The pages that forgot to finish

I hold the old book up like it’s a sacred scroll stolen from the Celestial Tower. I narrow my eyes, stroke my imaginary shifu beard, and narrate, “For now, with their legends forged back into the world, the Celestial Princesses’ voices were remembered in every heart…”

Then I switch voices:

Wood Princess: (gentle) “I do not heal to fix. I heal to stay.”

Fire Princess: (passionate, energetic) “I do not burn to punish. I burn to remind.”

Golden Princess: (sweet, sharp) “I do not strike to slay. I strike to weigh.”

Water Princess: (soft, slow) “I do not flow to flee. I flow to know.”

Earth Princess: (deep and steady—my best Mom-in-a-thunderstorm voice) “I do not guard to resist. I guard to remember.”

My little brother’s eyes light up. He clings to his blanket like it’s a Celestial relic and I’m the high priest of bedtime terror.

I am definitely getting carried away. Again.

“Hey, Big Sis…” His voice is a squeaky dumpling. “Is the giant Mochi… Moyu-thingy real?”

I tap the cover and wink. “If you have to ask, little Dumpling, he’s probably still asleep somewhere.”

He squeaks and dives under the blanket. I snort. “Don’t worry. The Princesses sealed him under the sea with harmony and moral values and an epic group pose and stuff like that. Classic final battle victory.”

Muffled from under the covers: “But what if he wakes up again?”

“Then obviously,” I say, closing the book with a soft thump, “the Celestial Princesses return. Duh. That’s how reincarnations work. You respawn for sequels.”

He peeks out just far enough to blink at me with shining eyes. “Would you come save me?”

I boop his nose. “You’re nine. You’re old enough to come save me.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just gives me that tiny, serious stare kids have—the kind that says you’re magic to me, even when my jokes are dumb.

I sit with the old book in my lap. The pages feel heavier than usual. The ink has that soft blur, like it was read a thousand times—or cried on.

“Anyway,” I say, brushing imaginary stardust off the cover, “that’s the end of the chapter. Sort of. Off to bed.”

“But what happens next?” Jun Hao begs. “Are the Celestial Princesses still okay?”

It’s a few minutes past Jun Hao’s bedtime. The nine o’clock news flares in the living room and Dad sighs at the politics part like they owe him money. I actually kinda want to see if the parliament brawls break out again. Last week they had a food fight with take-out lunch boxes.

“Maybe one more paragraph…” I tilt my head toward the balcony. The washing machine is still clunking; if Mom’s still doing laundry or catching up on her company paperworks, we have five, maybe ten minutes. “Only a bit of chapter one. Tomorrow I have to start my high school book review. You know how strict Mum is with our bedtime schedule.”

Even in the dim ‘Breadface Hero’ knock-off night light I see Jun Hao’s excited grin. I clear my throat, warm up my wise old narrator voice. “Let’s continue with the next exciting episode of Celestial Princesses! Ok, chapter one!”

I carefully pinch the old paper and flip to the next page… blank. Huh. I flip again—blank. Maybe people back then had too many trees and got lazy?

My fingers race. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Termite, ew. Blank.

I flip to the back. Blank. Still weird to me. A cold draft slides under the door and goosebumps climb my arms.

“Hey Peach!” Mom’s voice booms from the living room, calling my name. “It’s almost ten o’clock! Get Jun Hao to bed right now—stop playing!”

“We’re not playing, Mom! I’m reading Jun Hao classical literature. It’s sophisticated and stuff!” I shout back from Jun Hao’s room, defending my love for culture. “And it’s only nine-thirty-five!”

“TAO XI YI!” Full-name attack unlocked.
“IT. IS. TEN O’CLOCK!!” No it ain’t.
“IT’LL BE MIDNIGHT SOON!!” Nope.
“WHY IS IT LIKE THIS EVERY NIGHT?! GO TO BED RIGHT NOW!”

“Even Móyuān would wet his pants if he heard Mom,” I whisper. Jun Hao giggles into his blanket. I scruff up his hair. “Good night, Dumpling Head.”

As I ease Jun Hao’s door almost closed, I remember I have to start that book review tomorrow. I’m already writing it in my head: five out of five dumplings—bonus points for magical-girl-team vibes with classical philosophy so it’s, you know, deep. Probably a B+ again.

I turn off the light and tiptoe out. Down the hall, the TV murmurs and the modem starts its screechy handshake again—robot-whale song—bee-dee-dee… shrrrrr-eee-eee—“Ai-yo, kicked off again!” Dad mutters, jabbing redial.

Humidity sticks to the tile like cling wrap, so I poke my head out onto our balcony for air. I can see the dark line of trees at Da’an Forest Park, and very faint stars in the sky. The washing machine thumps a rhythm through the green metal bars, past hanging laundry and potted plants, and scooters growl past the alley below.

I hear Jun Hao whisper under his breath next door.

“I wish they’d come back…”

Me too, little Dumpling.

Me too.