"The List of Stars"

Mei never understood why grief felt so heavy. It was as if her whole body had turned to lead, and each step she took was a struggle to lift herself from the ground. It had been six months since her father passed, and the world hadn’t stopped for even a moment to let her catch her breath. The same routine, the same bus rides, the same emptiness. She thought she’d feel better by now, but every corner of their little house reminded her of him—especially his room.

One rainy afternoon, while she was clearing out his things, she found an old, leather-bound journal wedged between two dusty books. The journal felt warm in her hands, its cover smooth and worn, as though it had been held and opened countless times. Her fingers traced the faint initials J.H., her father's name, before she flipped it open to the first page.

In bold, loopy handwriting, the words "Stars to Visit" stared back at her. Beneath the title, there was a list:

1. The Warm Sea
2. The Quiet Mountain
3. The Blooming Garden
4. The Gentle River
5. The Endless Bridge

Mei’s eyebrows knitted together. They didn’t seem like places she had ever heard of, and certainly not places her father would have visited. She wondered if it was one of his little projects, one of those strange, whimsical things he used to come up with that always made her laugh. But he was gone now, and this list was all she had left of that whimsical part of him. She scanned the rest of the journal, but the pages were blank, as if her father had written those words and then forgotten about them.

But maybe, she thought, he hadn’t forgotten. Maybe it was a list he never got the chance to finish. And maybe, just maybe, it was her job to finish it for him.

The next morning, Mei made a decision. She took a deep breath, shoved the journal into her bag, and boarded the early bus to town. She didn’t have much of a plan, but she knew where she needed to start: at the old, quaint bookshop on the corner of Pine Street. The place was one of her father’s favorite spots, and she figured if anyone would know about strange places like The Warm Sea, it would be Mr. Barrett, the shop’s owner.

The bell above the door jingled softly as she stepped inside, and the familiar scent of old paper and ink washed over her. Mr. Barrett, a man with wispy white hair and a round, kind face, glanced up from behind the counter.

“Mei! It’s been a while. How are you?” he said, his voice warm and gentle, like a comforting cup of tea.

“I’m… managing,” she replied, offering a small smile. “I need your help with something.” She pulled out the journal and showed him the list. “Have you heard of these places? They sound like… I don’t know, metaphors.”

Mr. Barrett’s eyes twinkled as he read the list. “Ah, metaphors, indeed. Your father had a poetic soul. But these are more than just words, Mei. They’re stories—experiences, I would say.”

“Experiences?” Mei repeated, her curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Mr. Barrett began, “the Warm Sea might not be a physical place you can find on a map, but it could be a feeling, a memory, something that evokes warmth, comfort, or a sense of belonging. Perhaps a journey that leads you to such a place is what your father intended.”

Mei looked at the list again. “So, it’s not about traveling to a place. It’s about finding something that feels like that place,” she mused.

“Exactly,” Mr. Barrett said with a smile. “Your father was quite the dreamer, wasn’t he?”

Mei felt a pang in her chest. “He was,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Then I think you already know where to begin,” Mr. Barrett said, handing the journal back to her. “It’s about rediscovering those moments, Mei. The ones that made him who he was. Maybe, along the way, you’ll find out a bit more about yourself too.”

The following Saturday, Mei decided to begin her journey. She started with the Warm Sea, a concept that left her puzzled and curious. She wondered where she would find warmth and comfort, the kind that would make her feel like she was floating, just as a warm sea would. She thought back to the last time she felt truly at peace—before everything had changed.

It was a chilly afternoon in autumn, about a year ago. Her father had taken her to a small café by the river, a place that was always bustling with life, laughter, and the smell of freshly baked pastries. They had sat by the window, sharing a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, while her father told her about the stars. “You know, Mei, there are stars you can’t see with your eyes,” he had said. “They’re hidden, but they’re there, just waiting to be discovered.”

She decided to return to that café, hoping to find a fragment of that warmth she remembered. When she arrived, she saw that nothing had changed. The same old chairs, the same little chalkboard sign outside welcoming visitors, and even the same sweet aroma of pastries filled the air. Mei ordered a hot chocolate and found a seat by the window, just like before.

As she sipped the drink, she closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her hands. She could almost hear her father’s voice, feel the gentle squeeze of his hand on hers. A soft smile tugged at her lips, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something other than emptiness—she felt comfort. Maybe, she thought, this was her Warm Sea.

Over the next few weeks, Mei continued her journey, marking off each “star” on the list. Each place, each experience, seemed to lead her closer to understanding the message her father had left behind. At The Quiet Mountain, she found herself hiking up a small hill near her town, where she could sit and watch the sunrise, feeling the stillness of the early morning envelop her like a blanket. She’d never noticed how serene it was, how the world seemed to hold its breath as the sky lit up in colors she never thought could exist outside of a painting. It was quiet, peaceful—she realized then that the mountain wasn’t about isolation, but about finding peace within herself.

One morning, as she sat on that hill, she saw a young couple setting up a picnic nearby. They were laughing, their hands entwined, and for a moment, she envied them. She missed that feeling of effortless connection, of joy that didn’t need to be sought out. But then she noticed how the couple took care of each other, how they shared a look that said more than any words could. She realized then that peace wasn’t something she could find; it was something she could create, even in the smallest, simplest moments.

At The Blooming Garden, she volunteered at a local community center that grew flowers for the town’s parks. She remembered how her father used to tend to the garden in their backyard, always patient, always gentle. The first day she arrived, she felt out of place, her hands unsure as she handled the delicate buds. But the more she worked, the more she understood why her father loved it so much. It was a quiet kind of magic, watching something grow under her care, knowing she had helped it along the way. It was hard work, but as she planted seeds and watched them grow, she felt a sense of purpose she hadn’t felt in months. Each blooming flower was like a little victory, a reminder that beauty could still grow, even after everything had withered.

By the time Mei had reached the last “star” on the list—The Endless Bridge,—she had traveled not just to places, but to memories, to feelings she thought she had lost. She stood on a bridge overlooking the river, her father’s journal in her hands, the pages filled now with little notes she had written, her own experiences beside each name on the list.

“The bridge,” she thought, “doesn’t end because it’s always there, connecting one side to the other.” Just like her father was still there, connecting her past to her future, even if she couldn’t see him. She smiled as she watched the sun dip below the horizon, casting a golden path across the water. For the first time since her father’s passing, she felt like she was ready to move forward.

She knew then what he had been trying to tell her. Life was a series of stars to visit, moments to live, even when the light seemed far away. And though her father’s journey had ended, hers was just beginning, and she would carry his light with her, always.