iv.
It goes like this:
You are an invisible boy, confined below deck in the dark, stifling heat.
You work long hours before a blazing furnace, your breaths mingling with heavy steam.
You can no longer tell where the ship ends.
You no longer know where you begin.
...
At three years old, you are handed a broom and put to work for the first time.
Your parents had you later in life, and in fact, they had not been expecting you at all, so you spend your early years trying to make up for that original sin, trying to prove that you are not a mistake, that you are not a burden, that you can be useful if only they'll let you.
And they do let you.
You help out with the cleaning, then the cooking, then the repairs around the house, and by the time your brother leaves home, your parents have come to rely on you for nearly everything, for far too much.
Others might blame them for this, but not you.
How could you?
They are your parents, after all, the ones who brought you into this world and gave you life, and what they ask of you in return seems so small a price to pay.
It is easy to mistake being needed for being loved.
And they let you do that too.
...
Life aboard the ship is simple with its strict rules and routines.
You are used to following orders, used to physical labor, used to being ignored.
It feels comfortable and familiar, like slipping on an old coat.
...
Now, your brother, he does love you, of this, you are certain.
From the moment you are born, he is there to shower you with attention and affection, and your earliest memory is of his smiling face, your first word, his name.
Of the two of you, he is the prodigal son while you are merely the spare, but he treats you as if you are the favored one instead, and perhaps to him, you are. He becomes both brother and parent to you, teaching you to read and write, telling you bedtime stories, and proudly bragging of your milestones and accomplishments to anyone who will listen.
And they do listen.
Pretty soon, neighbors and strangers from near and far are knocking on your door for help. They need an extra pair of hands to work the fields, they say. They could really use some help repairing a fence, they explain. They've heard you're good with a hammer and nail, they praise.
If it were up to you, you would send them all away. You have more than enough work to keep busy, and you are tired enough as it is, but your parents are always quick to accept on your behalf.
Of course, that's after they negotiate the proper payment for your time and labor, in money or goods or the promise of returned favors, and though your family is never rich, it's enough for a comfortable life.
For a while.
As the years pass, you come to find out that your brother has been telling tales not just of your skills, but his own, sharing grand ideas and business plans with would-be investors and other, less savory individuals as well.
Most of his ideas never come to fruition, and on good days, he comes to you for help clearing the debts he has accumulated in pursuit of his dreams.
On bad days, he runs to you in a panic with angry men hot at his heels, and you are left to settle the score with your fists.
He has always been quick to attract attention, your brother.
He is just as quick to share it with you, whether you want it or not.
...
Deep below deck, you shovel coal methodically, just another nameless stoker, one of many.
You do not speak, nor are you spoken to, and the hours pass slowly.
...
To be seen is to be hurt.
This is the lesson you learn from your brother, and you have carried this knowledge with you ever since.
You keep your head down and blend into the background, spending your days alone and unseen.
It's not quite a life, but at least you are alive.
...
At midday, you take your break, feeling exhausted enough for a lifetime though it is only the second day of your journey.
You make your way through winding halls towards the small room on the side of the ship, the fatigue soon forgotten as you reach your hiding spot and pull open the heavy door.
The salt air hits you first, then the breeze cooling your skin, and then, belatedly, the dawning realization that you are not alone.
There is a woman leaning against the wall.
There is a woman, here.
She is unlike anyone you've ever seen before, with her elaborate hair and her beautiful, if unusual, red dress, and it's only when your eyes move to her face, taking in her smooth, white skin, that you realize she is looking back at you.
It has been a long time since anyone has glanced at you with something other than indifference or contempt, and you find it hard to look away even as you remind yourself that it's impolite to stare.
For a long moment, you stand there in silence, neither one of you speaking, until the groan of creaking metal echoing down the hallway startles you back to your senses.
In an instant, you duck your head, murmuring rushed apologies and quickly closing the door. You retrace your steps back to the furnace, your break all but forgotten as you pick up your shovel once more.
For the rest of the day, you move coal back and forth, but your thoughts are elsewhere, in a small room far above you with an open view of the sea.
...
Hours later, as you fall asleep, you think of a pale face with eyes that are dark and piercing, but not unkind.
It felt warm when she had looked at you, like the sunrise after a long, cold night.
It felt familiar too, somehow.
...
The next day, you return to the room, not because you are hoping to see her again but because you are certain you will not.
The fact that you even met at all was surely a mistake, one that will never be repeated, and as you open the door to your hiding spot, you expect to be greeted with nothing more than an empty room.
This time, she is sitting on the floor with her legs dangling over the ledge, her hair loose around her shoulders, and when she turns her face towards you, you have never been happier to be wrong.
As if she has been waiting for you, she speaks, her voice soft but firm in the otherwise silent space.
You stand there, unsure and unmoving, the words foreign to your ears, and she repeats herself, this time with a wave of her fingers, her meaning becoming clear.
Before your mind can protest, your legs carry you forward, and you take one step, then another, then another.
When you finally lower yourself to the ground beside her, she lifts her hand again and points out towards the horizon.
There, many miles away, the water shimmers underneath the sun as if blanketed by millions of tiny diamonds, and a gasp escapes your lips, unbidden.
You never knew the sea could be so beautiful. You never imagined that the world could hold such wonders.
There are so many things you don't know, you realize, so many things you have missed while you went through life with your head down, and you can't imagine returning to that life now, not after you've seen this.
You turn back to find her eyes upon you once more, a small smile on her lips as she lifts her hand again, patting her chest lightly.
Ling Yi, she murmurs, answering a question you were still gathering the courage to ask.
You repeat her gesture and offer your own name in return, your hand still pressed to your heart.
High above you, the afternoon sun glows brightly as you hold her gaze, and for the first time in a long time, you are glad to be seen.
...
This will be the last time you ever speak to her.
If only you had known, you might have said something more.
...
It all happens so fast.
One moment, you are hard at work, following orders as always, and the next, you find yourself swept up in a mutiny you never signed up for.
One moment, your ears are ringing from the sounds of fighting around you, and the next, you hear your name above the din, a hoarse scream from a voice you would recognize anywhere.
One moment, you are pushing your way past the crowd, trying to reach the edge of the deck where she stands, and the next, the ship lurches, sending you crashing to the ground.
One moment, you see her huddled near the railing, shivering against the rain, and the next, there is only a flash of red fabric fluttering in the wind.
It all happen so fast.
One moment, she's there, and the next, she's gone.
By the time you reach the place she was standing, it's already too late, and you can only watch, helpless, as she drowns.
...
If only you could have saved her.
If only you could've taken her place.
If only.
If only.
If only.
...
In the morning, you sit in the small, empty room and stare out at the horizon, trying not to dwell on the absence beside you.
You try.
You fail.
And later, when you hear her calling you out to sea, it's not surprise that you feel, but relief.
You push yourself off the ledge without hesitation, diving feet first into murky waters, and as you sink deeper and deeper, her voice echoes in your ears.
Just before it all goes dark, she appears before you, and when she smiles, it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.