The pages that forgot to finish

I hold the old book up like it’s a sacred scroll swiped from the Celestial Tower. I narrow my eyes, stroke my imaginary shifu beard, and narrate, “The Five Celestial Princesses’ voices echoed through the history of the world of Shen.”

Then I switch voices:

Wood Princess: (gentle) “Where I grow, the soul remembers purity.”

Fire Princess: (passionate, energetic) “Where I burn, the spirit illuminates warmth.”

Golden Princess: (sweet, sharp) “Where I shine, vigor follows clarity.”

Water Princess: (soft, slow) “Where I flow, the mind reflects without end.”

Earth Princess: (deep and steady—my best Mom-in-a-thunderstorm voice) “Where I stay, the will guards the truth.”

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

I’m definitely getting carried away. Again.

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

I tap the cover and wink. “If you have to ask, little Bun, it’s probably living in some weirdo’s imagination.”

He squeaks and dives under the blanket. I snort. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the Princesses will deal with it using their magical girl power, moral of the story, and an epic group pose, and stuff like that. Classic final battle victory.”

Jun Hao muffles from under his covers. “But what if it comes back?”

“Then, um, well obviously,” I say, closing the book with a soft thump, “the Celestial Princesses will come back too. That’s how reincarnations work, I guess, 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 six. You should come to 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.

“Anyways,” 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 replay like they owe him money. I actually kinda want to watch the parliament brawls break out again. Last week some dude started a food fight with pork.

“Maybe just 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 paperwork, then we have like five, maybe ten minutes. “Only a bit of the next chapter. Tomorrow I have basketball training in the morning. You know how strict Mum is with our bedtime schedule.”

Even in his 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! So, where were we…”

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

My fingers race. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Flat termite, ew. Blank. Blankity-blank.

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

“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!!” Not even close.
”WHY IS IT LIKE THIS EVERY NIGHT?! GO TO BED RIGHT NOW!!!”

“Even Móyuān would wet its pants if it heard Mom,” I whisper. Jun Hao giggles into his blanket. I scruff up his hair. “Good night, Bun face.”

As I step out and 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 bonus points for magical-girl-team vibes with classical philosophy so it’s, you know, deep. The blank pages, though? Could be a problem.

I turn off the light and tiptoe out. Down the hall, I hear Dad’s sighing more violently at the TV news again. Not sure why he can’t try to see the humorous side of that circus. It’d be way more fun.

Today’s humidity sticks to the tile like the market’s watermelon cling wrap, so I poke my head out onto our balcony for air. I can see the dark line of trees down at the 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 want to know what happens next.”

Me too, little Bun.

Me too.