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The chest thuds heavily down the stairs, the steps protesting at their mistreatment.

It was easier with another pair of hands to help.

The treacherous thought floats on the surface of my mind, but I ignore it, setting up my stall.

Each day the chest only gets heavier as I make more paper I cannot sell.

Not when my handiwork is amateur at best, thick and thin in places.

The couple of sheets I have sold are to those who take pity on me, who hope a few coins might broker a friendship, or at least a story from my past. They are always curious.

My clothes are finer than the average stallholder, even if they are now threadbare and out of fashion.

Today Weifeng does not have his puppet show. Instead, his stall has rows of ceramic ornaments on display: dragon and phoenix, qilin and tiger. He watches me struggle from across the way but does not approach. I am glad of that mercy.

Everyone expected him to take over the family business, to make porcelain plates and vases to sell across the seas. Once, I worried he would be like my father, stripping himself to the bone to provide for others, but Weifeng has not made that mistake. He has taken his clay and made something new.

I ignore the rest of the market, spreading out the damp paper from the day before to dry on rods.

The grey tinge could be forgiven, but the uneven patches have dried into pockmarks.

I could be good at this, if only my fingers didn’t keep getting caught.

Snagging against the deckle as I lower the frame into the pulp slurry.

Paper pieces flake from me onto the wet sheets despite my best efforts, impossible to pick out.

My cheek flaps open like the pages of a book, even as I press it back in.

When I scratch the itch on the nape of my neck, squares of paper flutter from my back.

The townsfolk are staring now, pointing at the magic that I refuse to use.

What is wrong with her? Why would she waste such a gift?

The wind blows mockingly, scattering stray seeds and curled leaves into the wet paper.

I throw another ruined sheet to the ground in frustration, kicking it away from me.

At midday, I finally give up, my fingers raw with all the paper that has come loose.

No matter how I try, parts of me stick to the mould, messing everything up.

I pour the remaining pulp water into the ditch.

When I turn back, I see something small moving out of the corner of my eye, and smack at it instinctively with a stick.

The porcelain rooster squawks wordlessly at me as it hops out of reach.

Its ornate tail has been sweeping paper into a pile.

A clay rabbit and rat gather the fragments of paper in their jaws.

A pig rolls a crumpled ball with its snout.

Weifeng is busy with customers, as he has been all morning. I gather my paper-making frame to hide the tears that threaten my eyes.

LOW

It took Meiyu a moment to place him. It had been years since she’d set eyes on her father’s clerk.

Since she had sent him extravagant love declarations about running away together.

She had all but forgotten the features of his face, blurring into a watercolour stroke on the paper.

A story from a lifetime ago. She had forgotten there was a time before Weifeng took up all the space in her heart.

But perhaps, Meiyu thought as her ex-lover slid the bolt shut on her bedroom door, as he smothered her in an embrace, time passed differently for them both.

“How long they kept us apart.” His words are discordant against her ears.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Ink was blotched on her ex-lover’s sleeves. Words ran up his robes, vertical and horizontal lines that crossed and clashed against each other, as if he could not wait to find the paper to write upon. The ink in his body burning to be released.

“Your father said I wasn’t good enough for you.

I kept writing to you, every day, every week, even though he prevented us from communicating.

I knew you felt the same way. I knew you would wait for me, even if he forced you to write those false missives rejecting me.

We are meant to be together. To write the story of our love.

” He had built himself around an empty husk.

“I stopped responding. My feelings changed.”

“Of course, that is the version you tell, to retain your virtue and standing in this community. I understand, Meiyu. But you are meant to be mine. Paper and ink.”

“I am not,” she said defiantly. “We build these images of love in our minds. Of what great poets and songs tells us it should be. Paper and ink sounded so sweet together, so right. But we never knew each other, not really.”

“You are my true love. My first love.”

Meiyu pitied her ex-lover and the story he now clung to. Voice soft as she cut through his delusions. “You were my first love, but not my last.”

His eyes turned to flint, his grip on her tightening. The ink on his fingers stained her paper skin, binding her wrists in thick cuffs. She tried to explain, digging trenches with her words. “Leave it as a sweet memory. Let us part as friends.”

“There is no more parting in this tale.” His words may have meant to bring her comfort, but it did not.

“I am betrothed to be married in two days,” Meiyu said, trying to keep the fear from her voice. Perhaps in her taciturn tone he heard something else. Perhaps he would only ever hear something else.

“They will not force you into it. I have arranged for us to leave, tonight. We will be free.” His eyes, which once she would have called deep pools of affection, were unfathomably dark.

WILL

I sleep through the afternoon, my body moulting layers of thin paper like a silkworm cocoon.

I curl up, trying to ignore the growl in my stomach.

Things will be better at the next town. I might as well dump the poorly made paper and start again.

It is too fragile to carry around. It is, after all, what I have done for years; never quite finding a purpose the way Weifeng has.

Instead, I sell off pieces of jewellery to eke out my money.

But I have left it too late to depart now.

One more night, and I will pack up in the morning.

That is the promise I make myself, pretending it is practicality and not the hope of seeing him once more.

Downstairs, the dining room is empty. All the shutters are thrown open, letting the wan light into every corner.

Round stools are pushed under round tables.

He is not here. Has probably made the more sensible decision to leave whilst the sun was high.

I think of asking the server which way he has gone, but am I not the one who pushed him away in the first place?

I pick at my meal. The mustard greens too salty, the steamed egg not silken smooth.

The rice is overcooked, mushy when it had been fluffy the night before.

I tell the server as much, but he looks incredulously at me.

At the same table, on the same stool as my meal with Weifeng.

Hoping to reenact our dinner together even though I am alone.

It is preposterous how easily my papercut heart tears.

LOW

Her ex-lover held a blade to her neck, marching her through the hallways towards the end of the pier.

They passed rooms filled with wedding decorations and gifts, strings of red lanterns swaying in the breeze.

Meiyu kept her mouth shut, knowing that any explanation would not be believed.

Instead, she peeled paper from her fingers, all she could reach with her bound hands, scattering them behind her in a breadcrumb trail.

The scraps of paper danced and swirled like cherry blossom petals, all the way to her father’s room.

The first calls of alarm were sounded as her ex-lover pushed her into the boat.

Gongs rang and voices yelled. Her father stumbled from his quarters.

His legs were stiff, bamboo not yet regrown from where he’d lopped it off.

His voice wavered querulously into the night.

It was hard enough for him to know they would be parted after the wedding.

The grief was too great. The heavy thud of his body audible even above the shouts and running feet.

Weifeng’s family had boats and resources to spare.

They chased into the night, but the channels were narrow, and their vessels designed for the open seas.

They could not navigate around the mangrove trees and marshy inlets.

And even when they could, they did not. The union between the two families had not been completed.

There was no profit in carrying on the pursuit, the embarrassment of an absconding bride better to be buried and forgotten.

“They are comparing us to the Butterfly Lovers. The Cowherd and the Weaving Maid. The great love stories,” her ex-lover said.

He did not stop writing, for sleep or food or anything so mundane.

It was his duty to transcribe their story.

Their great love. He came back from the market with tales as if they were gold coins, evidence that he was correct, despite Meiyu reiterating that she no longer loved him.

He was inspired by it: writing couplets in vertical columns, pacing the room as he searched for the right word.

It mattered not that his inspiration spat at him each time he approached, that he tore strips of paper from her tongue each time she spoke against him.

Weeks passed, and Meiyu realised there was only one way out.

She scattered the idea like seeds upon the fertile earth.

A great romance does not end with a happily ever after.

It should end in tragedy. He swallowed the narrative like an ornamental carp, not seeing how small the pond of his imagination truly was.

WILL