MLitt Art Writing School of Fine Art
Yuxin Wu
Yuxin Wu is a passionate writer and graphic designer, dedicated to exploring and reinventing the narrative techniques of fairy tales and folklore. Her creative inspiration stems from the mysterious stories of rural China. Through text and illustration, she creates worlds with imagination. She enjoys employing metaphors that blend sadness and humour, infusing her stories with deep emotion and absurdity.
She got a bachelor’s degree in visual communication design from the Central Academy of Fine Arts in China, and is currently pursuing a master’s degree in Art Writing at the Glasgow School of Art.
When I Leave
When I Leave is a collection of folk and fairy tales based on rural legends. Inspired by my grandmother’s oral stories about family history, I combined my childhood memories, romanticism imagination, and the writing techniques of ancient Chinese tales of the strange (Zhiguai) to create six stories about various fantastical creatures and people. These stories explore themes of familial love, romantic love, desire, the boundaries of existence and reality, and the impact of political eras on individuals, discussing about life’s dilemmas. The book can be considered as a picture book, in the design of the illustrations, I learnt the traditional printmaking method of the southern countryside and the monster style from the “Classic of Mountains and Seas,” along with graphic design techniques, creating black and white Linocut prints.
It’s terrifying; being a caterpillar can easily lead to death, especially one with the heart of a little girl. But how was I to survive? There are no schools in the world of caterpillars, and as a butterfly, I knew nothing of what I needed to know to survive. So, I tried to learn from other butterflies or caterpillars, but only when I awkwardly made my way to a large leaf crowded with caterpillars did I realize I couldn’t speak.
I was a caterpillar, a caterpillar without language, and so I bounced in panic on the leaf. I don’t know if other caterpillars have thoughts, perhaps they do, or maybe I was the only caterpillar in the world with thoughts!
This speculation terrified me; my caterpillar body stiffened, and I followed them to gnaw at leaves, not even knowing if they could see me.
Can caterpillars see other caterpillars?
——— The Butterfly
“I see the universe in the high-speed motion, in the endless passage of time. To us, ordinary creatures on Earth, it appears as the slow of the moon. All of this tells us something, guess what? “
And with my eyes full of tears, I was so salty, like a chef knocking over a salt shaker. Oh, I was saltier than the seawater. So, I bid farewell to the oyster.
Before that woman wanted to die , I threw this oyster back to the shore.
——— Sad Oyster
But the round powder foundation was a cold metallic shell, and the moon a warm mosquito-repellent lamp. Meihua’s eighteenth summer was a sudden mix of chill and heat, her heart tight then loose, some words almost choked out then swallowed back, forcing out a tear or two. Her dreams were filled with the chief’s son, his handsome, young face, and his educated Mandarin—so fashionable, so respectable! And recalling that man’s body-shape , those perfectly round buttocks.
Then, house after house, there was uninterrupted, giggling laughter. The flatbread seller was extremely ashamed, standing on the riverbank all day, furiously cursing Meihua, calling her shameless for daring to be intimate with a man with such an incomplete body. He recalled his fear when he touched the half of her buttocks bitten by the shark and the other half, too lush and soft, shining under the light like the belly of a fish, his body instantly heating up again.
Meihua later disappeared in the river—the one she most feared—on a misty autumn morning. Wearing a blue coat and with her hair done up like a married woman, she walked towards the river, humming the shrill tunes of countryside weddings, turning the originally festive, fragmented, intense, leaping, blood-red melodies into a long, mournful flow, trickling across the grey-white reed-covered land.
——— The Shark and The Woman
The woman of this house, from the other city, liked to curse in a dialect unknown to the villagers. The Snow face cream she sold carried a hint of rose, her large eyes and pointed chin accentuated by her high, slightly green-tinted eyebrows. She favored wearing short cheongsams that clung to her voluptuous legs, adorned with the embroidery of colorful floral prints, dazzling even in daylight. During the daytime, she always sit behind the glass counter of the store, tallying accounts or losing herself in Taiwanese romance novels.
The man from the Red House had crashed into his own stone well, his blood mingling with the well water, staining the rope red. The woman screamed and ran out of the Red House. The man probably died instantly, but Little Duck did not. Everyone saw—doctors, neighbors, the health clinic staff—as dozens of large ducks crowded around Little Duck, their wings spread wide like a bed, lifting him and rushing him to the village health clinic.
Little Duck continued with his duck egg business, living with his ducks by the crematorium, where the burning of bodies sometimes filled the air, and the crackling of bones lulled him to sleep. He no longer used that mobile phone, having sold it back to the store at half price. Sometimes, I watched him driving the ducks into the lake with a reed longer than his arm, the ducks quacking loudly, their cries supporting Old Duck. He had grown old; the wrinkles on his skin marked his increasing sadness, no longer able to sing along with the ducks.
He sat silently by the riverbank, watching the distant lake tinged with the bloody hue of the sunset, as flocks of ducks chased each other, heading eastward.
——— Little Duck
This time she carried a basket of fruit, walking proudly and joyfully ahead of me. Compared to before, she now had a trace of aged frailty in her moments of distraction, but the bamboo-woven basket was so vibrantly red. It contained equally bright, dyed, and waxed apples, with the edge tightly wrapped in several rounds of gaudy but rough plastic gold ribbon. She originally wanted me to carry it, but I was reluctant, feeling that the prickly gold would hurt my hands.
I thought the old man might not live much longer because the fruit basket was expensive, and my grandma only bought such for relatives in the hospital who didn’t have long to live.
” I was terrified then. It stood up, much taller than an adult man. Maybe the lion had been eaten by it? It was terrifying — the lion ate people, and the donkey ate the lion. I was sweating coldly in fear. But the donkey did not eat me, and the lion soon walked in from outside the cave. I stood between them, nearly scared to death, and I wet myself. It’s embarrassing to admit now, but you can’t imagine how frightening those two creatures were to a child.
They didn’t eat me. Instead, they told me that they had some gold hidden in another city. They were leaving, maybe never to return. The lion said if I wanted, I could go dig behind the wall of the statue in the Temple there, and if I found the treasure, I could become the wealthiest person in our village.”
The lion taught the old man a song. I remember how it goes to this day:
There’s a yellow sun in the lamp,
A blue moon in the sun.
The handsome lion fell in love with the beautiful donkey,
Her long eyelashes so tenderly enchanting,
Her broad lips symbolizing desire.
The handsome lion fell in love with the beautiful donkey.
They made love under the hundred and fortieth star,
They swore vows under the hundred and fiftieth star,
They parted under the hundred and sixtieth star.
You ask me why,
It’s so so so so simple,
Because one was a lion,
And the other a donkey.
——— The Lion and The Donkey
The Story of Quiet Prince
The Story of Quiet Prince follows a traditional and classic fairy tale structure, including some elements commonly found in Western fairy tales which is a prince, a castle, an emperor, adventures, a white feather, a shepherd boy, a hunter, and friendly animals. These elements are drawn from the classic, formulaic characters typical of the fairy tales I read in my childhood.
01 Quiet Prince
In the tumultuous and joyous kingdom, the Quiet Prince lived, hidden away in his palace throughout the year.
Here, flowers were screaming, stones were arguing, and white clouds would snore. People resembled chattering, self-playing clocks, with each passing
hour marked by a singing lark flying out from their hearts.
Yet, the Quiet Prince’s heart did not tell time, and he didn’t have a lark. He encircled his palace with walls as tall as tens of thousands of larks, choosing the quietest stones in the kingdom. He used a special potion to silence the entire forest, sealing off his windows.
Despite these efforts, the deafening silence of the palace echoed, he could still hear the incessant noise, the wondrous music of the kingdom as others described.
The lonely prince had no friends; other children were afraid of his silent palace. The sorrowful prince had no friends because the walls emitted the scent of death like coffins.
They said the prince was a child made of the sourest wood.
The prince’s hair was thorny. The prince’s heart was a pit.
The prince’s only friends were the books left behind by the deceased king and queen. They taught the little prince to read poetry, draw grids, and explore geometric shapes – triangles, rectangles, circles.
They learned about the calculations of area and volume, learned Math and philosophy. Eventually, the clever prince understood how this beautiful planet operated, understood the changing seasons weren’t gifts from the divine, the insects’ chirps concealed a melancholic language, and he even learned how to soar into the sky and dive into the ocean.
He was in this corner of thought, in this forever pale and vast place, where there was no dust, nor a trace of shadow brought by the sun, and by three in the afternoon, it became as beautiful as a groggy equilateral triangle.
The prince liked the perfect 60-degree angle, and the remote and desolate scent in the books, ancient poems cradled his heart like a lullaby, he could not see the children playing outside the castle, nor understand the slang of the kingdom’s streets.
But eventually, one day, the prince finished all the books, but in the farthest corner of the bookshelf, he found a piece of paper with a mathematical problem written on it.
The prince began to think, and the clock of death also began to toll, he crossed out one number after another on the scratch paper, his penmanship was so full of life, as if a blade was falling in another world, as devout as looking for the most suitable sacrifice, because the more numbers he killed, the closer he was to the answer.
As the prince killed the last number, the bell tolled three times.
A beautiful spirit emerged,——a smooth 3 wrapped in a silvery shell, resembling the wings of a perfectly symmetrical butterfly.
“Oh young prince, your royal highness, where do you wish to go? What do you want to get? ”
“I seek a way to make my kingdom quiet.”
“The handsome prince tolls the bell, ” sacrificing the number 3,
“The noble prince rings the bell, a guide unravels the riddle,
He desires his kingdom to cease its singing, without realizing how arduous that would be.
Beneath the song of 3 by 3, flocks of 6 by 6 do fly,
The prince must find the whitest feathers offer to the emperor of the world Three.”
After finishing the song, the silvery messenger bowed to him.
The prince watched as the messenger vanished, revealing a beautiful forest, from which thirty-six neatly arranged gray pigeons flew in.
“They are not entirely white.” The prince sighed.
“Gray pigeons, as gray as coal. Foolish prince, as foolish as coal.” A sharp childlike voice responded.
“Who are you?” the prince asked.
“I am the field mouse.” The field mouse emerged from the grass, dressed in an ill-fitting denim outfit, resembling a factory worker returning from toil.
“I am the prince.” The little prince politely replied.
“I know you are the prince; in your blue eyes, there’s the foolish nobility. I know you need a white feather to offer to the most ruthless emperor in this world. Come, use this slingshot, shoot those ugly pigeons. When gray pigeons weep, feathers turn white. Ride on that feather, whisper your little secret, and it will take you to the emperor.”
The field mouse handed the prince a slingshot made of stones and wood. In the world of numbers, stones and wood didn’t speak. It was the first time the
prince encountered such silent objects.
But the prince couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“No, I cannot kill pigeons.” The timid prince cried for the books had also taught him kindness.
“Terrible prince, unable to kill pigeons. Cowardly prince, unable to kill pigeons. Useless prince, unable to kill pigeons. Is the prince meant to kill pigeons, or are pigeons meant to kill the prince?”
The field mouse sang persistently, an excellent baritone.
“You cannot kill pigeons, yet you can kill numbers. Is it because numbers cannot sing? You are a prince who likes quiet!” the mouse sang an entire chapter, summarizing it.
The prince had no answer; there were many things he couldn’t answer.
The kind field mouse gave him a pocket watch with only an hour’s hand.
“Watch this clock, and when the hand points north, you’ll start dreaming. If someone asks you in your dream, what is one plus one, just answer 3, and you will get what you desire.”
“But how should I set it?” The prince asked the field mouse. “As long as I turn this watch, look, it’s pointing north now.” Before he could hear the field
mouse’s answer, he fell into a deep sleep. On the first day, the little prince dreamed that he was a shepherd boy, working for the squire before dawn. Leading the sheep to find fertile grass, he danced with the sheep on the field.
The sheep had four legs, while the prince had only two. They danced the waltz with three-beat steps—a strenuous endeavor: one beat, two beats, three beats, four beats. By nightfall, the prince could only obtain a cold, sour, and hard black bread.
Kacha, kacha, Kacha , He attempted to chew.
“I want some cream.” Angrily, he rushed into the squire’s dining room, finding only butter.
“I want some cream, not butter.”
“What is one plus one?” The squire asked.
The prince couldn’t answer, for he believed one plus one equaled two.
“What is one plus one?” The squire asked again.
Again, the prince had no answer.
“I cannot give you a feather; feathers belong to the hunter. Come back tomorrow to see me.” The squire replied.
So, the hungry prince walked into the forest, knocking on the hunter’s door.
“I need a white feather, the whitest in the world.” The prince asked the hunter.
“I can give you one, but I want your lie in return.” The hunter answered.
However, the little prince never lied; the books had also taught him honesty.
As night fell, the honest prince slept deeply in the squire’s barn.
On the second day, the clock’s hand pointed south, and this time, he dreamt of becoming a sheep in the flock. The shepherd boy was another irresponsible youth, so not only did the flock not graze on fertile grass, but they also encountered a wolf.
“Please don’t eat me; I am the prince from a distant and noble kingdom.” The prince-sheep begged the hungry wolf.
“I don’t know any prince, but if you want me not to eat you, you must tell me, what is one plus one?”The wolf said but the young prince could not answer.
So the angry wolf wanted to devour him in one bite, but the hunter appeared, and his arrow slew the wolf.
“Respected hunter, thank you for saving me. Please, give me a white feather.”
“I can give you one, but I want your lie in return.” The hunter replied.
But the little prince never lied.
So once again, the hunter rejected the prince’s plea for help.
With the complete darkness descending, the frightened prince slept deeply in the squire’s barn.
On the third day, the clock’s hand pointed east, and this time, he dreamt of becoming the squire himself. Upon waking up, servants brought black tea, buttered bread, and milk on a silver tray.
Finally sated, the prince joyfully ordered the servant to summon the forest hunter.
“The lord demands you surrender the white feather!” The servant disdainfully glanced at the hunter——the entire forest belonged to the squire.
The prince still couldn’t answer.
“My lord, please quickly punish this insolent hunter.” The servant angrily handed over the braid.
The kind prince, instead of blaming the hunter, generously gifted him a new bow and arrow.
By evening, the irresponsible shepherd boy lost his sheep again.
The prince didn’t blame the boy, instead, he generously provided him with a hearty meal.
So, the shepherd lad happily performed a dance for him.
At night, the prince slept on a velvet bed, and numerous little lambs danced in his dreams.
On the fourth day, the clock’s hand pointed south, and this time, he dreamt of becoming the rejected hunter. He feverishly searched the hunter’s cabin, attempting to find the feather.
But as he searched from dawn till night, at the brink of almost falling asleep again due to exhaustion, the young prince cried in desperation. His tears flowed across the rough skin of the hunter, and to his astonishment, he discovered that his body had transformed into a gray dove.
And those feathers touched by tears, as if soaked in the dawn’s light, grew increasingly bright, ultimately turning into a color reminiscent of ivory gemstones hanging high in the sky at sunrise. They were so pure, so smooth, surpassing even the teeth of his mother in his memory.
Even within his royal palace, he had never seen jewels more immaculate than these feathers.
Painfully, the prince bit off the feather with his beak.
The ruthless hunter turned out to be a pigeon; the prince couldn’t help but shed another tear, perhaps for the hunter. The books had also taught him about compassion. Upon waking up, the prince, riding on the feather, flew to the world’s quietest country.
The prince marveled at this world, so different from his homeland. Here, everyone seemed to exude serene smiles, contentedly engaging in their work. Most importantly, even when not working, they neither spoke nor sang; they simply gazed at each
other in tranquility.
The feather carried him over the church, where a priest recited hymns in a low voice, elegantly waving a finely crafted silver staff. Each waving caused those seated to turn a page of their scripture.
The feather carried him over a school where every child wore a silver cape. The smiles on their faces were as elegant as the crescent moon’s arc at month’s end. They walked hand in hand to class, then dispersed in the classroom, each child appearing like a perfectly assembled and bright doll.
The feather carried him over a hospital, where patients smiled, and those who lost loved ones also smiled. They pushed bodies draped in white cloth into a small room, then smiled while bringing newborns out. However, newborns did not smile; they cried a mournful cry, just like newborns in the prince’s homeland.
As if they had just died.
Finally, the feather brought him to a white palace, the rumored emperor standing on steps reaching a daunting nine hundred and ninety-nine layers. Joyously, the child emperor welcomed the young prince.
The prince gazed in astonishment at the emperor before him, who was tall. Even through the stairs, he could see his face – a child’s face of innocence.
Apart from newborns, he was the only one not smiling. He laughed, dressed in a robe woven with silver threads. Even the edges of his clothes were entirely silver, and he wore a cloak with noble white fox fur on his broad shoulders.
The emperor’s scepter held firmly in his jewel-adorned right hand, featured a ruby the size of a quail egg. This palace nestled amidst a kingdom predominantly silver-white, including the palace itself, crafted as if from sculpted snow.
“Respected Majesty, I am a prince from the Joyous Kingdom, and I come to present to you the purest feathers in the world,” the prince declared. The attendant at the steps received the feather, while the young emperor paid it no attention.
Instead, he withdrew a variety of gemstones from the scepter, and then picked an inconspicuous small ruby, offering it to the prince.
“In these icy beads lies a divine enchantment, the secret to the empire’s happiness. Inlay it upon your scepter, and it shall fulfill your every desire, aid in shaping your subjects, granting you a kingdom as perfect as mine,” he proclaimed.
“How does it do that? It’s such remarkable magic,” exclaimed the prince. He was perplexed by the small red ruby and how it could possibly connect to the mysteries of the universe, leveraging its power to transform a kingdom. He couldn’t fathom it.
“It’s quite simple,” the emperor replied with a wider smile.
“This gem will grant your scepter infinite power. You can execute any disobedient citizen, enact any law you desire. This means you can reshape any kingdom to your liking.” The emperor solved the prince’s puzzle and, instead of leaving the feather, gifted it to him as a tool for his journey home.
The quiet prince didn’t respond. He took the red ruby bead, and the emperor of the empire blessed him.
02 The Song of the Feather
It was a journey home far longer and more distant than the journey there.
For they flew against the natural east wind,
Passing the time it takes for countless roses to bloom and fade,
Enough for thirty thousand pigeons to fly from spring to autumn.
But the feather and the prince were tireless.
They encountered birds,
They encountered mountains,
They crossed deep grey seas,
They listened to monks’ prayers at dawn,
The temple bells clashing with the souls of pilgrims,
Their incidental dandelion seeds,
Already scattered in foreign gardens with unfamiliar tongues.
And during this lonely journey, the feather began to speak to the prince.
“I am a feather from a dove, a white dove born in an eastern land. It was the best and most beautiful in its group. The noble of the eastern kingdom who nurtured it and its family had a very elegant and noble daughter.
She would release the trained doves every morning to observe their trajectories in the sky and bring them food – sometimes rice, sometimes millet, sometimes meat.
Everything was fine until one day, the dove fell in love with the young lady, developing unrealistic fantasies, an obsession with becoming human.”
“Can a dove become human?” asked the prince.
The feather sighed, its voice barely perceptible, as delicate as an autumn leaf on soft earth disturbed by a rabbit.
“In theory, yes. In the mystical East, there are many such legends, such stories. Foxes, cats, or even conches can become human, but they almost always become women, for they easily fall in love with men. But the dove wanted to be a man, which is unheard of in these stories, rare even among spirits. So, the dove was extremely distressed and one morning, during the routine flight, it broke away from the group and escaped the noble’s estate.”
“How sad. So how did it succeed, I mean, it later became the hunter I met, right?” The curious prince, always attentive, inquired.
“It flew away. In doing so, the guards of the estate wounded one of its legs, who were once its best friends.”
“Where did it fly to then?”
“It was an extraordinary dove, the farthest flyer of its group. Even wounded, it reached a mystical island in the sea, where wise sages lived, capable of turning stones into spirits. The poor dove begged them to help it transform into a handsome young man. The sages said they couldn’t help frivolously, as gifts not earned are seldom cherished, especially beauty so easily granted, which often leads to traditional tragedies, like those in ancient verses. The dove didn’t understand the sage’s teachings, but it didn’t give up. Every day it brought the most beautiful peach from the island to the sage’s altar.
Day after day, almost to the point of exhaustion, on the three hundred and sixtieth day, it moved the sages and was granted the magic to become a handsome young man, along with the gift of eternal youth.”
“‘Now that you’re immortal, why leave the island to chase an elusive love?’ the sages asked on the day the handsome young man was leaving.
‘Because I fell in love with a beautiful lady. I came for her, and I should return to her.’
So the handsome young man embarked on his journey home, forgetting he could no longer soar in the sky. How would he cross the sea? Confident, he chopped wood to build a raft, using large banana leaves for sails.
He gathered enough fruit for ten days and set off.”
“He finally became human, then what? Did he win the lady’s love? Or not, it’s usually one or the other,” the prince remarked, recalling similar stories he had read.
“In fact, nothing happened. He didn’t realize that becoming human, no longer the most agile of doves, would make traversing the same landscapes so time-consuming. By the time he returned, the lady had already died of old age.
You see, in this adventure, he forgot about time. I guess that’s why the sages granted him immortality.
After her death, he became utterly despondent and went to another kingdom’s forest to become a hunter. Over the years, he aged. When you saw him, he was no longer a handsome young man—it’s a story about time.”
“What a sad story,” said the prince to the feather.
The feather fell silent, and they quietly flew over a landmass.
“Why did the hunter ask me what one plus one equals?” The prince, ever curious, couldn’t help asking after crossing a river.
“That’s not the point. Living in someone else’s story, he serves that story. He’s part of it, like actors playing servants in a play. They may not be real servants, but their status isn’t high either,” the wise feather elongated its words.
The prince wasn’t fully satisfied with the answer but didn’t know how to argue. Perhaps it was a story where one plus one equals three, or perhaps it was the emperor’s story, and he himself an odd intruder.
“So what does one plus one equal?” he suddenly asked the feather.
“Two,” the feather replied without hesitation.
“Because now I’m in your story, and I must follow your rules. We feathers are the world’s most rule-abiding group, drifting with specific monsoons to specific places. That’s the destiny of a feather.”
It added somewhat melancholically.
“There’s another song of the feather:
Sad feather, you’ve grown old,
We’ll bury you
with the wind,
To the north lies the honeysuckle,
To the south, the passion rose,
To the east, the jasmine,
To the west, the iris.
Sad feather, you’ve grown old,
No longer can you discern the direction,
Only to be carried by the wind,
By the unpredictable, free-spirited wind,
To an unknown grave you’ll be laid to rest.”
Hearing this, the prince felt an inexplicable sadness but remained silent. Lying quietly on the feather, his thoughts drifted to a long-gone farm. “I never thought that characters in these stories had their own stories,” he thought to himself.
Finally, when the sole hand of his pocket watch pointed to three in the afternoon for the thirteenth time, the prince returned to his palace.
The castle walls outside were unusually quiet. Looking down from the rooftop, the prince saw that the children who once refused
to play with him no longer remembered him—they had grown up, or become too old.
“Now I understand the dove’s story. We forgot about time; it isn’t equally fair to everyone,” the prince murmured to himself.
The nightingale, too, had forgotten him. The complex concepts about time he had read in books weren’t so useful after all. He recalled a story from the East about a woodcutter who, after watching a game of chess played by immortals, returned home to find that a hundred years had passed on Earth and all his loved ones were gone.
The prince never liked this story because he found it too sad and lonely.
“I have been away for too long.”
Like the dove, like the woodcutter, the prince lowered his head, sitting despondently on his throne. Yet, his palace was as neat and bright as ever, as if he had never left. The scroll that led him to the number three lay unrolled on the floor—the puzzle solved.
Just as he was unsure of what to do next, with three heavy knocks, the field mouse appeared again, still in those jeans.
The mouse had aged, that was evident, but his mind was still sharp,
“You finally got the ruby, child. Now you can fulfill your wish,” the mouse said to the prince.
“I’m not sure what my wish is, Mr. Mouse. Do you think I should use the gem to make my kingdom the quietest place in the world?” the prince pondered, looking around as joyful bird songs still came from outside.
“I don’t know, Your Highness. It’s for you to decide. I’m too tired, and I have many children to feed at home. I can’t keep making decisions for you. Today is my great-great-great-grandson’s birthday! But damn it, it’s my duty, I mean, my role is to be the mouse! I regret giving you that damned watch!” Mr. Mouse was as irritable as ever.
“What are you hesitating for, my dear prince?”
Number Three appeared behind the mouse, even more polished and beautiful than before, its proud head shining with moonlight, its agile body marked by traces of rain. Its voice was as distant and proud as a mountain, saying:
“If you embed the ruby in your scepter, your subjects will no longer be able to sing, even the mermaids will lose their proud voices, and ships at sea will no longer get lost. If you put the gem in your scepter, your garden will no longer sing, even the loudest snapdragons will cease their arguments, and earthworms will no longer fear their temperamental neighbors.”
But the prince’s eyelashes trembled, and white dust, like remnants of inferior chalk, whirled in his heart, enveloping his fleeting illusion like the Milky Way. Then he thought of the excited flowers and the restless deep nights, and he couldn’t help but shed tears.
“Mermaids want to sing, ships may be destined to lose their way, and earthworms willingly die under the flowers they love. What right do I have to change all this just because I am a prince who likes quiet?” For the first time, the prince thought this way, but his heart was still in agony.
“If you’re unwilling to do anything to them, then choose to grow up. Growing up is always painful. Time will strip you of your nobility, your titles, and take you away from the story centered around you. But by swallowing that red bead, you will hear nothing, see nothing, and your world will be as quiet as a painting,” the wise mouse told the prince, then impatiently tapped the ground three times and completely vanished from the palace.
That night, the prince, having chosen to swallow the ruby, wept into his pillow. The music of the kingdom gradually faded away, and henceforth one plus one could equal everything.
But for the first time, the prince understood the flowers, the stones, and the larks in his dreams.
This is the story of the Quiet Prince.
