West: The Sun From Another Star

In the dim light inside, the person sitting next to me had fallen asleep sometime ago. I glanced at the sketchbook this kid was holding. I borrowed it because I thought his drawings were good.

The entire notebook was almost completely filled with blank pages, and on each page, he drew, leaving virtually no empty space left on the paper.

Turning the pages, something came to mind. Memories gradually returned. Before, I hadn't thought about it, but seeing her sitting there, concentrating on drawing with a pencil in this notebook, a certain image suddenly appeared in my head, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

My mother also enjoys painting like that.

Drawing is probably a hobby for many people, including my mother. She usually carries a small sketchbook and pencils with her. If she's bored and has nothing to do, she'll pick them up and draw for fun. Even though she says she's just drawing for fun, she's very focused and attentive.

 

So, whenever I see someone drawing and drawing well, I unconsciously stop to watch them. The first time I saw this kid drawing so well and so quickly, it really caught my attention, and I watched him as he drew. After that, I asked him to draw scenes from the novels I liked.

After looking at all the pictures, I closed the notebook and placed it on the lap of the person next to me to return it to them. Suddenly, the song I was listening to through one of the earphones stopped. I didn't know why, but I thought it might be because the battery was dead. I immediately picked up my phone and connected its earphones to my phone to replace them.

I opened my playlist after listening to it for hours. So, I listened to my own music for a while. Not long after, the person who was sleeping woke up and frowned at me.

"Don't like my music?"

"No, it's just that the rock music is too loud, I can't sleep listening to it."

He reached into his pocket, took out his phone to check, and realised the battery was indeed dead. He immediately grabbed a power bank to charge his phone and lay back down.

I switched to a different genre, not rock anymore. As I said, I only listen to old music and rock, but now I chose an old song with a slightly gentler melody. I glanced out the window, seeing only pitch blackness. Old memories flooded back into my mind. Near my eye, I felt something move, then stop. I immediately turned to look. The person is closing their eyes…

One of its hands moved its fingers as if playing a piano, following the rhythm of the song.

"What are you doing?" I asked. The person I asked slowly opened their eyes, looked at me, then shifted their gaze down to their hands.

"Oh... I forgot."

"Can you play the piano?"

"YES."

"Really?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in surprise, not expecting it to be playable.

"YES."

"You're really talented," I said. Her mother is great at painting, and she can play the piano too. "What else can you do?"

"...Your question is too broad."

"So what other musical instruments can you play?"

"Guitar."

"Can you sing?"

"No, I sing terribly."

"Anything else?" I whispered to myself, deep in thought, "What about sports?"

"Is Taekwondo considered a sport?"

"Yes, which belt?"

"Brown belt."

“Really? But I’m a black belt,” I said, raising an eyebrow in a rather annoying way. He showed no expression, as usual, “You don’t look like someone who practices taekwondo.”

"YES."

"But North also does boxing, you know. He's short, but he can do so much." He frowned, looking at me with a confused expression.

"Why are you making that face?"

"No one has ever called me that before, even though I really am short."

"Then I'll call it that," I said.

“…”

"Short."

“…”

"Why do you look so unconcerned? If it were North, he'd be yelling at me." He can't stand even the slightest teasing about my height; he's always challenging me.

"Because I'm not North."

"What is it?" I said wearily. Actually, I wanted to see if this guy, who always maintains a cold, lazy expression, could get angry. Even when he was yelling at Khram, his face remained completely expressionless.

He said nothing, closing his eyes again. I glanced out the window, letting myself drift back into my favourite music and my thoughts.

…..

 

The plane landed in Honolulu, Hawaii. I got off with the blue-haired kid following behind. It wasn't that I'd forgotten his name like before, but I felt a little uncomfortable calling the boy "Dao." Even though I'd called him that once before, I vaguely remembered North saying not to choose names, so I wouldn't. No need to call him by his name, I'd just keep calling him "shorty." He didn't say anything or show any signs of displeasure.

 

Before going home, we stopped for a meal because I was hungry. The kid wasn't a big eater; he only ate a little. After eating, we went outside. To avoid any trouble, I declined Direk's offer to find a driver or a maid, since I was only staying for a short while. I told him to wait here while I hired a car. Once I got the car, I drove over to pick him up and take him to my vacation home.

 

Throughout the journey, the person sitting next to me fell asleep while I was driving. I didn't notice until we were near a familiar house, even though I hadn't been there in a long time. I stopped the car and turned off the engine, then called to wake the boy who was sleeping soundly. He opened his eyes, his face hazy and tired.

 

“Jet lag?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, guessing he was suffering from jet lag. He nodded slightly. I got out of the car to get my things from the trunk, and the kid got out and seemed about to grab his bag. “Let me carry your things.”

 

“…”

"Look at yourself," I said, handing him the house keys, "Go open the door."

 

"Yeah." That's all it said, then followed me like a soulless corpse while I stood there with my hands full of things, waiting for it to open the door. Once it opened the door, we went inside the house.

 

“Your room is on the left,” I pointed out, because that was the living room. He went inside; I put my things down, helped carry his, then followed him in. I set his bag down on the floor, and when I turned away, I saw that the person who had gone in first was already lying on the bed. Just as I was about to close the door, I suddenly remembered something. I turned on the air conditioner before going outside.

 

I helped carry his things and even turned on the air conditioner for him; I'm such a good person. Surely Fah can't say I'm not taking care of him anymore. But wait…

 

At first, I wanted it to help me find my mother quickly, but on second thought, this way is also good. At least I'll have time to mentally prepare myself. I glanced around the house and realised it hadn't changed at all. Everything was still arranged as it was the last time I was here; nothing had been moved.

 

Direk must have sent someone to clean up and prepare things. I went to open the refrigerator and found food, and of course, canned beer. I grabbed a whole case of beer and went out to the backyard.

 

This is a pretty nice viewpoint and one of my mother's favourites. I sighed unconsciously, walked over, sat on the folding bed, and lay down. This folding bed was probably prepared for me, as usual. There were two beds, so I put down the beer crate, took out my cigarettes, lit one, and took a puff. The smoke spread, chilling my throat.

I don't know how long I lay there, lost in thought, until I accidentally fell asleep. 

 

When I woke up, I realised it was getting dark. The automatic lights in the backyard were on. The sky was turning red; the sun was about to set. I turned around when I heard footsteps; the "shorty" walked in and sat down on the folding bed next to me.

 

"Want a smoke?" I asked, offering him a cigarette after lighting one for him. He shook his head slightly, "This is a good one."

 

"Have you retired?"

 

"YES."

 

"Really? Quitting smoking?"

 

"YES."

 

"How about beer?" I offered him another beer, because I remembered he used to smoke and drink beer at the same time, so I just asked. He seemed to think for a moment, then took the beer from me, opened it, and took a sip.

 

"How is it?"

 

“…Good, very good,” it replied. I just shrugged a little; that’s what good food is like. “Shall we begin?” it asked, undoubtedly about the search for its mother’s spirit.

 

"Give me another one first," I replied before finishing this one. The person next to me said nothing, just finished their beer, put it down, then went somewhere for a while. A little later, they returned with the sketchbook they had used before.

 

I didn't ask any questions; I just noticed that it depicted the surrounding scenery as a Hawaiian sunset.

 

"Do you have colour?" it asked.

"What colour?"

"Colored pencils, watercolours, anything will do."

"Yes," I replied, remembering that there might be some drawing supplies in my mother's room, "Let me see."

He handed me his sketchbook. I took it and unconsciously frowned when I saw the drawing. I looked at it for a while before returning the sketchbook to him. It was a scene my mother loved, so it's no surprise she used to draw this picture. Seeing it again made me feel so familiar that I looked at it a little longer unconsciously.

“Let’s go,” I said as the cigarette in my hand was almost finished. I extinguished it in the ashtray full of cigarette butts—clear evidence that I’d smoked quite a bit today. I stood up, and he followed, taking off the bracelet from his wrist and tucking it into his pocket. He stood still, as if concentrating, for a long time before opening his eyes and shaking his head gently.

 

We stopped in front of my mother's room, the last one. I unconsciously sighed. I don't know how many times I'd sighed that day. I opened the door and went in, standing there, watching the person in front of me stand silently for almost five minutes. And the answer was the same as always.

Its face was as pale as it had been on previous occasions when it tried to sense and search for spirits. It staggered and fell onto the chair at my mother's desk, the closest one. Normally, I would have blurted out a scolding if anyone dared sit at my mother's desk, but seeing its condition, I held back my words.

It would be terrible to scold him now; he was on the verge of fainting after trying to find his mother's spirit.

"Would you like some water?" I asked. It nodded slightly. I went out and came back with a glass of plain water, placing it on the table in front of it. Then I sat down on the bed.

"What about the other one?"

"What does that mean?"

"You said before that there was still a certain warmth in the house, right? So what about this time?"
It was silent for a moment, then took a sip of water, looking tired as if it were about to fall asleep immediately, but still answered me in a weak, hoarse voice: "It feels warm… and here too."

"At that table? Why?"

"That person will definitely like this place."

 

"Hmm."

 

"Let me rest for a bit." That's all he said, then struggled to stand up and walked out of the room, leaving me sitting alone on the bed. I lay back on the soft bed and closed my eyes.

 

Mom isn't here… or maybe she's nowhere at all.

To be honest, deep down I'm more than half convinced that Mom is no longer in this world, just like Direk and I have always believed. But what can we do... Isn't this search ultimately just to find some peace of mind?

 

I lay there for almost twenty more minutes, waiting until I felt better. As usual, I knew I could heal myself; it just took time. By now, I had accepted the fact that my mother was no longer here. I walked to her familiar desk and sat down. Mom likes this place...?

 

I reached out and opened the drawer; inside were my mother's drawing tools neatly arranged. Next to them were some leftover drawing paper, the kind she used for painting. I thought they were still there because unless it was something truly important, like my mother's possessions or heirlooms, Direk and I would hardly ever touch them. Leaving everything as it is is probably the best option.

 

I picked up each of my mother's drawings and examined them one by one. Some were just pencil sketches, some were fully colored, and many were only partially colored. They were all watercolours, because my mother loved that kind of painting. My hand stopped at the drawing of the backyard scene, and I quickly picked it up to look at it. Exactly like the dwarf's drawing...

 

This painting looks familiar to me. Yes, it's from the same perspective, so of course it's similar. Even more coincidentally, the painting my mother drew also features a sunset as its theme. In the corner of the paper, there's a patch of watercolour paint that's already been applied. This must be one of the paintings Mom was working on. She always painted little by little, which is why she left so many unfinished pieces like this.

…..

 

Still not finished colouring...?

 

The little guy asked for some paint earlier, probably intending to add more colour to the picture he just drew.

If so… I could ask it to finish my mother's painting.

 

════[changbins_delulu_wife]════

 

I woke up groggily again, this was the second time today. The first was due to jet lag from my flight, the second was exhaustion after trying to find my mother's spirit. Realising I'd slept for almost two hours, I left my room and saw the guy from the next room sitting on the sofa.

 

"Are you awake?" he asked.

I slumped down onto the small sofa, feeling exhausted.

 

"Is there anything to eat?" I asked, feeling less tired, but hunger was mounting now. I have no problem with fasting, but my stomach ailment makes skipping meals impossible.

 

"Do you know how to cook?"

 

"Are not."

 

"I thought you could do anything."

 

"Not the food," I replied. As everyone knows, I'm the type who likes to try all sorts of things. Of course, cooking is one of them. Initially, I asked my grandmother to teach me, but it didn't work. I asked my father, and that didn't work either. I tried cooking on my own, and the results were even worse. I don't understand why. I can cook, but the food doesn't taste good; eating out is much better for both my physical and mental health.

 

"Give it a try."

 

"Otherwise, there'll be nothing to eat tonight," he said.

 

I went to open the refrigerator and saw some fresh produce still left.

 

"Why don't you do it?"

 

"If I cooked, the house would burn down."

 

"I'm not a good cook."

 

"Is it edible?"

 

"It's edible, but it doesn't taste good."

 

"That's better than the stove exploding. You cook," he said, as if he were shifting all the responsibility onto me. What other choice did I have? Starving myself was out of the question. I stood in front of the refrigerator for a long time, but couldn't think of anything to cook. The easiest thing to make was probably scrambled eggs. If there were no rice, I'd toast some bread. It was a bit like breakfast, but oh well, that would be fine.

 

I placed the pan on the stove and carefully turned on the gas. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to toast the bread. I cracked the eggs into a bowl, beat them well, and then poured the egg mixture into the pan. I think I forgot something…Oh, right, cooking oil.

 

Smoke billowed up, accompanied by a burnt smell. I jumped, frantically reaching for the oil bottle to pour in, but it seemed too late. While I was struggling with the strange mixture in the pan, the toaster oven started beeping. I was about to take the pan off the heat to check on the bread, but the burning smell grew stronger, forcing me to turn back and try to remove the burnt egg stuck to the bottom. By the time I realised it, the bread was completely burnt. On the table was a plate of eggs, half burnt, half raw, still submerged in oil. Next to it were several slices of burnt bread.

 

"Yeah, now I believe you really don't know how to cook."

 

"Hmm." I just nodded in response and took a picture with my phone to send to North. I should have asked North how to do it from the start. The response was a long string of years, followed by a message explaining each step I did wrong. In short, I got it wrong from the start, even before adding the oil.

 

"It's just a fried egg, and you can't even do that?" The person sitting opposite sighed softly, then looked at the finished product on the table. "Is there any jam in the fridge?"

 

"Have."

 

"How about bread with jam?"

 

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

 

In the end, the deep-fried eggs were sadly thrown away because they were inedible. Actually, I wouldn't have dared try them. If I had thought of it sooner, I wouldn't have bothered frying the eggs at all. Our dinner consisted of a few slices of bread with jam and chocolate. Just bread with jam spread on it will do.

 

"Hey, you," he called out as he spread jam on his fourth slice of cake, while I was still trying to finish the first one. I'd noticed he'd eaten a lot since the airport, probably even more than Ter. "You know how to use watercolours, right?"

 

"YES."

 

"I'd like to hire you to do some watercolour painting," he said, without waiting for me to ask any further questions, and stood up to place an A3 sheet of paper in front of me. It was a landscape painting of the backyard garden, exactly like the one I had just drawn in my sketchbook, except that only a small corner had been coloured in.

 

"Just finish colouring it."

 

"Why?"

 

"This is a drawing my mom made, but she hasn't finished colouring it yet."

 

"Is it okay if I colour this picture?" I frowned slightly, hesitating before asking. After all, this was a painting by his mother; was it appropriate to entrust it to me to complete?

 

"It's fine. I think if someone could help make it more beautiful, complete this painting, my mother would be happy." He shrugged, calmly replying, and continued eating his jam-spread bread.

 

I wiped my hands thoroughly to make sure I didn't stain the paper, then picked up the painting and carefully observed every detail.

 

"It would be better if this painting were finished, wouldn't it?"

 

"Okay, alright."

 

"How much? The fee."

 

"I'll tell you when I'm done."

 

"Yeah," he replied briefly, "Actually, there are still many more pictures that haven't been finished colouring."

 

"Then why did you only tell me to colour this one picture?"

 

"Are you planning to colour it all in one night? We have to go to LA tomorrow morning."

 

"We could take it with us and continue working," I suggested, and he turned to look at me with a surprised expression.

 

"Trouble."

 

"No way, if I only colour this one, the others will feel left out," I said, expressing my own thoughts.

 

For me, when it comes to paintings, I never take them lightly and always give them my absolute attention. If I've finished colouring this one but haven't completed the others, it would be unfair to them.

 

"Okay, then I'll leave it all to you. Paint it all, and I'll pay you all at once."

"YES."

…..

I spent nearly an hour carefully examining the paintings his mother had done, trying to understand how she used to colour them. Because this project wasn't simply about colouring, but about completing works that the artist no longer had the opportunity to create, I wanted to use colours and techniques as close as possible to her style, so that the entire set of paintings would be consistent, with no single piece feeling out of place or too different from the rest.

 

If possible, please allow me to… I will try my best to make these paintings as complete and beautiful as possible, in the way I think they deserve from the beginning.

 

════[changbins_delulu_wife]════

 

I woke up in the middle of the night because I needed to go to the bathroom. Drowsily, I stepped out of my bedroom and headed straight for the bathroom. After finishing, I was about to return to my room when my eyes accidentally caught sight of light shining through the crack in the guest bedroom door. It was so late, and that short guy still wasn't asleep? He probably slept all day and only just woke up now. Or maybe he left the light on while he slept. I turned and went back to my room without bothering to care.

 

The next morning, we prepared to leave for Los Angeles. I pulled my luggage out of the room and saw the short guy already sitting on the sofa. He turned to look at me and immediately handed me a large sheet of paper. I picked it up, bewildered. It was a painting by my mother, already fully colored. I had expected it to be a good one, given its excellent drawing skills. But seeing it in person, I realised it far exceeded my expectations.

I have to say… It's incredibly beautiful.

 

"It's beautiful, exactly like Mom's drawing," I blurted out. He got up from the sofa and handed me another drawing.

 

"Wow, you managed to colour two pictures in one night?" I asked, without even getting a good look at the other picture.

 

"No, your mother already colored this picture," he replied.

 

I took it and examined it. Indeed, this was a painting my mother had finished.

 

"Then why are you showing it to me?"

 

"Do they look similar?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"Does the colour you used look the same as the colour your mother used?" he asked, his voice serious.

 

I remained silent, not answering immediately. I stared at the two paintings, my eyes shifting from one to the other. Suddenly, my eyes widened in astonishment. The two paintings were incredibly similar.

 

The colours he used were exactly the same as the colours my mother used. It was as if both paintings had been coloured by my mother. Initially, I didn't expect much; I simply thought that having him complete the painting would be enough.

 

"Damn, how did you do that? It's exactly the same as how my mom coloured it!"

 

"Hmm," it replied curtly.

"Is it difficult to do that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

 

"It's very difficult, mixing colours is incredibly challenging and time-consuming."

 

"So, you didn't sleep all night last night because you were trying to make the colours look the same, huh?"

 

"Yes," he nodded. "But how did you know I wasn't asleep?"

 

I didn't answer the question. My eyes were fixed on the painting he had just finished. Even the smallest details weren't overlooked, as if my mother's painting was truly complete. I thought that if my mother had ever imagined this painting after she finished colouring it, now it was exactly what she had envisioned.

 

I handed the paper back to him, thinking it would be more sensible to let him keep it because it would definitely get crumpled if I carried it with me while travelling. I looked at the person who had just taken the paper from my hand and suddenly understood why they couldn't sleep last night. It turned out they were so passionate and serious about drawing, willing to make sacrifices and put in the effort without me having to ask.

 

It's even willing to help me this time. So dedicated that I can't be patient any longer.

That's… amazing.