chairs were seated while most- empty. The seat reserved for Rosemary was empty again. The host had not arrived. The snacks on the table remained untouched. From what he had heard from ‘Yarrow’, who was three years younger than him, but joined the Brotherhood before him, ‘Lily’ had mastered many things- cooking, carpeting, dancing, using a sword, but there was one thing she couldn’t do- making any type of sweet food. At first, Acryl didn’t believe it.

  The last time Acryl tried the sweets, he prayed that he could taste something sweet after waking up. He wanted to remember the faces of the members, yet as if they were flowers he had never seen, once he awoke, he couldn’t remember their faces. Only voices and certain features.

  “Good to see you, Thyme,” Parsley said, legs on the table. His posture was carefree as always, as if he were the governor of everything.

  “Good to see you too, mister.”

  “Sage, it’s been a while since you came here.” Parsley continued, greeting, “How’s the lantern dealing with criticism from the Faustus?”

  “Ehe…work has been busy…so I have not really paid attention to the news…is Professor Forget-me-not here?” Sage asked. Her voice was quiet and tired, her accent giving away her nationality.

  “He’s late…speaking of which, I’ve heard you met him?”

  Acryl noticed the stare from Parsley.

  “That’s it, Parsley, don’t ask too many questions,” Iris said across the table.

  “Keep it easy for newcomers.”

  Acryl wanted to explain that he had been here for three years as he tried to find a chance to join the conversation between Parsley and Iris. As their talk escalated into an argument, a strange footstep and a soft singing stopped them. Light and steady, the flowers bent down as if bowing.

  As the girl’s humming of an old folk song stopped, she sat on the seat of Rosemary.