Ĩ̸̮͚̣͙̥̻͕̺̬̩͔̣̉̀̽͌͛̄͊̔n̷̡͙̱̹͕͙͆͝i̵̛̯̤̙̗͓̲̹̾̆̉͒̓͊̐̀͘͝t̷̢̢̨̠͚̬̗̞͎͙̣̫̩̖̳͛̑i̵̢̼͖̬͇̟̮̝̭̒͊͐̃̊̌͊̽̈́̈́̐̀̆͜͝á̶͙̬͛͗̈́̀̋̈́͒̇͘l̸̨̩̜̺̬̦͖̭͖̼͍̥͆̄͊́́̓̈̈́͝ͅͅį̵̛̬̺̘͚̩̮͎̩̰̮̲̰͌͗̃̾͆z̴̢̛͓͖͎̖̫̾̎̄̅̔̅̌̀̓ͅḯ̵͇̳͔̱͈̣̻̟̰͇̥̩̤͋͂̂̀̽̈́̈́̉̍͜ņ̸̦̮͚͕̯̬͔̖̾͐̃̈́́̀̉̑͒̿͑͜͠ǵ̶̢͈̯͎̻͉̹̟̬͍͔̪̳̀̆͐̓̓͌ͅ ̴̛͔̗͓͓̯͙̒͒́͋͌̈́̎͂̚̕͠͝ṣ̷̢̧̦̱͚̝̲̟̬̰͈̱͓̣͋͆ę̶̨̦̣̩̖̹̯̣͉̘̝̑̿̆̓́̀̑̉͝ṉ̸͕̰̳̊̐͑̒̓̐̀̋͂̓͂͒̅̆͝s̴̟̣̜̭̭̹̠̐̔̇͊̕͘͠ő̴̧̖̺̣̘̮̺̤̱̪̳͚̦͙͛̆̀̂́̽̋̈̿̕͝ͅr̴̡̡̟͓̪͕͙͕̖̜̺̩̓͋̋̀͝s̴̢̧̮͎̤͈͎̣͖̫̹̪̹̊̈́́̂́̉̇̇̄̌̇͜͠͝͠͠.̶̤̦̭͕̟͔̹̮͗̓̀̈́͠͝͝.̸͍̯̺̣͔̙̈̐̐̒.̶̭̝̬̬̦̼̙͚̪̮̟͎͇͖͋̓̒̚͜͝

̴̺̱͎̞̯̣͓̥̙̞̃̌̐̒̄̑́̈́͂͘̚͝ͅ

S̵̛̻͕̘̈͗̔͌͜������͍̫͉̼͜ę̸̤̳͖̞͚̰̤̖̅̅̅̊͑̓͊̾͊͘͠n̸͇͈̮̿͐̀͛s̶͉̹͚̓o̵̡̘̹͈̎̎̓r̴̨̛̞̠̭̣̮̖̭̤̥̫̣̯̲͜s̶̙̭̪̻̮̔́͑̓͛͂͗̿̎͋́͘͝͝ ̵̧̫̯̫̰̹̙̹́͛͋̇̇̈́̃͛̈́s̷̡̡̘͔̝̼̬̰̲͇̬͇͓̰̀͌̈́̊̈́̆̽͝u̵̢̻͇̺̼͍̜͛͛̏͊̑̊̽̍́̆̕͘͠͝ċ̸̢̐͗̇̇̀͛͋̓̔͠c̵̛̭̗̗͖͚͙̟̣̺͉͚̖͌͊̿̋̆́̚̚͜͝ͅę̵̠̳̻̰̼̲̥̱̮̩̥͇́̐͂̀͂̿̈̋̚͜͠s̴̨͍͇̹̦̝̺̬̰̲͕̈́̒͊͛ş̴̧̯͓̼̬̞̺͎̪̣͎͔̰̈́̍͝f̷̜̜̞͒̍͊̽̀͊̇̀̑͠u̷̬̦̼͈͕̬͈̦̘̰͉̫̟̮̔̉l̵͖̘̹̜̯͚͑͗̎̀̅ḷ̷̠̲̇̓y̶̧̨̧͉͔͎̤̪̮͈̱̣̣̎̓ ̵̧̢̝̫̳̳̝̣͊ī̸̺͉̭̰̹̉̽́̆͘͝ͅͅń̴̤̗̹̘̬̝͉̲͉͈̹͎͋͐̂͌̆͜͝i̴͍̗͖̰͍̫̣̗̣̖͌̅̐́͌ͅt̴̠̺͕͇̰͇̩̰͈͈̓̋ͅȋ̶̛̝̲̣͜a̵̢̼͇͔͍̻͒̈̒͆l̶̨͍͖͈͓̭̱̩̱͎͉̀̚i̸͎̼͎͌̓̈́̈́͌̂̕͜z̸͚̫̎̉e̷̡̛̛̛͉͚͓̫̯͍̘̥̳͋͆̓̄̓̓͊͊͘͜͝ḑ̸̢̫̠̤̭̺̣̼̙͚̤̆͑͗̒̀̿̀͊͋͂̊̐͝͝.̶̉��̇͘��̂��̨̝̯̫͚͖͕̭͗̎͗́͜ͅ.̷̡̨̝̺̞̐̅̏͑̓̌̅̎̄̈́̽́͘͝.̴̡̧̮̫̺̖̖̳̺̥̓̌͆̓

̷̰͈̗̦̱̜̗̿͋̏̈́

P̶͇̜͉̙̳͚̅͒̇̿̐̋̅͊͗̍̓̚r̴̢̟̺̻̘̫̘̲̮̠̭̟̗̄̀̎͋͗̀̀̚͝͝ͅͅę̵̛̹̝̫̺̫̗̳̟̩̄̃̓͊͛̊́̾̍͗̿̏̔̀͜p̴̛͔̹̠͔̗̍͐͒̎a̵̮͑̅͋̎̐͆̅̓̐͝r̷̡̗̻̳͍͎̜̼͍͔͍̋̈́̀͛̅i̸̭̼̙͛n̴͇͎͖̍ģ̵͘ ̵̧̳͔̝̝̰͔͕͔̤̲̗͗̍̏ț̵̪̬̮̳̱̥̙̲̱̳͕̀ǫ̶͉̦̗͓͎͚͇̲̖̻͕̳̩̻͆̐͊ ̴͍̟̲̖̝̎b̴̧̬͇͂̑̈́ó̸͚͓̦̂͑͆̀͑̆͊͋͆͛͘͠ǫ̵̢̡̹̤̮̩̟̗̐̉̉͒̇̅͒̈́͛̏ţ̵̤̼̞̠̠̖̞̆̈́͑̂̓͆́̐̚̕͝ ̶̡̨̱̬̞͍̺͍͙̾͂͜s̵̗̺̮̦͍̝͉͉͓̳͔͒̓̌͊̄́͜͠ͅy̵͖̹̱̪̯̪̌̌̎̎́̽͊̔̋͌͜͜s̶͖̱͍̠͈̫̻̝̹͆͆̒̋̒̇̓̅ṫ̶̢͙̮̼̠̘͇̭̜̪̳̩̬̩̙̎͠ë̸̲̫̳͉͇̲̹͎̗̱͚͖̪̞͙́̈́̂m̴̡̢̤͚̩̟̱͎̥͖̏.̷̢̤̩͚͎̫̥̩̊͑͊̕͜.̸̰̱̟̱̰̈́̿̔́̿̃͂͆̕.̴̜̳̫̘̊̓̃̀̐̍͗͋͑̑͐͘͝͝͝

S̸͆͛̏̽��͕̻̯̆ě̴̪̲̱̘̦̻̼͉͂̊̇̃̍͂͊̈́͜͠ǎ̸̢̨̨̛̯͎͓͎͕̺͍̀̀͛́̒̐͂͠r̵̹̻̬̗̀̃̃̂͠͠ͅc̶̢̫̈́ͅh̷̨̬̗̲̀͗̌̀̽͐̏̈́̃̚i̶̟͇̤̣͈̐̓͊̀̈́̃̇͝n̶̨͚͔͓͈̘̘͚̒̒̓̚g̴̺̖͓̠̳̦̈́͒̄̽ ̶̡͕̰͇͑͛̓̄̆̂̀̈́͂͝f̶̯̪͒̚̚ơ̷͔̘̱̰̠̜̅̌r̶͔̥̪̤͕͛̔̈́̆̾ ̵̠͉̭̼̺̩̅͌̀͑͋͝b̵̧̫͎̪̣̗̜̩̙͒̃̃̓̍̕o̸̭̗̠̦̣͔̗̾ơ̸̰͔̤͔̙͉̭̘͙͗̅̀͘͜ţ̸̝̊̋̊̑̍ ̷̧͔̘͚̻̣̼̩̣̐̌͜s̶̨͉͎͍̔̐̄̏͆̓̽̃è̷̳̱͎͇̥̹̉q̸̱̫̭̙͍̌̒͋̐̽̓̈́̐ǔ̷̡͉̝͔̟̗̫̯̻̙̔e̷͙͔͉͖͖͖̣̥̓̏̓̂̅̉̔͐͜n̸̙͖͚̮̫̲̳̰͗͐̆͑̈́c̷̨̖̟̰͠ͅḙ̷͖͗̀̓͠.̸͇̬͚͓̭̏͆͌͂͌̇̕.̴͔̤̭̹̹̑̓̽̾.̶̢̪̼̤͌͛͝

̷̦̠̗̔̈́̈́͘̚

B̸̢͉̲͊́o̴̩̫͖͖̻̓o̴̢̥̣͓̰͇̹̠̭̔̈́͑̅́͗͋͠t̸̻͖͚̱̬͓̽̃͠ ̸̺̄̔̓̓̀̂͆͗̈́s̵͈̺̦̥̯̒̈́̏̒̒͒͜ͅẹ̶̲̟̼̳̝͙̪̗̈́͂͌̊̃̈̾͋͘͝q̶̟̙̲̭̀̾͋̓͌̿͐͗̀̄ų̵̲̠̀̔̆e̸̡̟̺̺̯͚̲̱̍̄̈́̒̈́̅̑́̚n̴͑̔��̨̨̞̼̦̘̥̖̣̠̂̊͘c̸̡̧̙̪̹̬̯̗̥̀̓͌̋̏̂̇͘e̷̬͝ ̵̗̹̺̃ͅf̷̲̳̙͈̩̗̩͋̓͑̀̓͛͌o̴͓̝͖͔̭̓͑̐̉͋ų̶̛̥͍̮̾̑̍̆̋̔n̴̘̽͝d̵̛̤̦͉̎̌̆̇͛͘̕͜͝.̴̜̰̿.̸̫̅̔͘.̶̮̬̦̾͂͛̈̑͒͠

B̵̩͎͓̩͎͎̟̖̫̎̈o̶̳͒̒́́̅̍́o̶̧̲̩̰͕͓̒͊͂͗͘͝ͅt̴̗̂̌̆̆̄͝î̶͇͈͑͘n̴̯̠̦̰͙͛̎͋̊͊͌̀̊͝g̴̖̙̮͗͂͌̍͑̇ ̶̢̩̣̼̘͚̋̎̓̈͛͊̀̀͝ͅs̵̛̠̤͇̖͔͒̒̋͆̆͛̕͠y̷̧̹͖̤̲̳͓͒̄̓͗̿͜͠͝s̴͉͕͔̾̅̓t̴̗̹̻̮͇̃͂͘ẻ̵̠͘m̸̻̳̩̳͔̞͓̄̆̀́͜.̶͓͎͛̋͌͑̅.̴̡̛̹̖̩̮̦̂̐̅̌͋̍.̷̢̫͖͚̹͂́̾

S̷͇̰͊̀y̷̜̲͂̔͊͜s̵̢̳̤̀t̵̟͂̀̐͋͜ẽ̵͔m̴̙͔͋̓̍ ̵̨̔̆s̷̠̎͝͠ư̶̱͚̖͙͑͑͂c̸͇̒͐̚č̴͈͔̣̓e̵̥͌̌̈̒s̶̹͝ṣ̷̳̎̇͠f̸̡̻͕̠̆u̷̡͗́ͅl̴̛̫̏̊̉l̶̺͖͔̅̇͑͑ỳ̷̨̦̬͗ ̸͈͓͚͆̍b̵̰̤̙̖̒̿̓ơ̸̬͙͉ö̷͚́̂̅̕t̷̰͈̮͖͑e̴͕͘d̸̯̽.̷͍̀̃.̸̱̄.̵̡̼̑́̅̆ͅ

C̴͇̭͐̓õ̴͉̥̅p̴͎̮̉̊y̸͓̑͠ì̵͙̰͝n̸̹̆ḡ̷̹͆.̶̬͔̃.̴͙̪͑̍.̷̡͖͠

L̸o̷a̸din̸g̴.̴.̷.̷

Com̵̛͚̺̩͈͇̩̺̪͚̥̊̈́́͋́̄̇͝ͅp̸̡̘͔̬͔̟̘̍̅̇̽͗͝lete...

On his lips,

Was a soft smile.

A little sludge of mud,

And beads of water.

He tasted the silt and realized...

That it didn't taste very good.

Her hand reached over and wiped the mud off his face.

Pensively, she spoke,

"That's not a real smile."

He wiped the grin off, using his muddy sleeves. Raising his arms halfway, he looked at his muddy shirt and his splotched cuffs. Then he stood there, his pants creased with patches of earthy stains.

"How can you tell?" His endearing voice, tiny and tot, light in timbre, and curious in a little spot, made him sound so naive, so guiltless, so irreproachable. And these words were the tender words that bounced into her ears.

Still, she frowned. With one hand, she pinched his cheeks, which were soft and pillowy. Stretchy and stringy and smooth to the touch, like a piece of dough springy and singing and airy, gentle as such.

"Oww..." His adorable voice indignantly yelped. His eyes sparkled like he was sad, and for her moment, she couldn't say she wasn't unperturbed.

"So," She brought up. "When someone pushes you the mud, how should you react?"

Which was a weird question to ask, but context makes everything unmask.

"Smile," Steven answered, sincerely. There was a sweet guile in the tone of his expression that made his response seem so natural.

"Smile…" She repeated. Her son was too... "Why smile?"

"Well, there is no point." He responded, simply. His rationale: "No point in getting angry or upset anyway. They will retaliate."

His words were enunciated in twee chunks, almost like he still struggled to put the words into context. Natural and telling. Wide-eyed and compelling.

For her, it was foretelling. "You should get angry. You should get upset. It shows you have passion and resolve."

"But I do not."

His mom pinched his cheeks again, this time with both hands.

"Oww," Steven cried out again, his adorable cheeks were very sad. He held out one chubby hand and started placating the pain.

"Violence is bad," Steven reminded her. His glistening eyes looked at her, aggrieved, but in such a loveable way, she had to resist the urge to poke his cheeks again.

"Sorry, sorry," she laughed, "Your cheeks are just so squishy."

"They told me to roll in the mud. I told grandpa." Steven abruptly told her, his speech quiet and mild.

She took in the sight of his curly, slightly wavy hair, which was reddish-brown, and realized how much he looked like he belonged.

He didn't.

"If they try to deny it, they would have to tell the truth. That they pushed me into the mud. All I did was smile. They already hate me enough. Plus, Grandpa got angry. He punished my brothers because-" his voice mellowed out, "-because I fell in the mud." His face turned into a pout like he was crestfallen. His eyebrows downturn, mimicked the same way she also looked after long, drawn-out days. He looked so forlorn as if he had been wronged.

"What am I going to do with you?" She sighed, the air escaping her lips, and falling down like the pitter-patter of the rain on the window.

He shrugged and tugged his necklace. It was cool on his collars, and the reminder of its chains felt ever more present on his skin. Under the shirt, it was away from sight but brought out, and it felt more loud. It had belonged to someone else, and it was the color they had renounced, trying to make the ultimate sacrifice. Even then, they failed. Fell. The blue tear glistened in an array of different turquoise-rosy-gold colors captured under different sharp angles.

"Why do I have to wear this necklace?" His chubby face protested. "I can't cultivate with this on."

His mom looked away, a bit sad. "It's a special necklace to me."

That was part of the explanation, but the reason she wanted him to wear it was a lot more than mere sentiment. Sentiment only kept her here, but love for him kept her near. Him was who, but who didn't know him. And he didn't know either but had assumed it was bitterness. She stayed here because she loved him, not him.

"Promise me you'll wear it." She continued. "At least until you leave this household,"

"One of these days I will get beat up, and it will all be because I dunno how to defend myself," He complained. "I do not get it. Why do we have to stay?"

Stay here. Remember.

She ruffles his hair. "Isn't this house nice?"

"No, everyone looks like we've done something wrong."

He didn't.

"I mean, I am... probably your biggest mistake." He grinned.

"Well, not my biggest mistake." She smiled.

Her biggest mistake was thinking that having the same memories...

"Still, why stay here?" Steven pursued.

"I made a promise. Don't I have to keep up with it? Even if..." Her voice trailed off. Wasn't it so pointless? The person that she used to know was a memory now, and he only recalled her as a memory as well. Both were alive, yet so dead to each other. But this story wasn't something she should tell, at least not yet.

'No, not really.' Steven thought to himself.

Steven observed the look on her face. Her eyebrows tilted a bit down, her lips parted every slightly in a convex way, and her eyes seemed to glimmer.

Sadness.

He didn't really get it.

Being sad over a person that doesn't even remember. Or doesn't want to remember. Which one is worse? After all, the figures that she had loved really only existed in her memories. The person she knew now was an empty shell of what once was there.

Or maybe, a fuller shell. The spot there was overtaken now. Full, yet empty. Gone.

He wondered why, but he kept these questions to himself.

He didn't need to understand everything now. Wasn't it better if he just pretended to not know or care?

So he ran up to the bed and jumped.

"Steven, no!"

An anxious hand pulled his shirt, just in time to prevent a trickle from falling down.

Her voice sighed, relieved. Not a single bit of dirt or sludge had landed on the blanket.

"Ehh, I don't understand it all." He said, as if he was frustrated, "Why can't I smile?"

"You can..." She had answered.

'Somedays, I just wish you were a bit normal.' Those were her thoughts.

'I could be me.' Those were his thoughts.

Back then, he didn't know.

"...But, smile because you want to smile." She had continued. Then, she grabbed him close into her embrace. She didn't care about the mud at all. "I'd wish you enjoy a life far away from here."

"Well, I don't hate being around you." He had explained, and looking back now, he had been so laughable. "And I don't want to go anywhere far."

But he had.

A caged bird...

A caged bird will fly far whether it wants to or not, because once free, the taste of a liberating high and a suffocating low will never go away.

A caged bird stays, only because it feels it should stay. Near the person that keeps it in a cage.

He was not the bird, but he had wanted to stay after all. If it could have just stayed still, if seconds didn't crawl by, he would have just stood there, in suspended time.

It rained every time. The water flowed, and nothing, not even a dam, given or not, could have stopped it.