On the covered walkway near home that leads to the train station, there were often young people busking — solo guitarists and singers, or small bands of three or four. There were also the old-school uncles with their portable speakers belting out nostalgic Cantopop. Shy as I am, I find it embarrassing to watch anyone perform in public, let alone perform myself. Whether the music was good or bad, I’d always walk past with my head down and never dare drop a single coin.
One evening I was on my way home from the train station. I don’t know whether the carriage had been too crowded or the air too stale, but I stepped off feeling dizzy. It had started raining, which deepened my panic. I made it to the walkway, and my steps started to falter. There were three groups performing along the walkway, their sounds blending and bouncing off the walls. I pressed my hands over my ears and pushed through the crowd, barely making it to the far end — only to find I’d forgotten my umbrella. Desperate to get away, I stepped out into the rain anyway, into the dim street.
In a corner no one would notice, a girl stood in a lemon-yellow raincoat, holding a matching lemon-yellow guitar, singing in a high, sharp voice. The yellow was an odd colour for a raincoat, and over her left eye she wore a cloth eyepatch. My legs seemed to catch on something and I stopped in front of her. She was summoning me, it seemed — I had no choice but to respond. I noticed she was singing in a strange language I didn’t understand. Stranger still: I understood every word.
She was singing in a voice barely able to breathe, a song about being unable to breathe. Toward the end, she was gasping, her voice ragged, her face going purple, swaying left and right as if she might collapse. I rushed forward to steady her and got her sitting on the edge of a nearby planter. She pointed at her backpack on the ground; I picked it up — it was impossibly heavy. Inside was a giant canister that looked like a fire extinguisher, with a tube connected to the top. She took the tube and sucked from it hard. After a moment her colour came back and she recovered.
It was only then I noticed I’d been standing in the rain the whole time and was soaked through. The girl stood up, took off her raincoat, and put it on me. Under it she was wearing a deep blue sailor-style school uniform. Up close I could see she was a girl in her teens — small, with a full, lively face, her uncovered right eye sharp and bright. She began speaking in that language I didn’t know but understood completely, telling me she was from Lemon Star and had come to bring a message to the people of Earth. She had studied many methods and learned that Earthlings liked a form of street performance called busking — expressing thoughts through song. She had learned this form, hoping to communicate directly with people. But no Earthlings could understand the language of Lemon Star, so no matter how hard she sang until her voice gave out, she got no response. Being an outsider, she couldn’t claim a good spot, and ended up singing in an unnoticed corner. She also added that I was her first and only audience.
I was soaked through — the raincoat was too late to help — and I was shivering continuously. But the girl clearly needed me, and I didn’t want to leave. I asked: “Why are you singing a song about oxygen deprivation? Even if someone could understand, it’s not exactly an appealing subject.” The girl adjusted her eyepatch and said: “Because Lemon Star is a planet running out of oxygen. My people have been dying one by one. We will soon cease to exist.” I was shocked. “So you came to ask Earth for help?” She waved it away and said: “No, it’s too late for us. There’s nothing you can do. I came to warn you not to become like Lemon Star.” I was even more baffled: “You mean Earth will also die?” She said matter-of-factly: “No planet survives forever. All of them end the same way.” I asked: “So what’s your advice?” She pointed to the canister and said: “Stock up on oxygen tanks.” I was disheartened. “Why so negative?” She disagreed firmly: “Oxygen tanks are a great invention.” She took another pull from the tube as if tasting something delicious and nutritious, and looked satisfied.
I pushed back: “Isn’t there something more active than making oxygen tanks?” The girl suddenly laughed: “You actually said something optimistic! That’s rare.” I said: “What do you mean? You don’t know me.” She narrowed her one eye: “I’ve known you for a long time. Because you’re the same kind of person as me.” I thought she was getting stranger and stranger, and said: “How could I be anything like you? We’re completely opposite.” She looked mysterious and said: “Opposites are the same. You’re from Lemon Star too. You’re my reflection.” This person was clearly either a con artist or mentally unwell. I started to regret stopping.
I stood up to take off the raincoat and leave. Then a wave of dizziness knocked me straight to the ground. Now she was the one helping me up, sitting me down on the planter. She looked at me with one concerned eye and said: “Looks like you’re running out of oxygen too. Here — breathe.” She held the tube out to my lips. I didn’t hesitate for a second. Like someone who has waited far too long for a drop of rain, I breathed in, hard and deep. A freshness entered me, slowly reviving the parts that had dried up and died. I felt full of life; my mind cleared. The girl smiled with satisfaction. She said: “I think my reason for coming to Earth has now been fulfilled. I’ve found my successor. Remember — you are a child of Lemon Star. The mission of reviving Lemon Star is now yours.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but a happiness rose up inside me. I breathed in the oxygen greedily, and with each breath the girl’s body seemed to shrink slightly, like a deflating balloon. At the very end, she disappeared entirely, leaving only a folded sailor uniform on the ground, and the white eyepatch. I folded the uniform and put it in the backpack, picked up the eyepatch, put it over my left eye, and pulled the raincoat hood up. I picked up the lemon-yellow guitar, strummed a few chords, and then, in that language I didn’t know but understood, standing in the rainy street, I began to sing the song about oxygen.
For Sanketsu Shōjo Sayuri (1996–2024), forever in our hearts.
SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:
Translated from the Chinese original with Claude
Picture generated with Midjourney