"O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, that thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, and steep my senses in forgetfulness?"

––William Shakespeare

There were days when I stayed up late until the breaking dawn, my eyelids sore and my lips parched. I wished I never needed sleep; being awake itself was addictive, like treacle, thick and sweet to the core.

I painted mornings, read short fiction after warm bubble baths, and went out for dinner. Then, midnight loiters with my non-alcoholic friends. It was a dream.

The taste of which lingered long on your tongue after you opened your eyes.

I studied psychology in college. It wasn't pleasant analysing the mental workings of humans. The possibilities are infinite, humans are sacred. It seemed such a discourtesy to put minds into columns and rows, fitting squares into the map of the society like puzzle pieces and discarding the uneven ones. So, after two years and a quarter of feeling genuinely offended, I quit.

I went back home with my almost-permanently blackened eye circles, a goofy smile hanging lopsided, and a bag of unicorn-shaped gummy-bears for my brother's four-year-old girl. My parents stared at me as if I were a Yeti. I never told them that I quit school or that I was coming home... or that I had no idea what I was going to do afterwards, degree-less.

When they stuttered out disbelief at first sight, I said I had two weeks of holiday instead. It was about the time of spring when school started, but they wouldn't remember.

Two weeks to rest and shake myself awake a bit. After that, I would leave again. But where to was the last question I wanted to answer.

It was sunny outside the shrine.

The septuagenarian shrine maiden looked at me with her almond-shaped eyes, a smile wrinkling the skin on her face, "My darling, you've been standing here for... an hour... has it been an hour? Well, never mind that––" she chuckled, her eyes pulling into slits, "––is there anything you want help with? Anything you want to ask?"

My earphones were adjusted to the lowest volume, so I heard everything she said. I didn't turn to her immediately. The sky was silvery blue, the clouds were far––a place so far I could only trace with my eyes. I breathed in a lungful of spring, of the verdant green pines. A soft breeze seeped in between the foliage.

"I want to inquire about relationships."

The maiden drawled out an "ah", her eyes took me in, "Is there someone you like?"

I shook my head with a small smile, "No, not of the sort."

"Ah," she exclaimed again. As though needing the time to let the information sink, she spoke a few moments later, "Come, come, my child."

She started down the aisle back to the altar where the oracle lot were placed. I followed, a meter or so behind her. A row of wind chimes drooped from the ceiling. They sung hollowly. The paint on the building had already started to fade and peel off. It was an old shrine – one of the oldest buildings in town – located in the mountains.

She pulled out a cylindrical bamboo cup, in which the Kau Chim sticks stood. This was the Chinese tradition of fortune telling. I stopped momentarily in my tracks, my eyes sweeping past the red-tipped wooden sticks. I was never someone who believed in this sort of thing. For a science student, it felt too abstract, too unreal. If there was really something like fate, or fortune, or destined-to-be's, I wouldn't care what plans it has for me.

"Here, take this, my dear," she said, putting the cup into my hands cautiously.

I smiled, "Thank you."

The maiden's eyes glowed in warmth as she ushered me to make a wish, or ask a question.

I did, and then shook the cup of sticks. The noise of the sticks smacking against each other was louder than what I'd remembered. My mum used to make me do this in shrines when I was in my high school years, usually in New Year's Eve. She'd say in my ear, "Ask for good grades, for good attitude in life..."

I stopped when a stick tumbled out of the cup. The maiden let out another "ah", bending her spine to see the number written upon it.

"The twenty-fourth," she mumbled. "One moment, dear." And she left for the fortune slips.

When I was young, the fortunes written in the yellowed pieces of paper had always been good. Seeing them, my mum would always smile in satisfaction. It comforted her. I'd stay quiet and smile back. It was good seeing her happy.

The maiden came back with a frown on her face, her hands empty.

I quirked a brow, "What's wrong?"

She stared at me, nonplussed. "Why, the slips for the twenty-fourth are all gone. Can't seem to find them anywhere..."

A part of me felt slightly letdown, but the other part rejoiced.

I gave her a reassuring smile, "It's all right. Maybe what I asked for has no answers. Anyway, thank you."

With that, I turned around to leave.

"Oh, no, my dear, wait," the maiden called out. A slight tremor was in her raised voice, as if it was difficult for her to speak louder than her usual whisper. "Try this other one––"

The "no" was halfway up my throat when I saw her pull another cup from underneath the counter. Unlike the brownish, unadorned bamboo cup, this one was colourful. Red and yellow took up most of its surface, depicting spirits and light from above. On the other half of the cylinder, there was a deep blue; it was the night with a dozen stars and no moon.

My expression was blank for a short moment. Something had clicked in me at the sight of the cup; a fleeting segment of memory, alienated from the rest. I heard myself say as my legs took the steps back to the maiden, "What's this?"

The maiden looked at me straight in the eyes, unblinking. "I see illusions, my dear," she said suddenly.

My eyes focused on her, "Illusions?"

"Yes, illusions. They're inside you, my dear. That was why the gods could not hear you, why the slips weren't there when you asked for them." The maiden tore her intense gaze from my face and handed me the coloured cylinder.

I examined the cup. There were almost a hundred Kau Chim sticks, but in this one, there were only twelve. No numbers were carved on the sticks, only signs which meaning I did not know.

"There are many gods, looking over different sort of areas," the maiden said, "you know, for example the Goddess of Compassion, the God of War or the God of Happiness."

I nodded, looking back up at her.

"Kau Chim sticks are just governed by one god," she said, then nodded at the cup, "There are twelve gods there. When the usual god doesn't respond, we should find other gods that can hear us."

"So what should I do?"

"Shake it," the maiden nudged. "Like how you did just now."

The cup grew heavy in my hands. It was almost as if the weight of my life was in that cup. I took a breath and did what I was told.

When one of the wooden sticks fell, the exiting air got stuck in my throat. As reluctant as I was to admit, it was scary – the moment when a something was making the decision for you.

The maiden let out a huff, "Oh, the eleventh?"

My voice was squeaky. "What does it mean?"

"This is not the answer yet," the maiden said as she put the stick back into the cup. She turned silently towards the counter yet again, and this time rummaged through a stack of brownish, specked paper. I followed her movements solemnly as if waiting for a sentence to be passed. "You'll have to go to the Eleventh God's shrine," she mumbled. "He'll guide you there."

I frowned, "There are other shrines here? I didn't see––"

The maiden interrupted with a chuckle, "These gods have smaller shrines, and they're more... specific, you may say. Not many people ask questions the Goddess of Compassion has no answer to, my dear."

The mountain path was dampened by rain from the night before. The sun was halfway to the sky, glimpsing through the foliage. I stared at the piece of paper the maiden had given me before I left. It illustrated the path to all twelve "specific" shrines, and the Eleventh God's shrine was one of the furthest shrines away from the main shrine, closest to the protected and unexplored forest.

At some point, I paused the music that was whispering in my ears; I could feel a tingle on my skin the further I went down the path.

"The Eleventh's God..." I felt the words on my tongue. A sense of holiness washed over me. As if being possessed, I stopped in my tracks.

I turned to the left.

And the shrine was there, alone and pampered in dark moss. It was small, barely the height of my waist, crooked to one side. Whoever built the shrine must have forgotten to flatten the soil.

Shrubbery was overgrown, concealing most of it. I would've missed it if I didn't stop.

Barehanded, I pushed the leaves apart and peeked into the minuscule shrine. A statue sat in the center, eyes closed, a smile carved on its face made of smooth stone. It was holding a flower and a sceptre.

Beside the statue, a row of palm-sized red knot bags lined. There must have been more of them, judging on the way they were arranged, but now there were only three left.

Silence enshrouded me.

Then, I said, "Is that for me?"

I was talking about the red bag closest to me.

I let out a breath. There was no answer.

Of course there was none—

But before my thought could form fully, a gust of strong wind shoved me from behind, my short hair slapped my eyelids. My heart leapt to the throat.

I stood up hastily, dropping my phone in the process.

The leaves above rustled. The wind howled, the sound of a saddened spirit lamenting.

Within seconds, the wind slowed to a breeze, then the air stopped moving, leaving me standing, stricken. A premonition fled past, and almost desperately, I climbed back into the bush and looked into the shrine: a red bag, which was sitting straight a moment ago, had now rolled to one side. The strand of red string from the knot was inviting.

My fingers reached out to the pouch, gentle like holding a broken-winged bird. The fabric was wet, a trace of the nightly rain. I held the bag to the tip of my nose and sniffed.

It was citrusy, like orange, or lemon. And... wild honey.

I let out a soft laugh.

"It smells just like her."

[word count: 1860.]