VITALITY [BL]

After placing the final item into his suitcase, Yuliang paused, his gaze sweeping across the room that had cradled his entire life for the past seventeen years. The room smelled faintly of old paper, citrus detergent, and the faintest hint of sandalwood incense, the latter drifting up from the small altar downstairs where his grandmother burned it during her evening prayers. The mingling of these scents was so familiar, so deeply ingrained in his sense of home, that he knew he would search for them in every place he would go from now on.

The walls, once vibrant with pinned-up sketches, schedules, and handwritten notes long taken down, seemed to echo with silent memories—late-night study sessions where he sat hunched over textbooks beneath the flickering glow of an aging desk lamp, lazy afternoons sprawled across the creaky wooden floor with books scattered around him, and the rhythmic patter of rain tapping against the window during countless sleepless nights.

Neatly stacked against the far wall, boxes brimmed with old journals and well-thumbed tomes, their spines cracked from years of handling. Every margin bore scribbled notes, half-formed ideas, and the meandering contemplations of a boy who once believed that time was infinite and that anything was possible.

His grandmother had promised to store them away in the attic later, though she was nowhere to be seen this morning. Duty called, as always. She was at the clinic, tending to patients with the same unwavering dedication as always. She hadn't been there when he woke, hadn't been there when he packed, and she would not be there to bid them goodbye.

He had stopped expecting anything different long ago.

Yuliang felt the familiar weight settle in his chest—a mix of disappointment and resignation. He had told himself over and over that it didn't matter. And yet, some foolish part of him had hoped.

His eyes drifted to the bed. Stripped of its blankets and sheets, the wooden frame appeared skeletal, worn down by years of use. The paint had chipped away in patches, revealing raw timber beneath, and one leg leaned slightly inward, a silent testament to a childhood accident neither he nor Yukio had ever confessed to. It had always held firm, though, through restless nights and drowsy mornings, through fevers soothed by whispered lullabies and the quiet companionship of sleepless contemplation.

A soft knock disrupted his thoughts.

"Ready to go?"

Turning, Yuliang found his twin brother, Yukio, leaning casually against the doorframe. Sunlight streaming from the hallway window caught in Yukio's tousled hair, igniting auburn glints through the dark strands. His grin stretched wide, a spark of exhilaration lighting up amber eyes that danced with boyish excitement, barely contained. His well worn denim jacket hung open over a rumpled T-shirt emblazoned with a faded band logo—one of the many shirts Yuliang had mended over the years when Yukio refused to throw them out.

Yuliang's lips twitched. He cast one last glance around the room, committing every worn corner and peeling edge to memory.

"Yeah," he said, voice steady. "I'm ready."

Yukio pushed off the frame, clapping him on the shoulder. "Then let's get out of here before you start getting all..." He wrinkled his nose. "Sentimental."

Yuliang scoffed, rolling his eyes as he grabbed his suitcase, pulling it behind him. The floorboards beneath them creaked with familiar complaint—a symphony of groans and squeaks that had once driven him mad but now hummed with an odd sort of comfort. The air in the hallway carried the mingled aromas of herbal tea, sandalwood incense, and the ever-present antiseptic that seemed to cling to everything his grandmother touched.

Walls lined with faded photographs flickered past: their parents wedding portrait; a younger version of the twins, smeared with birthday cake frosting, their grins lopsided and genuine, their parents holding them close—one of the very few pictures with the four of them together; and a candid shot of their grandmother cradling a tiny, mewling kitten Yukio had dragged home years ago, her expression caught between exasperation and reluctant fondness.

As they descended the narrow staircase, the muted thump of their footsteps filled the small house, blending with the ambient hum of the old refrigerator and the distant chatter of a radio left on somewhere beyond the kitchen. Yukio's voice filled the air, rambling about their journey ahead—the train ride, the people they might meet, the possibilities sprawling out like an uncharted map. Yuliang let the words wash over him, grounding himself in the familiar cadence of his brother's voice.

In the kitchen, the light buzzed softly, casting soft shadows over the worn linoleum floor. On the counter, a chipped ceramic mug sat half-finished, wisps of steam curling upward, dissipating slowly into the morning air. Beside it lay a folded note. Yuliang picked it up, recognizing the looping, slightly shaky script: Good luck, boys. Be brave. Eat well. 

A lump rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.

Yukio grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, biting into it with a crisp crunch. "Bet you ten bucks you cry before we hit the station," he teased around a mouthful.

"Fuck off, Yukio," Yuliang muttered, elbowing him as they stepped outside.

Outside, the world stretched vast and open.

Beyond the small gate, the dirt road unraveled toward the horizon, flanked on both sides by sprawling orchards that had been in the family for generations. Trees stood sentinel, branches heavy with ripening fruit, leaves shimmering under the morning sun. Bees droned lazily in the air, flitting between blossoms. A breeze stirred the grasses, carrying the mingled scents of earth, dew, and the faint tang of citrus from the groves.

Yuliang paused at the threshold, inhaling deeply. The air tasted of endings and beginnings, of soil and sky, of everything they were leaving and everything yet to come. His gaze swept over the house—peeling paint, sagging roof tiles, windows clouded with dust and memory. Home. In all its imperfections, it had been theirs.

The door clicked shut behind them.