Hear the cicada, the professor said. Years ago, its mother laid her eggs in the branches of a tree. The larva begins as an innocuous white grain, feeding on the plant’s labor as it grows larger and larger, until it finally burrows into the earth. By then, it has developed a brown layer of armor, its mandibles dexterous, as if tentacles. It’s a hideous thing. Really, it is. One night, after it has fully matured, the ugly creature makes its way up a tree and sheds its armor, revealing a white, translucent alien. The white cicada is truly beautiful; untainted, its fleeting body glows in the dark. Its wings are transparent, sparkling incandescently in the moonlight. But in this form, the cicada is soft and weak, and the hungry birds swoop down to tear the beautiful thing to bits. If it is lucky enough to go unnoticed, it flies into the sky, becoming a pinprick of light that will one day turn into a shooting star. Then, the cats devour the falling star and the cicadas live on forever within them.

As he spoke, I found the professor’s eyes afflicted with an intelligent glimmer, not of hope, but of the mercury in his veins. People like him either changed the world or killed themselves. Every time he spoke of the cicadas, or the flowers, or the stars, his gaze would cloud with wisps of silver. He owned a cat—though it never felt as if he “owned” it. Rather, as far as I knew, the cat was born when the professor was born, and they’d been together ever since. But unlike her academic companion, the cat lacked the lethal glimmer in her eyes. Instead, she possessed an uncanny clearness. Further, she was only awake when the professor was asleep.

Perhaps it was because of his poisonous eyes; to me, the professor always seemed faintly, perpetually exhausted—the ends of his sentences invariably limp, wilting, as it were. He lived on an eroding peninsula jutting out into the salty sea. If the foundation on which his house was built was sound, it owed itself to the plants he grew in the garden, whose roots kept the soil from being taken by the sea. The professor functioned as the apothecary for the town located some miles northerly. Here, in this solitary land, he cultivated all kinds of medicinal plants. As his apprentice, it was my duty to deliver them to the town and care for the plants when permitted.

This is not to say that I enjoyed these outings. I’d much rather spend my days doing nothing. I did not enjoy interacting with people, least of all the townspeople; most of them were not worth getting to know. But according to the professor, people are beautiful, which meant I had to keep trying. This was the worst part. My forced interactions whittled away what remained of my affection for others. I was a young moron (possibly still am, though I like to think not). Dismissing my indolence, the professor continued urging me to go on these outings, despite my resistance, as if I needed the restriction of routine—as if too much freedom could kill me.

I should add that the professor was a pedantic man, to the point of obsession, especially when it came to his garden. But I suppose this was for a good reason; the plants were vital for the town. The professor knew this and took much pride in his work; his life revolved around the maintenance of his garden. He made sure the plants were of high enough quality to produce good medicine, but also made sure they were plentiful so as to prevent his land from dissolving into the sea. Countless varieties of medicinal herbs filled his garden, but at the center of it all, a large magnolia stood, overlooking the plants as if they were her own children.

When the professor wasn’t attending to his garden, he stayed shut inside his study, a room particularly difficult to access for a stranger, given how convoluted the path to it was. Perhaps the maze-like construction of the house was an intentional decision. I suspect this because of an intriguing incident that occurred when I happened upon him in his study unannounced.

When I entered the study, the professor seemed to be poring over some thick text, hunched over his desk. He was in complete focus, his eyes expressing something akin to awe—a rare occurrence for someone like him—so he failed to notice my presence. When he finally did—only after I addressed him multiple times—he abruptly shut his book as if he were reading something lewd, startled, then pretended to move on to some menial task. Curious of his surreptitious studies, when the professor retired for the evening, I snuck into his study to find the thick text I had seen him engrossed in upon first entering the room. The book depicted some flower—supposedly beautiful—its hidden roots known for tearing apart the soil beneath and killing medicinal herbs. I must say, I was very much disappointed by my dull discovery. When I too retired for the day, I noticed over dinner a look of exhaustion in the professor’s features, as if he were tired of resisting some tantalizing force. When the sun set, the darkness swallowed the peninsula whole.

It is a dark night. Very dark. And lonely. A single flower, unique in all the garden, blooms. The flower is fleshy white, its petals soft and plump like fruit from an alien world. The air surrounding the flower is still, frozen in its own realm.

A man stands above the flower. A cat is beside him. The two stare at the flower, dimly glowing in the moonlight. The man’s eyes glisten; a silver afterimage flashes across his pupil. It is the silver glint of a blade’s edge. It is the shimmer of water from a mother’s womb. Indeed, his malaise is an immutable condition. It slowly kills him. He bows down to the flower, grimaces, kisses it once, and uproots it, throwing the corpse into the sea.

The only moments of respite arrived with a woman. She visited every now and then. Their meetings were so mysterious that I often found myself pondering the purpose of her visits. There would be a brief exchange in the parlor, where the fiscal details would be settled. She performed this ritual in the most transactional way; her professional, dry attitude was striking. Her features were faint; it seemed she was half human, half apparition. Accordingly, she walked as if she were drifting, her words wrung dry of emotion. Oddly, I found her apparent emptiness, the abdication of life alluring in the most perverse ways. She was an intelligent, beautiful woman.

After the briefest exchange, the woman would lead the professor into the room designated for these rituals. They sat in opposite chairs, staring into each other. That was their ritual. While insignificant upon first impression, the woman’s empty eyes seemed to be conveying something to the professor: This is how you survive. This is how you do it. But this ritual was difficult for the professor; his muscles would stiffen, as if to keep something inside him from escaping. He’d try over and over to cast off this mysterious force, and fail each time. After struggling for a long while, the professor would eventually fall asleep, and the woman would retire.

Another dark night. Very dark. And lonely. A single flower, unique in all the garden, blooms.

The man standing above the flower is sobbing. The cat is on the roof. She swallows the shooting star that falls into her mouth. She grows stronger with each star, and the man grows weaker. Reluctantly, the man bends down, in pain, still sobbing. He caresses the petals, which excrete a silver residue sparkling in the moonlight, looking almost like mercury. He kisses the flower and uproots it, throwing the corpse into the sea.

In the morning, I informed the exhausted professor of my uneventful delivery. He was quite pleased and took the news with excessive pride, as if attempting to justify something. I’m not sure why this was. Even after my report, his vigor refused to return. He’d look out into the garden through the window and smile softly. The cat slept in the light spilling through the high window, beyond the professor’s reach.

By lunchtime, the professor would invite people from the town to hear the miracles of his medicine. This topic was invariably brought up by the professor himself, and the conversation began to sound like some prideful exposition of his garden. Because the townspeople often brought their children to lunch, the professor would watch them run along the edges of the peninsula, troubled by the erosion even as the children remained oblivious to it.

By then, the professor started developing a herniation on his back. Sometimes, it seemed as if something would burst out of it. It was painful to watch him live his daily life with the new obstruction, so he started taking his own medicine. He also started sleeping on his chest to avoid lying on the protrusion. Before bed, he often asked me to massage the lump, but it was quite stubborn, and it didn’t seem as though it would go away any time soon. On account of his deteriorating health, he began spending more time in bed.

Another dark night. Very dark. But finally, it is not lonely.

A man sleeps, prone on his bed. The lump on his back begins to swell, the skin growing increasingly thin. He does not notice this; he is too weak, too tired. Eventually, his skin gives way, unable to withstand the pressure beneath, and bursts with a sharp pop. From within the man’s wound, a hunched-over flower bud appears, straightening itself toward the ceiling. Despite his rupture, the man wakes, but stays prone, for he has already lost all power to resist. As the flower begins to bloom, the man feels his strength being sucked out of him. He attempts to resist, holding onto the remaining strands of life, but everything must be relinquished.

The flower finally blooms. The man dies a silent death. Its petals are fleshy white, dripping with mercury.

It is the most beautiful thing in the world.

When I found the professor in the morning, he was already dead. Mysteriously, the cat was too. There was no sign of struggle. He died silently. In fact, he wore a soft smile. The lump was gone. I buried them both in the garden, beneath the old magnolia.

I walked out into the luscious garden. The wind carried the laughter of children. The leaves of the magnolia rustled softly, as if teaching the cicadas how to fly. That night, they cried incessantly. It was a cool, breezy night. Perched on the magnolia, I found a white cicada in the midst of molting. Gently, I picked the cicada off the tree. As the professor said, its body was as pure as the moon, a glowing white mass. It cried in fear as I held it between my fingers. I caressed its wings to let it know I would do no harm.

When it stopped crying, I took its wings between my fingers and slowly tore them off, one by one. Even its blood was white. It screeched while I mutilated it. This way, it wouldn’t fly off into the sky and get itself eaten. Its wings, as the professor said, were perfectly limpid, much like the cat’s eyes and the stars she ate. They sparkled like magic.

I took the wings and placed them on my tongue. Swallowed. They dissolved, sparkling as they traveled down, turning into beads of mercury.

I set the flightless cicada on the ground where it would be safe. The cicada screeched all the while, mourning its freedom and crawling in pain. Of all the things I could have done, I chose only to watch the pitiful creature with love—a love so deep it could kill me.

Last modified on 2026-03-25