“But I don’t want to go.  I want to stay at home and read,” insisted the little girl, digging her heels into the gravel in a futile attempt to prevent her mother from dragging her further down the driveway, where a bright yellow taxi was visible beyond the gates. 

Her mother glanced down at her absent-mindedly, a distracted smile the little girl was unfamiliar with.  “Be a good girl and listen to mummy, okay?  Something bad has happened at your uncle’s, and I really need you to behave well.  If you do, I promise to grant you one wish.”

At this, the girl’s dark brown orbs brightened and she skipped a few steps ahead, dancing around her mother with the simplistic joy that comes so naturally to children.  “Do you really mean it?  I can wish for anything I want?”  In her mind, that single wish had already multiplied into infinite possibilities that filled her mind with vibrant excitement.  There were stars in her eyes and she missed the shadow cast over her mother’s bare face.  She had been meaning to ask about that – why Mummy hadn’t painted her lips red and her cheeks white like she normally did – only the wish left no room for those words, forgotten even before they boarded the strange car.

When mother and daughter arrived at the Lee household, the mood was somber, not unlike the atmosphere of a funeral, even though as far as they could discern from the note which read in precise handwriting: I cannot live someone else’s life.  Sorry.  Thank you.  And goodbye., the runaway son was still very much alive.  Many years later, the girl would look back and understand this – that people don’t have to die to be mourned.  Although the girl could not fully grasp the situation then, she sensed that she ought to be solemn here and adopted the appropriate conduct.  After all, she didn’t want to jeopardise her wish.

Her mother had gently untangled the cloth of her skirt caught in the girl’s clutching hand, reminded her to behave, and went to her uncle’s side.  Left to her own devices, she wandered up the grand spiral staircase, completely enchanted by its fairytale appearance, so lost in imaginary princes and princesses that she did not realise she had made her way to the very end of the corridor until whispers interrupted the classical ballroom pieces playing in accompaniment.  She stopped short in front of the door muffling the sounds, trying to peek in through the crack left open.  Sitting on the carpeted floor in a half-ring surrounding a boy she recognised as her second oldest cousin and a boy she did not know were three others; one of them was the cousin closest to her in age and, noticing her silhouette in the doorway, he motioned to her.  Without needing to be invited twice, she went straight in, plopping down on the empty spot beside the slumped figure that was her second oldest cousin.

She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but in his lifeless visage unshed tears glistened, held back, perhaps, by the soft heaving of his chest that filled the silent room.  He looked exactly like how she felt when her favourite Rilakkuma had been mistaken for trash and accidentally discarded by a maid; her heart went out to him, translated into the sincere action of reaching out to take his hand, as her mother had done to her.  She certainly had not expected him to react, slapping away her well-meaning gesture in a sudden movement that prompted her to cry after a brief pause of surprise.  In between sobs she hiccupped, Oppa, don’t be sad.  Oppa, don’t be sad. again and again, oblivious to the glares of disgust and mild annoyance from the boy and girl facing her. 

Her cousin finally turned to look at her.  He sighed, an exhalation too heavy for a young child of his few years, and pulled her close, resting her head on his slacked shoulders, murmuring as he did, breath hot against her forehead, I get it, I’m sorry.  Don’t cry.

Ever since that day, the little girl has been waiting for him to say the same words.

He hasn’t.

So she waits.  It’s all she has known anyway – waiting.