The Present

In broad, uneven strokes, the bristles of the brush moved across the dark wood.

White paint spread in irregular bands over the old surface, settling into small grooves and collecting along the edges until a few single drops finally let go and fell at steady intervals onto the fabric of the slightly oversized overalls.

Yi-yun barely noticed when a splash hit her cheek.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand, only smearing the paint further, paused briefly and studied the result in the reflective glass of the windowpane.

The ponytail she had tied high bounced lightly with each movement.

Only when the sound of an engine approached and the crunch of tires on gravel reached her, did she let the brush drop into the paint bucket, the bristles splashing softly.

Yi-yun stepped back, planted her hands on her hips, and tilted her head.

Bright streaks now ran across the wood where darkness had once been.

“Looks a lot brighter already…” she murmured to herself.

Around her, old pieces of furniture leaned against the walls, tools lay where they had last been used, wrenches, wooden wedges, an open measuring tape.

The scent of fresh paint mingled with the familiar smells of wood, earth, and dried leaves.

Through the windows, once cloudy and milky with age, light now poured freely into the room, dust motes dancing within it and even the floorboards creaked less than they used to.

Outside, footsteps became audible, followed shortly by the dull thud of something heavy being set down.

Zhi-hao appeared in the doorway, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He rested his hands briefly on his waist, letting his gaze wander through the room.

“The old irrigation systems are definitely done for,” he said at last. “We might be able to salvage a few pipes, but overall…” He shook his head. “It’s going to be a lot of work.”

Yi-yun shrugged, reached for an old rag, and wiped her hands without taking her eyes off the freshly painted surface.

“Good,” she said after a moment. “It’d be boring if everything were that easy.”

Zhi-hao’s mouth twisted before he grinned, and his grin even widened as his gaze drifted over her: the paint stains on her overalls, the white streaks on her hands, the small splash at her temple.

“Don’t say it,” Yi-yun said without turning around.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with mock innocence.

He took a step closer, leaned against the doorframe, his tone quieter now.

“But don’t overdo it,” he added. “You know… because of...”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yi-yun waved him off, picked up the bucket, and set it aside. “I know. I’ve got everything under control.”

Zhi-hao let out an audible breath, his gaze drifting further until it settled on the open box on the table at the back of the room.

“Is that…?”

Yi-yun followed his gaze and paused for a moment.

“Mhm,” she said softly.

She walked over, rested a hand on the edge of the box, closed it halfway, then opened it again.

Inside lay the carefully bundled pages of the diary, an old tea package bearing the familiar image of a young girl, and between them an aged jade pendant.

“I don’t want to just let these disappear somewhere downstairs again,” she said at last. “Not this time.”

Zhi-hao nodded slowly.

“And your mother…?” he asked casually. “She really doesn’t mind all of this staying here? She was her daughter, after all.”

Yi-yun snorted quietly.

“She just said that if we insist on staying here and ‘live in the past,’ as she calls it, then we might as well keep all the old stuff too.”

A crooked smile crossed her face. “She said she doesn’t need any of this to remember her. Grandma made sure of that long ago, long before she was gone.”

Zhi-hao let out a short laugh.

“So she still hasn’t quite come to terms with the fact that you’re actually following in her footsteps.”

Yi-yun shrugged.

“That’s just how she is.”

She absentmindedly ran her fingers along the edge of the box. “She never cared much for tea or rural life. But…” She glanced briefly toward the window. “If she’d really hated it, she would’ve pressed to sell all this long ago when she had the chance.”

Zhi-hao nodded, pushed himself away from the doorframe, and stepped closer.

“There is one thing she’s wrong about, though.”

Yi-yun looked up at him.

He smiled, this time without teasing.

“We’re not living in the past here.”

He took a step toward her.

“But we’re certainly not living in the future either.”

His hand lifted, hesitated for a moment, then rested gently on her slightly rounded belly.

“It’s the present,” he said quietly. “That we’re living.”

Yi-yun’s eyes sparkled.

“Exactly,” she said and returned his smile.

Together, they stepped into the doorway.

The view opened out over the fields, over the lush green gently moving in the wind.

Somewhere, a loose sheet of metal rattled. Farther away, a bird called.

Nothing pressed in on them.

Nothing pulled them away.

And whatever lay ahead, they would shape it themselves.

THE END