(May 21st | 8:10 a.m.)

"Wait!"

Gasping for air, I stumble to a halt, my chest heaving with uneven breaths. My heart races so fast I feel faint. This is just perfect. The school bus I was desperately trying to catch disappears into the blur of traffic, its exhaust pipe releasing a plume of smoke. Slumping onto the bus stop, I inwardly scream at my bad luck. I was seconds too late.

First I tripped, and now this. It's crazy how the universe seems to be against me. The soles of my sneakers are ripping because of how fast I ran and now I am officially late for school. It's the day before my birthday, and everything seems to be going wrong.

I fish out my phone from the pocket of my jeans, and go to my contact list. My thumb hovers over dad's number. Seeing Mā in the picture always tends to freeze me in place. In the photo, her arms were wrapped around me, making me want to reach out to that very moment and feel her embrace. Dad stood behind us, his hands resting on our backs. Our smiles were vibrant, brimming with life. The memory brings a bittersweet curve to the corners of my mouth. Mā's straight black hair fell to her shoulders, and her raven eyes glowed in the sunlight. I'll never forget how her natural beauty radiated off nature.

I often find myself always searching for memories of those days, but my mind is always blank. The snippets I cling to seem to slip away before I can make sense of them. Ever since the incident, all my good memories seem to have taken a vacation, while the nightmares infiltrate me instead.

Perhaps the nightmares have always been there, but I never noticed them because Mā was always the guardian angel, watching over me. In my eyes, she was the only person in this world who truly put others before herself. She was one of those rare souls who found joy in brightening up someone else's day. It was one of the countless qualities I admired about her, even to this day. And what shocks me most is how her loving heart was repaid so cruelly.

"Hello? Is everything all right, sweetie?" I realize I've called Dad when his groggy voice, laced with concern, booms through the phone. I can almost picture the deepening scowl on his face, wondering why I am calling so early.

In the background, like it normally does on Fridays, static old country songs from the 1800s are being played. It fills the silence between us, as well as the indistinct murmurs of orders being taken.

Taking a few steps back in the direction I came from, I fakely reply, "Everything is okay, Bàba. I just wanted to remind you to pick up some milk and bread on the way back since we're almost out."

"Of course. I wish I could talk more," he hums, his voice tinged with regret. "But I have to go now. The customers are waiting. I love you, Li Mei." The call cuts before I could breathlessly bid farewell.

Limond's Diner is where I grew up. If I'm not at school or at home, you'll usually find me nestled by the diner's window, at one of the few tables. Eating maple syrup and chocolate-drizzled pancakes always makes doing the burden of schoolwork a little more bearable.

My mā, a dedicated homemaker, spent the majority of her free time in the kitchen. She was a master at effortlessly whipping, whisking, and slicing fresh ingredients. She only paused to deliver trays of fresh vegetables to my father at the diner, who makes mouthwatering steaming soup that fills the stomach with warmth and heat from the peppers.

Dad has been working at the Diner for a couple of years now, gradually becoming accustomed to the frequently bustling crowds on weekends.

Ever since Mā passed away in a car accident, when I was eight, I knew Dad's contentment with his job was merely a facade. He quit working towards his bachelor's degree in Biology. His passion for natural science just vanished when she passed. It shattered his dreams and just. . . broke him.

I tried to get him back into the groove of chasing his dreams, but he insists only focusing solely on raising me since Mā is gone. He emphasizes that it's his primary focus now. I can't help but think that he's doing it more to keep a part of Ma alive and cope with his own grief. And I understand, because I feel the loss, too. She was the light guiding us in the darkness.

Now that she is gone, we're fighting our own battles.

As I slip my phone back into my pocket, I massage my temples, feeling the sensation of tiny ants nipping at my skin.

Li Mei was the name my Mother used to call me. It means "a pretty rose" in Chinese. Lately, my dad seems to be using it more and more. I guess he doesn't want me to feel like a chunk of my heart is missing with Mā's absence. Maybe he also doesn't want me to tune out the world like he is.

Since our shield is gone, it seems like he doesn't know who to trust. It's as if there's no longer a barrier stopping the conflicts around us from initiating us.

A sense of nervousness quickens my step as I start walking home. Maybe Mrs. Sanders, my neighbor, can give me a quick ride to school. I furrow my brows and narrow my black eyes, contemplating about how it's going to sound when my dad figures out I'm late for school. What if the school calls him and reports it? Or worse, what if my perfect attendance streak is broken? I just hope my teachers trust me enough to mark me as present without me actually being there.

I glance up at the sky, observing the golden petals of the sun unfolding. The delicate rays stretch out, radiating their beauty in the endless blue sky.

It's already 8:29 a.m., and school starts in a minute. I can't help but feel guilty for raising everyone's expectations of me and allowing something as insignificant as missing the bus to break my perfect winning streak. My racing thoughts urge me to move faster. If I want to make it before the late bell, I have to get going now.

As I stroll through my neighborhood, the breathtaking panorama of rolling hills come into view. This small town is home to only a few locals and it draws in a handful of fascinated tourists in the summer months, when the snow melts away and the grass springs back to life.

As I venture further into the heart of town, signs of civilization emerge to life. We only have one shopping mall, which isn't even a quarter of the size of those in larger cities. There's one bank, one school per grade level—Elementary/Middle/High—with several parks scattered, about twenty restaurants, and a handful of three-story office buildings.

There are large homes surrounded by meticulously manicured lawns and expensive foreign cars parked in gated driveways. A lawn care service van is parked along the street, with a few workers tending to the lawns. I catch glimpses of fenced backyards and pools surrounded by patios. Kids happily ride their bikes up and down the street.

I walk past Jeffrey, the fierce security guard, who is one of the nicest people I've ever met. There isn't much need for security in our little town since it's quite safe, but it's nice having someone who wants to be there for everyone. You can leave a gold necklace exposed on the table when you invite guests, and it will still be there when everyone has left. We're almost like one huge family when we come together, lifting up each other's spirits.

Jeffrey looks up from the newspaper he's holding in his slightly wrinkled hands, meeting my gaze. His glasses slide down his round, Rudolph-sized nose as he takes off his hat and smooths his tousled hair. With a smile, he opens the entrance door to the apartment. Grateful, I nod at him, and he winks at me with a grin before turning back to his newspaper.

As the gate closes behind me, I skip past the rose bushes that line the pathway to the building. The scent of morning dew and flowers are irresistible.

I take the elevator to the second floor, where the beige carpet welcomes me, cushioning my sore feet as I approach door number twelve. I keep my head down, hoping no one notices me. The last thing I want is someone complaining to Dad about what I'm doing out of school.

I take a deep breath before pounding my knuckles lightly against the wooden door.

The barking of Mrs. Sanders's dog causes me to step away from the entrance. Teddy scratches and whines at the door until footsteps approach and the door flies open.

"Teddy, please be quiet!" Mrs. Sanders grumbles, her voice filled with irritation.

Teddy's tail tucks between his legs, and his head is hangs low in shame.

Mrs. Sanders uses her leg to block Teddy from escaping, preventing him from darting away. The dog emits a low growl, his eyes burning into mine, as she scoops up the pure white Pomeranian.

Sorry, I mouth silently as Mrs. Sanders whisks him away inside.

A few moments later, she reemerges with a warm smile, carrying a spatula covered in a chocolate frosting. "Oh, hello Gracie. Good morning!" Her eyes sweep the hallway, as if searching for someone. "Shouldn't you be at school?"

Her frown conceals her small brown eyes, while her silver hair is tightly gathered into a ponytail. I bet she's making one of those desserts that Dad can't seem to resist.

"Would it be okay if I came in first?" I ask politely, cautiously scanning the hallway to ensure no one is eavesdropping.

She twists her lips into a mystifying smile. "Step right in, Detective Gin," she playfully beckons, extending her hand gracefully.

Mrs. Sanders and I have this weird game where we both play detectives with secret code names, but as much as I love our game, now wasn't the time.

This was urgent.

As I stepped into the apartment, a melody of sweet music from the radio greets me. Family photos hang on the peach-colored walls, and there's a little table across from me in the center of the small room. The antique lamp adds a touch of beauty, evoking memories of joy. The scent of a cake cooling fills the room, its mildly sweet and yeasty aroma making my mouth water.

And then I see it.

Large boxes packed and properly labeled.

I squint and step forward. "What is all . . . this?" I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

She waves a dismissive hand, shrugging it off with a smile. Her usual radiance seems off, as if she's masking something with her happiness. Her energy seemed. . . off.

"It's nothing to be concerned about, sugarplum. Is there anything I can get you? Perhaps a freshly made lemon cookie?" she offers hastily, her breath slightly quicker.

There's no doubt she's hiding something. Her cheeks flush pink as I accept her offer with a polite nod. She reaches for a small clear glass jar and hands me one.

The tangy citrus flavor fills my mouth the instant I take a bite. "Do you plan on travelling far, Mrs. Sanders? Maybe to visit Roselle?"

Roselle, her only daughter, is studying to be a lawyer in Paris. Roselle describes Paris as the city of lights, a dreamlike place where the Pont Neuf sparkles above the ink-blue water. She tells of the awe-inspiring Louvre's artwork, and how nighttime walks in the Tuileries Gardens is something so breathtaking. At least that's what Mrs. Sanders tells me when her daughter sends her postcards.

It makes me want more; to venture out of our small town of Hillsdale, Michigan, and explore what is out there. But my dad barely has enough money to put food on the table. Saving money for my future educational opportunities is barely making ends meet, either. Dad advises me to be content with where we are, and to make the best of it. But that's what I call cowardice. It reminds me of choosing comfort before growth. He simply doesn't want a fresh start because he's afraid of making the same mistake again. But is he forgetting that home should be a place where you can breathe without suffocating?

Our beds are always warm and our pantry is always full, and I'm grateful. But no matter how comfortable we are in Hillsdale, I don't understand how it can be home if it doesn't allow us to feel at peace.

Mrs. Sanders lowers herself onto the wobbly couch, her legs trembling with a delicate vulnerability. She's been the comfort during Ma's passing. These days she seems so frail and disinterested, like she's seen the whole world and is upset there's nothing left to offer.

The room is deafeningly silent, broken only by the sound echoing from the vents squeaking in the background.

"Hello?" I repeat, snapping my fingers in front of her. She glares at me, seemingly lost in her thoughts. "Are you?"

"Oh. Afraid not, sugar plum. Although my heart would love to be in Paris with my daughter, I'm not visiting her this year," she says, a small hint of sadness in her voice. "But. . .," she stretches the word melodramatically, "Roselle's coming home tomorrow. . . with her fiancé."

"Wow, that's. . . wonderful! And who is the lucky man?" I gush, genuinely happy for Roselle, whom I always considered as my older sister.

"Good question, young lady. Even I wasn't aware until a few weeks ago when Roselle FaceTimed me in the middle of the night, sobbing." She shook her head, a grin forming on her face. "For a second, I thought something had gone horribly wrong, like she'd been robbed. But then she flashed me her engagement ring, and the little R&R etching on the back of that shining ring was all it took to have me pulling out a box of tissues."

"Aw! How sweet. Do you know the guy's name?"

"It's quite an unusual name, I must say. Let's see. . . I think it was Richard. No, no." She scratches her head. "Reynold? Ah wait, it was River! River Mendez."

"Are his parents' names Meadow and Sunshine?" I scoff, playfully shaking my head funnily.

Mrs. Sanders shrugs. "Could be? But I think it's a very . . . charming name."

I nod. "That it is."

"Let's get back to the point. I'm sharing all of this with you because you're truly a really special girl, Gracie. If someone were to discover that there is life on other planets besides Earth, or if someone were to create the world's first AI robot capable of performing human tasks. . . I have no doubt it would be you out there proving yourself." A single teardrop falls down her cheek. "If your mother were here right now, she would be very proud of you. You know that, right?"

The room is silent, once again. My whole body stiffens. I try to talk, but the words seem to not find their way. Only the ticking of the clock and the faint sound of water that drips from the faucet disrupts the stillness. It feels like a rush of questions have hit me all at once. "How come you're telling me all of this?"

"Well, I'm not sure when I'll see you again. . . Or if I ever will be able to."

Something crawls into my stomach, nauseous and unpleasant. I can't shake off the feeling that she's trying to sugarcoat the truth.

I'm sure she's joking, right?

Is today April Fool's Day? That can't be possible because tomorrow's my birthday. May 22.

Yet everything seems to piece together like a puzzle. The packed boxes, the usually bubbly Mrs. Sanders seeming so dull and mopey, and now these remarks. These can't all be coincidences, can they?

This only leads to one conclusion. . . Mrs. Sanders is moving away.