To many, it was just a small, insignificant book that could easily be replaced. So, why freak out over something so small?
Those people, in Tao Hua's opinion, sucked.
They didn't understand nor did they value the importance of belongings, and how they could symbolize something much bigger than money.
That book of his was irreplaceable. It was a book he'd carried for ten years, gifted to him by his grandfather. Inside were countless drawings of tales read to him, just so he could see the words come to life. They were special, and no book in the world could ever measure up to what this book contained.
How could they?
The artist was dead, and the dead couldn't paint. They could only ever be memorialized in the strokes of ink—a concept well understood by Tao Hua.
To add to this ever-growing problem, he had spent those years filling out each page with his own writing. He'd match those illustrations carefully, using them as an outlet for his own poor treatment. Now, this wasn't like a journal; this was a different type of outlet.
This outlet denied Tao Hua any opportunity to cry about his terrible life and instead pushed him to create short stories out of the bad. Each tale whimsically matched his grandfather's illustrations and would transform dreadful tears into happy endings.
Even if happy endings were starting to feel less and less pragmatic, ink never had to follow those foolish standards. Tao Hua rejoiced in that small win of his, and generously so.
Considering all that, the stakes rose. To lose ten years of hard work and illustrations that couldn't be replicated? Well, Tao Hua never thought he'd face such a plight.
He really didn't have any solution, nor was he equipped with the ability to figure one out.
So, he just kowtowed. His shoulders shook aggressively, but not to the beat of tears. Instead, he looked like someone on the verge of crying yet not quite there; eyes reddened and his nose running.
And he tried…so hard to maintain composure, but his face clearly presented a man on the brink while still trying to keep everything together.
And the problem with this image was Tao Hua was no more effective than a wooden dam holding back lava.
Forehead pressed to the wood flooring and hands nearly smudging its sweat along each board, Tao Hua resisted the urge to slam his forehead against it. It was like a dark shroud of doubt, falling over him and blanketing him in claustrophobia.
So, like emerging from the depths of deep water, Tao Hua snapped back and loudly inhaled. He hadn't realized that in his moment of misery; he had forgotten to breathe. But even that relief of breath only washed over him colder than submerging into those waters.
Plainly put, reality hit Tao Hua.
"All for a stupid connection," Tao Hua muttered, reaching his hands up to his temples and staring down at each crack in the floorboards. "All because I wanted to make a friend with someone who probably doesn't actually care. What was I thinking?"
He laughed desperately. "Am I really that miserable?"
But he shook his head and lowered his hands. The question was rhetorical. He already knew the answer, so why ask it? Was it his last attempt at trying to control something in his life?
"Tomorrow. I'll check tomorrow. No one ever goes to A Land Lost in Time." Swallowing what little he had in his mouth, Tao Hua sluggishly got up to his feet and added, "Everything will be fine."
With a pause, he side-eyed the window. Now, there was a bit of hope in him saying this, but that too was dwindling worse than the lantern seemingly dangling by a thread
He watched as it dangled, lighting him up every-so-often. Even on a night with little wind, the weakly tied lantern could still dance. How envious he was of it.
Unconvinced, Tao Hua eased his breathing and quietly reassured himself. He said, "It's fine. Everything is fine. It'll be there—why wouldn't it be fine?"
Though that only worked momentarily. There was still the imminent threat that if someone picked up the book, they would find out every subtle detail describing his sad excuse of a life. They'd also find out that he wasn't as strong as he once pretended.
To Tao Hua, that was more humiliating than being rejected by an entire village.
So, he trudged through the melancholy, straight to the end table that held the books. They all sat in miserable condition still, but this time he didn't care; he just picked one up, glanced at the title, and then mindlessly moved to his bed.
Before him was a mess, but he just stared at the chaos of his sheets, uncaring. And then, those very sheets puffed outwardly with the flop of his body—like a dead fish. Face first, arms glued to his sides, and book lying next to him.
Flipping onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling with a look that was no more telling than it was emotional. His mind wandered between all the upcoming events and Gui Chang, the lost book, and finally landed on the one thing that held him hostage all day.
With a few taps of his fingers against his stomach, he finally relinquished all the grief and reached for the book. He felt the cover of that book, running his thin fingers along it. It was pleasant and had that "new book feeling."
Tao Hua found it both comforting and somehow reassuring, but it wasn't the book he had to thank.
What was responsible for calming this misdemeanour...well, that was neither here nor there and better left unsaid.
He flipped around once more and placed the book on his pillow. Propping his hands against his cheeks, he ventured deeply into another world, and this would extend into the late hours of the evening until he passed out.
Face straight into the scent of a newly bought gift.
Chapter end.