Sheung never knew why his grandfather's death left such an ache in his chest. They'd only spoken a few times seriously, when his mother wasn't around to frown—but there had always been something unspoken between them. A quiet understanding. A stillness.
Since the funeral, Sheung had found himself sitting under the stars more often than usual. He didn't talk much. He watched. He noticed things—how the wind curved around the trees, how shadows seemed to follow lines only he could see. His friends joked that he was "spacey," but in truth, Sheung was just always listening for something.
His mother, Elaine, had never approved of anything related to his father's side. She never spoke of his grandfather unless pressed, and even then, only in cold, clipped tones. A white Australian academic, she had once fallen in love with a Chinese man whose world turned out to be far stranger than she ever expected.
When Sheung was five, the arguments began. Words like "danger," "destiny," and "you're not dragging our son into this" were shouted across the house. And then, one day, his father left—and never came back.
Since then, any trace of Chinese culture, especially his father's mysterious beliefs, was quietly removed from their lives. His mother had moved them back to suburban Sydney, intent on building a normal Australian lifestyle for both of them.
But some things refuse to stay forgotten.
On the night of Sheung's sixteenth birthday his mother was busy at work, so he had spent the evening playing online with his friends. His team even sang happy birthday to him through relay chat, which took him by surprise mid-game.
He was awakened from his sleep around twelve o'clock by a rustling coming from under his bed—soft, rhythmic, like wind through parchment. Bending his head over the edge of the bed he looked under it to see what it could be, and saw that a bright but muffled light was glowing through the sides of the brush box.
"What the…." He reached his arm under and pulled out the box. With a sharp crack the lid flipped open, snapping the red string that held it to the leather journal and filling the room with blinding light. As Sheung shielded his eyes, the brush rose slowly into the air on its own. It slowly spun around, as if it was looking for someone.
Having found its target, the brush tip darted forward, touching Sheung gently on the chest. As it did so a flash of golden light erupted from the point of contact.