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1
In the center of M City, there once stood a very well-known building.
It was six stories high, with a minimalist, elegant design. The outer walls were made of seamless black glass, reflecting the sun without a single visible window. From a distance, it looked like a tall, straight vase.
And in fact, it was a vase—filled with water.
That was the city’s aquarium. A very… peculiar one. Inside, there was only a single exhibit.
The last mermaid in the world.
It was a rare thing. When the place first opened, people flocked from all over the country just to see it. But as the years went by, people gradually forgot, and visitors became fewer and fewer.
I grew up in M City, so naturally I’d been there many times. At first, my parents brought me along to see something new. Later, as I grew older, my mom hesitated for a long time before finally allowing me to go alone.
I packed my sketch folder, a box of pencils, a bottle of water, and a sandwich into my shoulder bag. Hung my metro card around my neck.
Weekend trains going into the city weren’t crowded. I had the whole carriage to myself. I could sit on the long bench and flip through my sketchbook to pass the time.
Every drawing in there—since I was six years old—was of it.
2
When the train reached my stop, I closed my folder and rode the escalator up to street level. The sun was a bit harsh. I didn’t walk far before I saw the aquarium ahead.
At the gate, I pulled out my annual pass and scanned myself in. The old man at the entrance – Mom called him Uncle Zhang – greeted me like always. “Xiaocao, back again? Have you eaten yet?”
As the turnstile clicked open, I darted through quickly.
The first thing you’d see after entering might strike you as a bit intense. At least, I never liked lingering there too long.
It was a skeleton. A mermaid’s skeleton, displayed high on a platform under a bright spotlight.
Back when the aquarium still drew crowds, they used to have someone explaining: the dead body was discovered first. Years later, researchers found the living one.
The corpse became a frame of bones. Its form wasn’t large, but the tail was long, and even stripped bare, it exuded elegance.
But the skull—indistinguishable from a human’s—and those deep, hollow eye sockets… every time I saw them, a strange heaviness settled in my chest.
I never dared look straight into those empty eyes. I walked quickly past the hall, turned down the corridor, and came to the main tank.
It was the core of the entire building, constructed from massive, reinforced glass. Inside were vivid underwater plants, coral, oddly shaped rocks, and all kinds of small fish weaving through the artificial seascape.
And there it was, just like always—sitting still, as if it had never moved.
I pressed my palm to the tank wall, like I always did, a silent greeting.
Though… it had never once looked back at me.
3
It was beautiful.
Its skin was pale, its upper body was covered with translucent scales shimmering with a cold tint. Long blue hair drifted around it like strands of seaweed. Its tail was sheathed in glistening blue scales, curling beside its body, with wide, flowing fins like two graceful ribbons.
They said mermaids didn’t age, didn’t die—unless by accident. All these years, its appearance hadn’t changed at all. Not the slightest sign of aging.
I opened my sketchbook.
The first drawing was from the first time I ever saw it. I went home and drew it right away. Back then, my father was still around. He saw my sketch, and for once, looked genuinely happy. He praised me again and again, even said he’d take me to the park.
But I didn’t want to go to the park. I just wanted to go back and see it.
At the park, I felt so overwhelmed I broke down crying.
After that, they took me to the aquarium often. Later, only Mom took me.
I flipped to the second drawing. It was one of the few times it had reclined on a rock, looking as if… it was asleep. I didn’t know if mermaids needed sleep, but in the drawing, its eyes were gently closed, head tucked into the crook of an arm, as if it had stopped breathing.
I kept turning pages. As my technique improved, its posture and expressions became increasingly… repetitive. The same poses. The same distant eyes. The same lifeless stillness.
Finally, I reached a blank page.
I thought I’d draw it sitting silently again. But just as I found a good angle and sat down on the floor, ready to begin—
It moved.
It rose—“stood,” in a way—and only then did I realize how tall it was. With a sweep of its tail, it glided from the far side of the coral to right in front of me, separated only by the glass wall.
It placed its hands on the tank’s surface, mirroring my old greeting.
And for the first time, it looked at me.
Sitting on the ground, I was small—like a child staring up at something towering and unknowable. It gazed down at me, unmoving.
I’d always known it was beautiful. But I hadn’t expected that, when it looked at me, it would be so breathtaking.
I began to sketch frantically.
4
On the train ride home, a few girls who looked like high school students sat near me, chatting loudly. The noise made their words hard to follow, but a few fragments reached my ears.
“That fish is still alive, huh? Have you guys gone to see it lately?”
“Nah. It just feels kind of dead inside, don’t you think?”
“It’s got a nice figure though. If it were human…”
“If what? It’s probably hundreds of years old. You’d still want that?”
I clutched my ears, curling in on myself, rocking uncontrollably.
The girls gasped, startled, and scrambled to the next car.
5
I had a dream.
I was floating, immersed in salty sea water. My hair drifted all around me like seaweed. It was so quiet. I held my breath and let the silence wash over me.
“Xiaocao! Xiaocao!”
My mother’s voice cut through the stillness, pulling me awake. She was patting my cheeks. I inhaled sharply and coughed hard.
“It’s alright, Xiaocao. Mama’s here.”
I clung to her neck. She staggered back from my grip and fell onto the bed.
“Hey, slow down, Xiaocao. Mama’s not young anymore, you know.”
I sat up, got dressed, and washed up. Sat at the breakfast table. After eating, I returned to my room and picked up my sketch folder.
“Going to the aquarium again?” Mom asked.
“Don’t stay out too long,” she added, knowing I wouldn’t answer.
6
It was waiting for me.
The moment I stepped into the aquarium, I could feel it. It was waiting.
It had been sitting in its usual spot, back turned, but somehow—somehow—it sensed me. It turned around. With a sweep of its tail, it came to the glass, directly in front of me.
I raised my hands and pressed them against the tank.
And for the first time, it did the same— Its hands met mine through the thick glass.
I didn’t know why, but tears began to fall.
I sat down by the tank and pulled out all my old sketches, laying them out one by one for it to see.
It looked at them quietly, its gaze lingering on each page.
“Xiaocao, it’s almost noon. Did you bring lunch? If not, I’ve got instant noodles and hot water in my office,” Uncle Zhang’s voice called out behind me. His twice-daily rounds were part of the routine now.
I shook my head and took out the sandwich Mom had packed. He nodded and walked off.
I ate by the tank. It slowly sat down across from me and simply watched. For the first time, its amber eyes softened—just a little.
I lifted the sandwich to show it. Then remembered—it probably had never tasted human food.
I’d never seen it eat anything at all.
7
The next time I came, I brought it a gift.
It was a flower I’d picked by the roadside. I didn’t know its name. Its shape resembled a drooping little umbrella. Each white petal was tipped with a hint of green, like a drop of spring accidentally spilled.
I liked it very much.
I held it up to the glass for it to see. It looked at the flower, furrowed its brow slightly, then let the expression soften. With a swish of its tail, it swam away.
Where was it going? Anxiously, I circled the tank, searching for its silhouette.
Not long after, it reappeared from behind a coral reef.
This time, it swam up to the glass, bent down slightly, and cupped something in its hands, presenting it to me.
It was a small seashell. White, smooth, glimmering faintly with a cold shimmer.
It held it carefully in its palms, lifting it to show me.
8
I thought of a little game.
On a new page, I drew a tiny version of myself—the first time I’d ever come here. In the background were other visitors, and it sat quietly among the coral, unmoving.
Then, I drew my mom beside me. And then… my dad.
Dad’s face was a little blurry in my memory. I frowned and gently erased him from the page.
It watched me, something unreadable flickering in its eyes.
After a moment, I started drawing my room. My small bedroom. There wasn’t much in it: a bed, a nightstand, my desk, and a chair.
On the desk were my art supplies—pencils arranged from 1B to 6B in a cup, oil pastels sorted by color in a box. On the bed lay a fluffy weighted blanket, neatly folded. On the nightstand sat a small fishbowl—no fish, just a few strands of waterweed, drifting in the clean water Mom changed every day.
It stared at the fishbowl for a long time. Unmoving.
In the days that followed, I drew other things for it—like the sunset outside the train window, the tall apartment buildings in our neighborhood, the foggy mornings after rain.
It would curl its long tail around itself and sit in the water, quietly watching me draw. When it saw those pictures, it blinked, slowly and repeatedly—maybe because… it had never seen those things before.
9
One day, I stayed at the aquarium for a long time.
Close to closing time, Uncle Zhang came by and chatted with me as usual. “Xiaocao, spent the whole day here again, huh? Does your mom know?”
I nodded.
He added, “I need to go upstairs and replace the filter system for the tank. Wanna come take a look? Maybe lend me a hand? This old body’s not what it used to be… Sigh. Wonder when I’ll finally get to retire…”
I nodded again.
He led me to the elevator and we rode it to the top floor.
I used to think that enormous tank was a sealed world, a universe unto itself. Only now did I realize—it had an exit.
The top floor encircled the great round tank with a wide platform. On one side was a cluster of equipment I didn’t understand. Uncle Zhang muttered as he worked, explaining something about water temperature, salinity, oxygen levels.
He opened a large plastic cover, pulled out a heavy component, swapped it out with a new one, then closed everything back up.
I looked down into the open top of the tank.
It was like peering into a deep swimming pool—several floors beneath me. I couldn’t see it, but I knew, somewhere down there, it was watching me.
10
At home, I prepared a gift.
A painting.
It was difficult to make, because I’d never seen the ocean.
Yes—that’s what I wanted to give it. A painting of the sea.
I searched through countless online photos, flipped through all the art books at home, and after several days of work, I finally finished.
Mom wasn’t home that day. She said something urgent had come up and she’d be back tomorrow. She left me food and told me not to go out.
But I wanted to show the painting to it.
In the end, I decided to go. I didn’t bring my sketch folder, just rolled up the painting and carried it in my hands.
By the time I reached the aquarium, it was nearly closing time. Uncle Zhang must’ve been doing his rounds or fixing something, because he wasn’t at the door. I rushed inside.
After a few days apart, I thought I’d find it like before—sitting quietly on the rocks among the coral, lost in thought.
But no.
It was there, at the glass, palms pressed flat, waiting for me.
I smiled.
I unrolled the painting and held it up to the glass for it to see.
11
Its eyes changed.
I don’t know how to describe the expression. I’ve never really understood most people’s faces, but this one…
It startled me.
It struck the glass once, fast and hard. Then spun away. It circled the tank, then returned, gazing at the painting for a long, long time. Its whole body was tense. I could see its shoulders trembling slightly.
I thought… maybe it liked it.
Then, it backed away a little.
It suddenly looked up—toward the ceiling.
Its tail flicked, body lifting, swimming upward. Then it dropped back down. It did it again. Again and again.
I froze for a few minutes before finally understanding. The top of the tank?
Did it want me to go up there?
But… Uncle Zhang had taken the staff elevator that time. Regular visitors weren’t allowed up.
I stared at it. Then, I made up my mind.
Wait for me. I thought to myself.
12
The closing bell had rung long ago. I hid in the farthest stall of the restroom, quietly listening.
I heard Uncle Zhang’s footsteps as he passed through every part of the aquarium—except the women’s bathroom. He knocked once on the door, heard nothing, and moved on.
I waited a while longer. Most of the lights went out, leaving only emergency lighting.
My stomach growled. I stayed a bit longer. Then I left the stall and stepped into the dark.
The tank’s lighting had dimmed. I ran to it and found it lying still among the water plants, its hair drifting over its form. As I approached, it raised its head, eyes wide.
I pointed upward.
Then turned and ran.
First stop: Uncle Zhang’s office. There, hanging on a hook, was a set of keys.
One of them—long, smooth, with a raised tip and no ridges—was for the elevator. I’d seen him use it that day.
With shaking hands, I inserted the key into the panel, turned it. The panel lit up. The elevator chimed. I jumped, but quickly calmed myself. Stepped inside. Pressed the top floor.
The elevator rose in silence.
The doors opened. The corridor to the tank’s open top stretched ahead.
It was there, waiting for me.
13
It was sitting on the wide edge of the tank, tail soaking in the water, fins gently swaying—like it was sketching out an infinity sign.
So it could leave the water after all. It didn’t need to stay submerged all the time.
I slowly walked up to it.
Its eyes followed me, wide open, unblinking, until I stood right in front of it.
It looked at me, and raised a hand—like it wanted to touch my face. But it stopped just short of reaching me.
Then, the corners of its eyes curled slightly, softening.
I looked at it.
Out of water, its skin no longer shimmered with cool light. Its scales had dulled. Its hair was a tangle of damp seaweed. But its eyes—its eyes were brighter than ever.
I unrolled the painting in my hands and laid it gently on the ground between us.
It leaned forward, gazing at it for a long time.
At last, its hand touched the painting.
It was a watercolor painting. Of course it didn’t feel like the ocean.
But the dampness on its hand blurred the paint, creating ripples—like the sea, stirred by a breeze.
I sat down beside it, hugging my knees.
And waited.
14
Eventually, I stood up. It was getting late. I needed to catch the last train home.
I turned toward the elevator.
But then—I heard it. Footsteps. Heavy, shuffling footsteps.
I turned in surprise.
It had stood up and was following me.
It could walk! Its wide fins dragged behind it, its gait awkward, a bit like a penguin. It looked almost funny.
I stared at it, confused.
Its brows dipped low, and in its eyes, I caught something… A hint of longing. Timid. Fragile.
It wanted to follow me? It wanted to go somewhere?
I thought for a moment, then stretched out a tentative hand.
It grabbed it right away.
Its skin was cold and slick, but its palm—its palm was warm.
I nodded, and led it into the elevator. Pressed the button for the ground floor.
15
The elevator opened to the main hall. The one with the skeleton.
It was dark all around, but the spotlight on the bones remained lit.
I heard a sound. Not a word, not a language—just a quiet, sorrowful cry.
So soft I thought I imagined it.
And then, I saw it stagger forward, step by uneven step, toward the skeleton. It stopped in front of it.
The skull stared down, hollow and eternal.
It stared back. Eyes locked on the bones. And then—tears fell.
So… mermaids could cry.
I felt something grip my heart. Like a hand I couldn’t see. Tight, tight, tight.
16
I had an idea.
I thought… Maybe I could take it outside.
I thought… Maybe I could show it my home.
I thought… Maybe one day—I could take it to see the ocean. Though that might be very, very difficult.
I waited silently until it calmed down. Then, I tapped its hand.
I pointed at the main doors. Gave it a questioning look.
Then I held out my hand again.
Its brows furrowed slightly at first. Then, after a moment of hesitation— It reached out too.
It took my hand.
I led it to Uncle Zhang’s office and put the keys back. As we were leaving, I noticed a long raincoat hanging on the wall behind the door. I took it down and draped it over its shoulders.
When we reached the exit, I realized something.
The doors might be locked.
A cold sweat broke across my back.
But to my surprise, when I turned the handle, the door opened easily—from the inside.
The streets were empty under the night sky. We boarded the last train of the night.
Outside the window, there was no sunset—only the lights of the city, slowly fading behind us.
It stared out the whole time. Wide-eyed. Still. Quiet. Wondering.
17
Mom wasn’t home today.
I tried to remember all the things she usually did for me.
I took out the food she’d left, placed it on the table, and poured a cup of warm water.
It shook its head. Right. It probably couldn’t eat this kind of food.
But I was hungry, so I ate. It watched me. It looked… amused.
After I finished, it seemed more at ease and started to explore.
It touched everything with curiosity. Mom’s potted plants. The window view of the neighborhood. The scattered newspapers on the table.
Finally, it reached my room.
It inspected every corner. Slowly. Carefully. And then, it stopped by the fishbowl.
It dipped its hand in.
I watched its dry, faded skin brighten again underwater, the scales regaining their sheen.
Suddenly, it hit me.
Water.
Even though it could survive out here, its skin… it still liked the water. It needed it.
I led it to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Started filling the bathtub.
I’d touched its skin before—I knew the right temperature. Cool, but not too cold.
Once the tub was full, I saw the joy in its eyes.
It shrugged off the raincoat and leapt in.
Water splashed everywhere. I frowned. But when I saw it lying there, eyes closed, face content— I smiled too.
It was late.
Let it rest.
I turned to leave.
But suddenly, it reached out and held my hand.
I turned, startled.
It just smiled.
Then raised a hand, and gently ruffled my hair.
18
That day had been long. I fell asleep quickly.
Just before drifting off, I thought briefly— What would Mom say, when she met my new friend?
Maybe she’d say: “You’re being silly again.”
Then make me take it back.
Maybe Uncle Zhang would be angry. Maybe he’d never offer me instant noodles again.
I fell asleep in that blur of nervous thoughts.
I woke early the next morning.
I jumped out of bed. Didn’t even change out of my pajamas.
Ran straight to the bathroom.
......The tub was empty.
I ran around the apartment, searching everywhere.
The balcony door was open. A faint trail of water led to it—nearly dry now.
The sun was already up. Light pierced through the gap between the buildings across the street, which stung my eyes.
It was gone. Vanished.
On the bathroom counter, I saw something.
A small seashell. White. Shimmering faintly with cold light.
Tears slid down my cheeks.
And for the first time, I whispered a word.
“Goodbye.”