Little Maid Fish

Stories never cease simply because no one knows them; they unfold quietly in every corner.

“Mom, I’m off to school.”

“Alright, remember to take out the trash by the door.”

This ordinary exchange had played out countless times before. Nineteen-year-old Qin Mo took the last sip from her milk carton, the straw protesting with that desperate, empty sound. She flattened the carton under her foot with a cheerful step and tossed it into the trash bag.

“Little miss, have you eaten your breakfast?”

“Yes, I have.”

Stepping out the door, Qin Mo automatically shifted into neighborly greeting mode, her voice soft and melodious with the dialect of her city. She walked with a spring in her step, the very picture of a pure and lovely young girl, the sort to evoke joy in anyone who saw her.

When she smiled, her eyes would narrow with innocent charm; her voice was as crisp and sweet as ice clinking in porcelain on a summer’s day. Wearing white sneakers, helmet fastened, she quietly pushed her bicycle along. Sunlight spilled over her profile, lending her an almost unreal quality.

Today, the sun shone as brightly as ever, just as it had throughout her nineteen years.

She was born into a family as ordinary as any other. Like all little girls who dream of being princesses, she grew up bathed in her mother’s affection, much like the class monitor you teased in childhood—her ponytail swinging as she proudly raised her hand to answer the teacher, chatting with friends about the latest cartoons after class, or leading playful squabbles with the boys. She was the desk-mate you felt the urge to tease for no reason, the white-skinned, proud, and solitary girl waiting for the bus at sunset, ponytail swaying behind her.

She was the sort of person who, standing in a square, would find herself surrounded by a thousand white doves. The sun rose and set in her life, the seasons shifted, but shadows never dimmed her light; she was a girl whose smile alone was worthy of the world’s embrace.

But fate allows for no ifs—everything is ordained. At eighteen, her life forked into two paths: one mundane but filled with the beauty of the world; the other, its antithesis.

It all began with a ring of power. No one knew whence it came. When, amidst the bustling crowd, she bent to pick it up, the gears of destiny slipped from their tracks and spun on.

She gazed at the exquisitely crafted ring: upon it, an eye wreathed in flames, and along the edge, a line of strange letters: “מכשפתהחלומות.” Curiosity is an irrepressible human instinct; she slipped the ring onto her finger.

In that instant, footsteps froze mid-air, sparrows perched motionless on power lines, all sound vanished—the world held its breath. Only she remained, staring dumbly at this sudden stillness.

Darkness rose from the horizon, swallowing the distance. She wanted to run, but the moment she saw the darkness, it was already too late—the world had surrendered to chaos.

A low voice echoed in her mind, speaking a language she had never heard, yet somehow she understood every word.

“A hundred April winds have scattered her fragrance, thousands of damp Octobers have washed away her footprints, the merciless years have eroded her ancient memories. Yet do not forget where Idheila has passed... Great Idheila, born of the earth, woven endlessly with all mortal life... She existed before death itself was born.”

Time was etched into eternity at that moment. Qin Mo stared at the endless darkness rising in the sky, like gazing into pupils not meant for mortal eyes—there was no fear, no escape; all emotion condensed and shattered within the abyss. All she could do was wait, wait for the withering between life and death.

Suddenly, a delicate Asian woman appeared at the center of her vision. Robes of red, white, and black cascaded down her form, her face painted like a porcelain doll, her fingernails long and sharp as razors. Perception failed beyond this point; she could only see, as if watching an ancient opera, waiting for a god’s wrath to descend upon an unbeliever.

“Are you going or not?” An impatient woman carrying a basket nudged Qin Mo back to reality, her voice pulling her from the depths of darkness. The world flowed on as before, as if nothing had happened. She tried to recall the vision, but those memories faded with astonishing speed. In seconds, she could remember nothing—those unreal images erased like a photograph bleaching in the sun.

She tried to remove the ring, but even after reaching her classroom, it clung to her finger as though it had always been a part of her. Even as she twisted it painfully, it would not budge.

Worried, she tried to confide in her closest friend about the strange events of the morning, but was met only with gentle, pitying comfort. No one wanted to believe her tale of absurd visions.

“Qin Mo, I know senior year is stressful. Maybe you should put down your books for a while—find some time to relax. What you’re experiencing is probably just anxiety from too much pressure,” Bai Yuxin sighed as she tied her hair back. Every senior went through anxiety—she herself was losing hair, but her poor desk-mate was having hallucinations.

“Maybe you’re right...” Qin Mo was unsure herself. Perhaps it really was just stress-induced hallucinations.

“What’s that on your hand? That’s a beautiful ring,” Bai Yuxin remarked.

“I picked it up this morning. I only started seeing things after I put it on. I’ll throw it away later,” Qin Mo grumbled as she continued to try to get the ring off her left index finger.

“It’s so pretty, and you’d throw it away? Why not give it to me instead?” Bai Yuxin looked at the ring, a sudden, powerful desire blooming in her heart—so natural, she didn’t even realize how strange it was to covet the ring so fiercely. She wanted it.

“Fine, if you can get it off, it’s yours.” Qin Mo was beginning to dislike the ring, though she couldn’t say why.

Bai Yuxin eagerly grabbed Qin Mo’s left hand, trying to twist the ring off. But the ring was part of Qin Mo’s finger, and as Bai Yuxin increased her strength, Qin Mo cried out in pain.

Retracting her hand, Qin Mo was about to protest when she met Bai Yuxin’s gaze—eyes filled with jealousy and longing, edged with resentment. It startled her; she had never seen Bai Yuxin look so unfamiliar, as if a demon had possessed her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I... I don’t know what came over me...” That unsettling look vanished in an instant, and Bai Yuxin seemed just as shocked by the evil thoughts that had crossed her mind—violence, deceit, words that had never belonged to her, now crashing together in her head, forming plans with a single purpose: to possess the ring.

Qin Mo slipped her left hand into her pocket, alert. Women are always sensitive to malice.

They fell into silence and did not speak for the rest of the morning.

“I don’t know why, but when I looked at that ring, all I could think about was having it,” Bai Yuxin said earnestly as she packed up her books, then left. At the classroom door, she turned back: “Don’t let anyone else see that ring. Maybe it’s cursed, like the One Ring in ‘The Lord of the Rings’—it brings out the darkest side of people.”

Qin Mo wanted to respond, but Bai Yuxin left without looking back, perhaps for fear of hesitating.

Qin Mo stared at the ring on her left hand; she felt as though the eye in flames mocked her ignorance, but upon closer inspection, nothing had changed.

She carefully hid her left hand, letting no one else see the ring. Other than the occasional glance from Bai Yuxin, the day passed uneventfully.

She covered her index finger with a bandage. When her mother asked, she said she’d accidentally scratched herself with a cone—she dared not mention the ring, fearing its power to drive people mad.

When she heard her mother close the bedroom door, she took a pair of pliers from her bag, bought from the hardware store. Though she’d expected the result, disappointment and then terror washed over her when the ring remained unscathed.

The ring spun freely, not tight in the least, and yet it would not shift even a millimeter on her finger.

She searched her phone for anything about rings of power, but neither the pattern nor the strange inscription yielded any clues.

Clutching her childhood stuffed animal, she curled up under her covers, believing her lifelong companion would keep nightmares at bay. She stared at the ceiling until sleep overtook her.

Darkness—endless darkness. She was only aware of her own consciousness, unable to do anything but watch.

She did not know how long she lay there—perhaps a second, perhaps ten thousand years. Time meant nothing in a world without reference. The voice came again, low, neither male nor female.

“You have come.”

Qin Mo could not and did not wish to respond. The emotionless voice chanted as if from some ancient, shamanic rite in a language older than memory.

“Idheila, Witch of Dreams, she beguiles her faithful with visions,
Witch of Dreams, she hides herself in illusion,
Witch of Dreams, she borrows beauty not her own.
Idheila, she buries the faithless in darkness,
She devours her foes in silence,
For her, the world’s secrets are forever hidden.”

Qin Mo opened her eyes. Sunlight was already streaming through the curtains onto the floor. She looked at the clock—nine o’clock. She started, then remembered it was a holiday, and relaxed. Pulling back the covers, she found her beloved stuffed animal torn in two.

She couldn’t help weeping; the broken toy carried so many memories. Her mother, hearing her cries, gathered her into her arms.

“Mo Mo, I know you’re under a lot of pressure from school. I worry for you, but I don’t know what to say. Promise me, if you’re ever sad, tell me. I’ll always be here to listen.”

Qin Mo held her mother tightly. For a moment, she almost poured out everything, but the words from her dream—“Do not seek the grace of that god, for it watches you”—made her swallow her grief. The toy was lost to her; she feared that her dependence on it had brought this unknown destruction.

She composed herself at breakfast, forcing a smile. “I want to go for a walk, clear my head.”

The moment she stepped onto the bus, everyone turned to look at her. The stares made her feel like a dangerous fugitive. People jostled together rather than sit beside her; mothers soothed their children, but the crying only stopped when she got off.

She hated those stares, the complicated emotion in them that made her get off early. She remembered an alley she’d walked as a child—a shortcut to the park.

She walked slowly down the alley until a group of boys with piercings, smoking beside their motorcycles, blocked her path. She hesitated, but the midday sun gave her courage. As she hurried past them, the thick smoke made her sneeze. She rubbed her nose, and only then noticed the bandage had come off—the ring was now exposed, catching the sunlight. She remembered Bai Yuxin’s earlier look and hurriedly hid her hand, running for the exit.

But there was no sound of pursuit. When she looked back, the boys stared at her with wary eyes, as though they were medieval villagers peering at a witch in her hut. She finally understood the complex emotion in the bus passengers’ gazes.

It was fear—they were afraid of her, a nineteen-year-old high school girl.

She didn’t go to the park. She returned home, staring at the ring in a daze all afternoon, until her mother called her to dinner and she realized how much time had passed.

Night fell early that day, perhaps because winter was near.

She no longer tried to hold anything as she slept. She simply tucked herself in, knowing all her efforts were in vain.

Again, the endless darkness. Again, the voice.

“First day: greed.
Second day: fear.
Third day: contempt.
Fourth day: rupture.
Fifth day: oblivion.”

“And then you will see its grace.”

It felt like only a brief nap, but when she heard these words she could no longer sleep. Sunlight was already spilling through her room. She did not want to contemplate the strange words of her dream; avoidance is humanity’s last defense.

She would rather believe it was only a dream, hovering outside reality. She had no other choice.

She forced a smile, put on her backpack, and said goodbye to her mother. Because of the dream, she was already late, but her homeroom teacher usually didn’t care much about tardiness.

“So late, and you still bother with school?” Her bald teacher, for some reason, was in a foul mood. Looking at her, he felt an unexplainable annoyance. After enduring ten minutes of scolding, Qin Mo returned to the classroom.

She wanted to tell Bai Yuxin about everything she’d been through, but those cold eyes stopped her.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“Don’t bother me. I hate talking to you,” Bai Yuxin waved her hand as if shooing a fly.

Qin Mo could not believe what she was hearing. She still hoped she had misunderstood. “What did you say?”

“Teacher, Qin Mo keeps talking to me and distracting me,” Bai Yuxin complained, not even bothering to say another word.

“Qin Mo, stand outside. If you don’t want to study, don’t disturb others.” The usually gentle history teacher pointed her out for the only punishment of his career.

Qin Mo bowed her head and slowly stood, tears brimming. She stood outside the classroom, book in hand, enduring humiliation.

“I never liked her anyway—serves her right.”
“She’s so arrogant just because she has good grades. I can’t stand girls like that.”
“She’s just pretty, so what? Who knows how many boyfriends she has behind our backs?”

The whispers in the classroom were just loud enough for her to hear, every word dripping with malice. She could hold back no longer; she turned and left, leaving school for home.

Her mother called in to get her three days of leave; she sat silently on the sofa. That night, her dreams were only darkness, the low voice calling her name again and again, until all was buried by time.

“Get up. All you do is sleep.” Her mother roughly yanked off her covers, forcing her awake to stare at a woman who felt like a stranger.

“You’re grown now, and all you do is sleep. Senior year, and you’re still getting punished in school.” The once gentle, elegant woman suddenly seemed to have much to say. Qin Mo ate her breakfast in silence.

After a moment, her mother sighed. “If only I hadn’t given birth to you. Maybe I wouldn’t have married that man. If you’d gone with your father after the divorce, maybe I’d have started over by now...”

Qin Mo froze, staring at her mother in disbelief. At that moment, the woman before her was not the mother she had known all her life, but a stranger in a familiar shell. Her mother, who had never spoken a harsh word to her, now uttered things she could not bear to hear. She covered her ears, curling up on the bed in terror.

She stared at her mother, tears falling, then slowly dressed, moving as if time itself had slowed. Even fully dressed, the mother she knew never reappeared. Her gaze fell to the ring on her left hand. She managed a small, sorrowful smile. “I’m leaving, Mom.”

She ignored the complaints behind her. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she walked out into the snow, leaving the only home she had ever known. No one came out to see her off, even when she was out of sight.

Her lonely figure drifted through the city, snowflakes or perhaps tears wetting her face.

At last, she stopped outside a hotpot restaurant. Through fogged glass, she watched a family of four eating together, the mother preparing food for her children, the father laughing as he fed her a slice of beef tripe. She couldn’t hold back any longer and crouched down, covering her face. The busy crowd of the shopping street paid her no heed—they chatted on their phones, ate steaming sweet potatoes, whispered to loved ones. So noisy, so natural, yet none of it had anything to do with her.

Promoters handing out flyers walked around her to the next prospect; restaurant staff ignored her. Only when she grabbed a waitress’s hand did the girl pause, puzzled, and mutter, “Why is this table empty?” before shaking her hand free and moving on.

Oblivion is more frightening than death. When everyone treats you as if you don’t exist, perhaps you truly cease to exist.

Qin Mo was no longer sure she existed. Everyone else lived on dry land; she stood alone on the ocean floor, unseen.

The whispers in her mind brought her ever closer to the brink. She could not bear to be at school or at home for another second. Friends and family who once shared everything now looked right through her—a cruelty in itself. She would have preferred rejection, even contempt, but that too was now a luxury.

She spent her days wearing headphones, lying on benches in the shopping mall, hoping the crowds and the music would dispel the loneliness that clung to her. When hungry or thirsty, she wandered the food court—no one cared, or perhaps she constantly longed for someone to notice the girl helping herself.

The daytime crowds were her last campfire. She tried to get closer, closer still, but an invisible barrier always kept her apart. When night fell, bone-deep loneliness sent her curling up on a coin-operated massage chair, surrounded by piles of snacks—from cotton candy to chocolate sticks—trying to recall the warmth of her mother’s gaze. Only this helped her through the endless nights. But each morning, the tear-stains on her pillow bore witness to the terror loneliness brings to a young girl.

Time treats all things equally. It cares nothing for what happens in the world—joy or sorrow mean nothing to it. Silently, it marches on.