“You disappear with all your good intentions

And all I am is all I could not mention

Like who will bring me flowers when it's over

And who will give me comfort when it's cold”

– Flowers for a Ghost by Thriving Ivory

Some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he would just lie there on his bed and drown in whimsy. The bed which he had inherited from his older sister, with the Justin Bieber stickers on the bedhead that he vainly tried to peel off to no avail - that smug-faced brat, the stuff of nightmares, as were the spongey springs and the lumpy mattress. He would make a wish, and he would wish and wish, that it would come true. Perhaps if he wished hard enough, then it would come true. At least that was what his mother told him, before diverting him back to the reality of the dishes mouldering in the kitchen sink.

He thought that if he wished hard enough, then maybe when he woke up next morning everything would be different. But he would always wake up the next day thoroughly disappointed, he would wake up to nothing out of the ordinary, he would wake up to the mundane. His crumpled uniform lying on the ground, his school books stacked in a haphazard pile on the floor, but no comforting from Snuffles, his recently deceased golden retriever. The smell of porridge from the kitchen as grey as his mood. Not that he expected anything anyway, however, sometimes he did just hope. It was a childish fantasy, a silly little habit that he'd indulge in every now and then, after the daily round of teachers and homework and parental disapproval. He knew he should stop, but he couldn't, or more like, he didn't want to.

Tonight was one of those nights. It was one of those restless, sleepless nights, one of those nights when he just could not fall asleep no matter how many sheep he counted, no matter how hard he tried. It was one of those nights when he would just squint and wait for the light to adjust so he could see the faint outlines and shapes of the furniture of his room. He would wait for the soft steady glow of the night light, wait for the dimness of his room to be illuminated in a familiar mellow blue. His childhood teddy bear Mr Teddy smiled back at him reassuringly, despite his blue tinge and missing eye.

It was not like he was afraid of the dark, no, he had grown out of the fear a long time ago. It was a small comfort to him, a reminder of the happier times. A reminder of his childhood – life by the sea, running along the beach barefoot, and the golden rays of sun warm on his skin. It reminded him of his fear of the dark, of a younger version of himself peering hard into the void, imagining vague shapes and looming threats, waiting for the lurking monsters to appear. Of his mother sitting beside his bedside reading him bedtime stories while he lay under the covers – to remind him that he wasn't alone, that he was safe from the monsters hiding under his bed. Of his mother humming lullabies to croon him to sleep. Of his mother with her soft voice, her soothing smell, her comforting smile, and the warmth in her eyes. It was stupid, he thought angrily, that you only truly appreciate something once it's gone.

He woke to darkness. The frigid air lingered about him like a thick misty blanket. The boy blinked blearily, his thoughts hazy and unclear. He could feel his pyjama bottoms clinging to his legs, damp from cold sweat. The pale blue curtains in his room were billowing with an eerie quality. Suddenly he was aware of the cold, of the goose bumps on his arms. The boy dropped down from his bed with a light thud and padded to the window. It was wide open. The wind tousled his hair with a playful quality, and he smiled. He inhaled the nostalgic salty scent of ocean, before closing the window and climbing back into the warm bed.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The continuous ticking of the clock hanging on the wall, and the faint sound of waves crashing on the shore gently lulled the boy back to sleep, and in the darkness resting at his usual spot by the boy’s head, Mr Teddy stared into the darkness with two watchful eyes.

The second time he woke, was to the piercing cries of seagulls. “Those ing seagulls, always disturbing my sleep” he grumbled as he burrowed his head deep under his pillow to muffle the sound. “That’s weird” he muttered sleepily, Jongin wondered where the usual noisy honking of the traffic and the loud chattering were.  He rolled over and groaned at the blinding light, which ultimately roused him from his slumber. “I must be imagining things” he nodded. Rays of sunlight had seeped through the crack of his curtains, bathing his room in a warm glow. He stared at the ceiling, lazing on his bed like a starfish lost in his thoughts. However another screech outside roused him, and he tumbled off his bed to run towards the windows. The sight of a sandy shore, rolling waves and seagulls greeted him. “What the ?” he whispered. 

It was then that he noticed, the two little hands pressed against the warm pane of the window and his head barely over the window sill. With an odd detachment, he brought the two hands to his face – the tiny fingers, the cleanly cut nails – immaculately trimmed. With a deliberate slowness, Jongin curled and unfurled his fingers. It was then that it dawned upon him. Those pair of hands were his.

He stood in the doorway watching. Silent. Unnoticed. A small figure dwarfed by the height of the door, enshrouded by the darkness. His first sight of his mother, alive and healthy, was of her quarrelling with his father.

The cursing. The shouting. The incoherent screaming. The sound of glass shattering on the impact of the ground, as his mother swept the glass cups off the kitchen counter. The jagged shards resting on the floor, never to be repaired like his parents’ relationship.

“STOP IT!” he yelled. His voice young and tremulous, hard on ears like nails on a chalkboard.

The argument ceased immediately, however the poisonous glares that his parents exchanged across the room did not stop. The undisguised burning anger raw on his father’s face, and his mother’s icy gaze and aloof expression – her face blank like a slate that was wiped clean of rage as soon as she noticed her son. The unhinged look on his mother’s face was something that Jongin would never forget. 

The gaping absence of his siblings in this new world now explained through his mother’s screamed words. Miscarriages. The word echoed in his mind. Minseok, with his chubby cheeks and wide sunny smile that displayed his gapless front teeth, and Hyoyeon, with her knowing eyes and smirk that Jongin had always found annoying. Gone. They did not exist in this world. He could feel a lump in his throat. Jongin swallowed. How did one wish cause everything to go wrong?

The atmosphere in the dining room was strained. Jongin didn’t understand why they even bothered. The tension was suffocating. Heavy and thick, crushing the air out of him. Jongin was anxious. The silence along with the occasional clink of cutlery against china was nerve-wracking, edgy. He peeked through his black hair. His mother was staring at him, her face an indecipherable mask. He cringed, the unhinged expression on his mother’s face still fresh in his mind.

Had he not wished for his mother to be alive, countless times? Wishes made upon stars as a child, over the past eight years of his birthday when he blew out the candles on the cake, the frequent moments of melancholy. But why, why was there still an emptiness inside him? The same dull ache burning within his chest. The feeling of loneliness still as fresh as the day his mother passed away. Jongin didn’t understand why. He did not understand at all, after all his mother was alive wasn’t she? Not cold and unmoving, with her limbs spread an awkward angle lying on the stretcher, as the ambulance carried her away. Not her lovely soft hair – that he had loved to