Chapter One: Mai Minghe · I Want to Gather More Daisies

When Mai Minghe awoke, the room was dim, and the night still seeped in through the curtains.

She was a light sleeper, waking several times each night, but tonight’s rousing was different. A faint, stiff sound cut through the usual background hum, pulling her from slumber.

What was making that noise?

Drowsy and groggy, she struggled to grasp it at first.

The metallic clangs continued—clink, scrape—until a sharp snap echoed. The lock’s mechanism clicked, and the door creaked open. The rusty hinges, long neglected, groaned like arthritic joints, piercing the heavy silence of the dark night like a wound.

Ah, so someone was breaking into the house.

If her mother found out, she’d surely unleash a tirade—how could a young woman live alone and not even think to block the door with a chair at night?

Her mother was always distrustful of the world, checking the gas valve four or five times before leaving, peering at the back seat of the car before getting in, never allowing her to respond with a nod or smile to strangers.

Mai Minghe had always found her mother’s anxiety excessive, but tonight, someone really had forced open their door.

The sounds that followed were indistinct, but she vaguely heard a person entering. A flashlight flickered beneath the door’s bottom gap.

Strange footsteps paced muffled across the living room floorboards, occasionally creaking—a telltale sign of the warped wood near the kitchen doorway, bent from a pipe burst years ago and forever protesting underfoot.

A thief breaking in was unusual.

She closed her eyes again, focusing on the intruder’s movements.

They first opened the door to the adjacent room—a small, narrow space rarely used. Once painted for a nursery, then a study, later a closet, none of these functions ever fully realized; now it was merely a dusty storeroom piled high with junk.

A quick glance would reveal it was worthless—sure enough, the thief’s footsteps quickly retreated and the door slammed shut.

In truth, the entire building probably held few valuables.

In this low-rent apartment, thefts were frequent; once, Mai Minghe left her door ajar, and when she realized, a pair of ankle boots from the shoe rack was missing. She went door to door angrily searching but to no avail. Yet despite such petty thefts, it was rare for a stranger to break in with lock-picking and such boldness for so little gain.

It was almost laughable that she remembered such trivial matters so clearly. Those boots, made of calfskin, smooth and glossy brown, looked quite sharp; she never again found shoes she liked as much.

If the thief wanted what little she had, let him take it.

The intruder approached the bedroom door and entered. The flashlight beam shot straight at her, instantly revealing her.

The harsh white light pressed against her eyelids, glaring on her face. She remained still, feigning sleep.

The stranger’s voice uttered a surprised “Eh?” softly.

Mai Minghe kept silent, unmoving.

The thief paced around the bedroom, circled the bed, but didn’t even open the nightstand drawer, then left.

Such a careless thief—what could he possibly steal? She almost felt sorry for him. Patience was needed; one couldn’t succeed if afraid of tedious effort.

After a minute or two, he returned, standing over her bed. A warm breath hovered above her.

“Hey,” the man called softly, pushing her frail shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

There seemed no point in pretending any longer.

Why bother waking her? If he wanted something valuable, couldn’t he just look himself? Stealing was one thing, but being lazy too—people nowadays, really.

Mai Minghe opened her eyes. A shadow bent over her, face obscured by the flashlight’s beam hanging just below the bed’s edge. Only a pale Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with his speech.

“Don’t be afraid. I just want to ask you something. Is there a person named Mai Minghe here?”

“That’s me. Do we know each other?”

He inhaled sharply, straightening, inspecting the body beneath the covers.

“You—you’re…?” He seemed incredulous, shining the flashlight over her face again brusquely.

She hadn’t looked in a mirror for a long time, unaware of her current appearance—certainly not a pretty one.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He parted his lips, still processing. He clearly didn’t want to believe she was Mai Minghe. He repeated, unsure she’d heard: “Mai, as in wheat. Mai—Ming—He.”

“That’s me.” She smiled faintly once more. “No one else.”

He stared at her.

After a few seconds, he asked, “How old are you, ma’am?”

How old? She had to think for a moment.

At some point, she’d stopped remembering her age clearly, sometimes even mistaking herself for a young girl.

One year, one age—it didn’t seem like much, yet like countless snowflakes, these tiny moments accumulated into a lifetime.

Grasping a handful of snow, unaware when it had fallen, a fragment of life surfaced, its origin forgotten.

The social worker had said that at her age—eighty-six—her mind remained clear, unlike some elderly people...

“Eighty-six?” Mai Minghe asked the social worker from memory. “You must be mistaken. I’m not that old.”

Silence returned to the room, the background hum rising again.

The thief seemed to have just noticed. He pointed at the small plastic tube resting in her nose. “Are you… on oxygen?”

“Oh?” Mai Minghe sometimes forgot. “Ah, yes. It’s quite annoying.”

He sighed, placing the flashlight near the bedside. The light cast a bright circle on the opposite wall, slicing the room between radiant youth and dim decay.

“Wait… I forgot to ask, do you drink tea?” Mai Minghe inquired. Rare visitors made her forget hospitality. “It’s hard for me to get up… there’s tea and biscuits in the kitchen, help yourself.”

The thief grew uneasy, apparently unprepared for this.

“No, thanks,” he hesitated, then added, “Would you like some? I can bring you some.”

Mai Minghe declined with thanks; host and intruder exchanged polite gestures for a moment.

The thief clasped his hands, staring at the television in the corner, thinking long and hard. He asked it, “You in poor health?”

“Quite well, I can get out of bed by myself.”

“…What about meals? Do your children bring you food?”

“I have no children,” she smiled. “And I don’t eat much, just simple things… The social worker brings me vegetables now and then, eggs.”

“Social worker? No relatives in Blackmore City?”

“I’m used to it,” Mai Minghe said. “I never had many relatives or friends; they all died before me. Kid, do you watch TV?”

The thief seemed to find the question absurd. After a pause, he suddenly checked his phone and hurried out.

“Hello?”

He was answering a call.

“Yes, I found her… No, haven’t started yet.” He hesitated. “You know she’s an old lady? Eighty-six. That’s not in the profile.”

The reply was brief, but Mai Minghe faintly heard the raised voice.

The thief was silent for a while, then, like a student caught in error, said, “No… I understand. Sorry. I’ll get it done.”

Sometimes Mai Minghe startled at her own hands.

Thick, wrinkled skin layered over bone, veins and tendons protruding, almost lifeless; her hands belonged to someone else, not the woman she remembered.

Using these alien hands, she fumbled beneath the covers to find the pendant at her chest, clutching it tightly.

This time, the thief entered and said, “Ma’am, sorry, but I need to take something from you.”

She forced herself to see him clearly. He looked bright and decent, in his twenties or thirties, almost boyish; not what one would expect of a criminal.

“What do you want?” she asked. “I don’t use it anymore; you can have it. There’s a silver brooch in the drawer…”

“No, I don’t want valuables,” the thief interrupted. “I need to take something from your body.”

“An organ?” she asked curiously. Her organs didn’t seem worth taking.

“No, no, don’t ask. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Will I die?” Mai Minghe asked, “Like you said earlier?”

Caught off guard, he paused two seconds. “I don’t know… maybe.”

She silently gazed at the cracked ceiling.

“If you must take it, then take it,” she said softly. “But… before you do, could you fulfill one wish?”

He was already by her side.

“What wish?”

“I once worked at a library. The pay was little, but I loved it… One day after work, the librarian told me an old book was being discarded, unsold at a special price, and gave it to me to take home.”

The thief’s hand rested on her pillow.

Near his feet lay a dark shadow—some machine, she hadn’t noticed until now.

“I looked, it was a book of poems. I flipped through it briefly at home,” she murmured. “After that, I set it aside and lost track of it. But somehow… in recent years, I keep remembering one poem.”

“What poem?”

“You young people all have those… smart phones?”

“Smartphone,” he corrected.

If she had grandchildren, they’d likely correct her the same way.

“They say you can find everything on them?”

“...Sort of.”

“Could you find that poem for me?” Mai Minghe pleaded. “I want to hear it again.”

He looked down at her, suddenly a bit awkward. He took a tissue from the nightstand and handed it to her. As she stared at it, puzzled, he said, “I know, don’t cry. I’ll find it. Do you remember the title?”

She was crying?

At this age, she still couldn’t accept death.

Or perhaps, at this age, she had never truly lived.

“It’s… something about daisies,” she said, deliberately vague.

There were many things in a smartphone; finding a poem was not easy, and daisies were a common image. It took time.

After searching several poems unsuccessfully, the thief grew impatient. “Ma’am, you don’t remember the name, that’s not my fault. I have to get back and complete my task, you—”

“I remember now,” Mai Minghe quickly said.

This young man, who wanted to take something from her, was perhaps the last person in her life who could let her hear a poem once more.

Even if she had to face death, hearing poetry again would be a comfort.

“It’s called ‘I Will Pick More Daisies’… I think that’s the title.”

He glanced at her without comment, tapping the screen a few times.

This time, he quickly found the poem she kept recalling.

“I found a reading video,” he said, placing his phone on the bedside.

In the quiet room filled with the scent of medicine and decay, an advertisement blared cheerfully for Little Caesar’s Pizza specials.

“When the ad’s over, you listen. I’ll work while you listen.”

He bent down and pulled a tube from the dark machine.

…If I could live my life over from the start,

I would try to make more mistakes.

I would relax,

I would be softer,

I would live this journey more foolishly.

Mai Minghe felt a wetness near her ear.

Like her parents, she had spent her life worrying endlessly. During wartime inflation, she carefully rationed food daily; in peace, she managed household accounts weekly. Growing up with a small family shop, no matter how thirsty, she never dared steal a candy from the shelf.

She had encountered many crossroads in life, blooming with wildflowers, but never stepped onto them.

People are strange; everyone knows they only live once, yet each day is lived as if there is endless time to try again.

The thief pulled back the covers and placed a cold tube on her bony chest. She vaguely realized the device resembled an old vacuum cleaner.

“What is this?” The thief picked up her pendant, glanced at it, and without waiting for her answer, moved it aside. Young people often didn’t recognize its purpose.

Fortunately, he didn’t know.

He placed the tube on Mai Minghe’s frail chest and started the machine. A low hum she had never heard filled the room.

…If I could live again, I would wander everywhere, try everything, travel light.

If I could live again, I would run barefoot through long springs and autumns.

I would try to skip school,

I wouldn’t obsess over high grades, unless by chance.

I would ride the carousel to my heart’s content,

I would pick more daisies.

In the final moment as death’s darkness enveloped Mai Minghe, she vaguely heard the front door being forced open, rapid footsteps and voices rushing inside.