The kitchen table. His mother. Sipping tea. The air, heavy. With unspoken questions. And then she spoke. Quietly. "Your Uncle Feng called, Xing. He's going to Orsova for two weeks. Family affairs. He'd like us to go with him. You. And me. A little break. Get some fresh air. Away from… everything."
Xing paused. On the word. On holiday. A trap. A cage. Of manufactured happiness. Of family censure. Of pretending. To be okay. On the inside. When he wasn't. On the inside. At all. His stomach. Tightness. Orsova. Family. Two weeks. No respite. No escape. Just. exposure.
What he saw was her. Her eyes. Begging. Without words. Her worry. A palpable force. In the small kitchen. For her. For them. Again. Always. For them.
"Orsova?" He made it through. His voice. Thinner than. "With… Uncle Feng?"
She nodded. Her eyes. Unshakeable. "Yes, son. He'd be pleased if you went. It would do you some good. A change of pace."
Change. Frightening. But. Not quite so terrible. The poppy. The metaphor. Change. Or forgetting. This. Is not. Forgetting. But. Change. A different. Kind. Of fear.
"Okay." The word surprised him. Off balance. Flew. Before he could. Take it back. Before the monster. Could whisper. Its dooms. And social. Awkwardness. "Okay, Mama. I'll… I'll come."
Her face. Smiled. A rare. Brightness. That almost. Hurt his eyes. She stretched across the table. Grasped his hand. Her touch. Warm. Flimsy. Like a dying ember. But. Warm.
"Oh, Xing. Thank you. It means so much."
The preparation. Was a haze. Packing a little bag. Comfortable clothes. The book. With the poppy. His laptop. To do the stream. To do Reiner. His phone. Still dead. For the most part. He didn't bother. Charging it. What was the point? No job. No Lily. Only. The emptiness. And his parents.
The ride. Started. The station. A whirlwind. Of bodies. Noise. Anxiety curled. In his stomach. A familiar. Friend. He gripped. His bag. Closer. Too many. People. Too many. Sounds. Too much.
But then. The train. Quiet. Compartment. Uncle Feng. Strong man. With deep. Laugh. And warm. Eyes. Different. From the mother's. Less. Weighed down. He talked. Of local news. Of weather. Of countryside. Xing. Listened. Or pretended. To listen. He gazed out of window. Fields. Forests. Villages. Blurring. By.
The rhythmic. Click-clack. Of the train. Soothing. Surprisingly. Hypnotic. The landscape. Unfolding. Before him. Far away. Yet. Real. Not the stern. City. Not the stifling. Walls. Of his room. Open. Space. Green. Brown. Blue.
This. Is different. Not bad. Not yet. The anxiety. A whisper. Not a scream. A small. Victory. For now.
He saw Reiner. On a journey. Not through the Poppy Field. But through. A massive. Forest. The trees. Ancient. Whispering. Secrets. Of power. Of endurance. Of expansion. After. The darkest. Winter.
Transformation. Like that. A journey. Into the unknown. Frightening. Yes. The void. It feeds. The familiar. The predictable. The safe. Grasp. Of hopelessness. But this. Is not. That. This. Is… movement. Forwards. Even though. Forced.
The first day. Of traveling. Lost. Faster. Than he had expected. The hours. Dissolved. Into the whizzing. Countryside. Uncle Feng's. Pounding. Stories. His mother's. Stillness. He ate. The plain. Train ticket. It was. Less ash. More plain. Food.
As night. Fell. The train. Crawled. The announcement. Orsova.
He looked out the window. A little. Town. Nestled. Alongside a river. Or a lake. Or. Both. The light. Soft. Golden. On old. Buildings. The air. Cooler. Cleaner. He exited the train. The platform. Less crowded. Than the station. Back home. A sense. Of space. Of air.
Orsova. The first. Step. The first. Marker. On this. Forced. Journey. Four more days. Of travel. Ahead. But. This. First day. It's… over. And I. I'm here. Still here.
A strange. Feeling. Bloomed. In his chest. Not joy. Not happiness. But… relief. A profound. Exhausted. Relief. That the anxiety. Had not. Consumed him. That he had. Endured. This first. Leg. Of the journey.
He breathed deeply. Fresh smell of water. Old smell of stone. Merging. With each other. In the air. Transformation. A flow. A river. Attracting. You. At times. Against your will. At times. To. What? The unknown. Always. The unknown.
He recalled a dream. One of his. Suna. Cliffs' edge. Looking down. Into a churning. River. Stopping. The drop. Long. Fatal. The destiny. Unknown. But. A voice. Aron's voice. Whispers. The flow. Can kill you. Or bear you. The decision. Is in your letting go. Or your fighting.
He had always. Struggled. Fought. Against the tide. Of his life. Against the desperation. Against the feelings. Of worthlessness. And he had. Drowned. Slowly. In the struggle.
What if. The tide. Is not. The enemy? What if. It is. The path? And the fear. The resistance. Is what. Truly. Hurts. More. Than the fall itself?
He walked along with his uncle and mother. Towards. A waiting. Car. The Orsova streets. Delightful. Peaceful. Unusual. In comparison. To the mad. Bustle. Of his city. This. Different. Unsettling. In its. Silence.
Terrifying. Yes. This silence. This strangeness. This. Unfamiliarity. Peace. What can. Possibly go wrong? Anything. Everything. What can. Possibly go right? Perhaps. Something. Small. Hidden. Like the poppy. Change.
He recalled the tears. The ones he always. Repressed. The ones he loathed. The weakness. The humiliation. He remembered. The humiliation. Of crying. As a child. The fear. Of being. Found out. Of being. Disapproved. Of being. Worthless.
But what if. The tears. Are not. Weakness. What if. They are. The river. That cleanses. The soul. The rain. That satisfies. The dry. Earth. So that. Something. New. Can grow.
He imagined Reiner. In the Poppy Field. His face. Smeared. With something. Not blood. Not filth. But. Tears. In silent. Weeping. Yet. His eyes. Remaining afire. With determination. A new. Form of strength. Born. From the very. Agony. He had. Endured. The tears. Washed. His strength. Not weakened. It.
Hard conditions. Suffering. Tears. They are. Not to be avoided. They are. The crucible. The forge. Where strength. Is tempered. Where will. Is hardened. Where the specter. Becomes. Flesh.
A new thought. A revolution. Daring. Thought. Maybe. My past. My adolescence. The wretched. The isolated. The failures. Maybe. They are not. Merely. Scars. Not merely. Burdens. Maybe. They are. The ground. For something. New. To grow. The Nastrophies. They flourish. On sorrow. Yes. But. Maybe. They are. Also. The manure. For indomitable-ness. For transmutation.
He felt a shudder. Not of horror. Not of despair. But of… an emerging. Awareness. A daunting. And exhilarating. Option. The trip. Had begun. And it was. Challenging. Agonizing. Full of doubts. But he was here. He was Xing. And for the first time. In a very. Long while. He was. Alive. Still. Here. And he was. Breathing. And he was. Prepared. To survive. The next. Four days. Of the journey. And whatever. More. The shifting. Current. Had in store. Because. He had to. For them. And maybe. Maybe only. For him. Tiny. Poppy. Of hope. Planted. In the hard. Dry. Soil. Of his. Pain.