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Kim's apartment occupied the twelfth floor of a quiet, spacious building, with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a constantly moving painting. The walls were so pure white they were almost intimidating. The wooden floor stretched without a single crease or speck of dust. The sofa was a geometric block of lead-gray linen, adorned with three perfectly symmetrical cushions that no one ever dared to embrace. The tempered glass coffee table held only a minimalist art book and a solitary slate coaster. In the open-plan kitchen, the white quartz countertops gleamed under the cool light of the recessed spotlights, and the stainless steel appliances looked like soldiers in formation. There were no magnets on the refrigerator. There were no photos on the walls. There was no life. Only order and seriousness.
At the center of this black and white universe was the grand piano. Black, imposing, like a sleeping giant. It was the only thing that seemed to contain life in the apartment, and Kim devoted himself to this piano with a frightening devotion.
Kim, a human, moved through that space like an elegant musical note. His dark hair was always slightly disheveled from running his hands through it in moments of frustration, his deep eyes carried dark circles from sleepless nights, his slender, nimble fingers seemed more at ease on the keys than holding a simple mug of coffee and a spoonful of food. Kim invariably dressed in black, white, or, on daring days, dark blue. His voice was deep, sparse, and his smile was practically nonexistent.
That Tuesday afternoon, once again, he was in front of the piano, attacking a particularly stubborn passage from his new composition. The digital metronome blinked relentlessly on the music stand, making Kim frown. Kim played the same chord sequence repeatedly, searching for a solution that refused to come. With each failed attempt, a new sheet of sheet music was vigorously crumpled and thrown toward the trash can.
It was at that exact moment of creative tension that, on the kitchen windowsill, behind a potted plant that Kim kept because his older brother had said it helped him sleep, something changed.
A delicate sound filled the air, so delicate that Kim didn't even notice it.
Thus Porchay Kittisawasd came into being.
Porchay would fit comfortably in a teacup. He was crouched, his little hands resting on the cold tile, his gigantic brown eyes blinking rapidly as his brain processed his sudden existence. Porchay had soft, tousled, golden-brown hair that fell over his forehead and tickled his eyebrows. His skin had a slight pearly sheen, as if sprinkled with the finest stardust. He wore a tiny jacket made of love-in-a-mist petals, trousers of a velvety moss-like fabric, and tiny booties made of polished walnut shells. On his back, the elongated, transparent dragonfly wings, crisscrossed by veins that captured all the colors of the rainbow depending on the angle, trembled gently, still adjusting to the breeze coming in through the half-open window.
Porchay sniffed his little nose and smelled the air. He sensed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the dry scent of the plant and, above all, a musky, slightly woody scent that he instinctively knew belonged to his human. Kim.
His mission was etched in his little heart: To provide comfort. To make Kim's home a warm and cozy place to live. Chay looked around, assessing the surroundings. The kitchen counter was empty and uninspiring. The floor was bare of fluffy rugs. The walls were bare and undecorated.
“Very boring…” he murmured to himself in a tiny clinking sound, like someone tapping a small silver spoon against a goblet. “Very, very boring. And boring. Boring and boring, a terrible combination. Let’s fix this!”
With a determined flapping of wings, he took flight. His wings produced a soft hum, like that of a beautiful hummingbird, and left a faint trail of light in the air that vanished in seconds. Chay flew in a zigzag pattern around the room, like a tiny iridescent dot in the monochromatic landscape, inspecting every corner. Chay passed the music stand, where the books were organized by size, then the sofa, which seemed never to have hosted anyone for a long nap. Then he passed the coffee table, where the solitary slate coaster seemed to stare at him with existential despair.
“Don’t worry, buddy!” Porchay whispered to the cup holder, giving it a comforting pat. “We’ll figure this out!”
Porchay was ready to introduce the cup holder to a new friend, until he heard music right behind him.
It wasn't a prepared song; it was being played live right behind his little ears. It was a melody that Kim began to play almost absentmindedly, improvising softly, while his eyes wandered to the horizon outside the window. It was a slow melody, full of pauses, with low notes that echoed like sighs. There was such a profound loneliness there, so beautiful and so sad, that Chay stopped in mid-air, hovering half a meter off the ground, his little hands pressed against his chest.
Chay's heart swelled. He felt an immense wave of tenderness, a crazy urge to hug that human, to tell them everything was alright, to fill that empty space with colors, smells, and textures. He wanted to transform each sad note into something tangible and beautiful, he wanted to bring joy to the song of that sad human.
Porchay felt himself vibrate, and then his chest glowed. A warm, pink light pulsed beneath his petal-covered jacket.
And then, the magic happened. It began as a single red dot on the white ceiling. Then another. And another. A shower of velvety, fragrant rose petals began to fall slowly and gently onto the piano. They descended in lazy spirals, dancing in the air, landing delicately on the black and white keys, on Kim's tense shoulders, and in his dark hair. One petal, more adventurous, landed directly on Kim's right hand, interrupting his playing a chord. Kim stopped the music and looked at the beautiful petal in his hand. Then up. The ceiling was white. Immaculate. Impossible.
“There are definitely no roses on the ceiling.” His voice echoed in the empty room, deep and cold. Kim picked up the petal between his index finger and thumb, felt its soft texture, and carefully placed it on the music stand, next to the metronome that continued blinking, oblivious to the magic. Kim shook his head slightly, attributing the phenomenon to some mysterious air current, and resumed playing the music.
The following days were a succession of adorable little disasters. Chay, hidden in crevices, behind books and inside drawers, watched Kim with obsessive attention. This was how he had learned his routine: black coffee in the morning, absolute silence until noon, a meal that seemed more like fuel than a real pleasure (lentils, protein and a piece of fruit for dessert, all in minuscule proportions) and then hours and hours of piano.
With each crumpled sheet music, each sigh of frustration, each sip of coffee that burned his tongue because Kim was too distracted, Chay felt a tightness in his chest. He wanted to help. But how? His magic was fueled by feeling, and the most constant feeling he experienced now was frustration.
Kim was now working on the second movement of his symphony, and nothing sounded right. He scribbled notes furiously, crumpled the paper, and threw it in the trash can. The ball of paper missed the bin, ricocheted off the wall, and rolled under the sofa, where Chay was hiding.
Kim's frustration was an almost physical buzzing, visible to the naked eye. Chay, nervous, bit his lower lip.
"I want to help. Why is it so difficult? Why can't he see how empty and sad he is?"
The feeling of helplessness overflowed, and then the three sofa cushions began to tremble. A subtle vibration at first, as if an invisible cat were purring on them. Then, slowly, they began to rise. The first rose like a shy balloon, swaying about thirty centimeters from the seat. The second followed, doing a little spinning dance. The third, the most adventurous, floated towards Kim, who was lying with his back to him, leaning over the piano.
Kim felt a gentle nudge on the back of his neck and shifted curiously, coming face to face with three cushions floating placidly in the room like fish in an air tank. The third cushion, the one that had nudged him, seemed to be staring at him with gentle insistence.
“What…?” Kim moved backward, causing his back to hit the piano, which emitted a dissonant and startled chord. His eyes widened as he scanned the surreal scene.
Kim reached out and touched one of the cushions. He gently dodged it, as if playfully trying to amuse him, and did a somersault in the air. Kim ran his hands over his face, stressed.
“I just want… I just want to compose this damn symphony. In peace.” His voice came out tired. “Leave me alone.”
From his hiding place, Chay sensed Kim's weariness not as frustration, but as a deep sadness and abandonment at being unable to please his human. The glow in his chest wavered. The cushions settled softly on the sofa, one by one, like leaves falling in autumn.
The next morning, Kim woke up more tense than usual. He walked barefoot through the cold room, wearing his crumpled black t-shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair, a mess from a sleepless night. Kim stopped in front of the window, hugging himself because of the cold, reflecting on something. The morning sun drew golden rectangles on Kim, and he still seemed sad. He seemed so small and alone in that immense space, and that caught Chay's attention.
Chay was watching him from atop the bookshelf. He saw the shiver that ran down Kim's arms, the depressing way he rubbed his own thin shoulders. He was cold. And he was sad. And he was alone. The little fairy's heart broke into twelve tiny, sparkling pieces. He wanted to embrace him, protect him, and warm him, but he wouldn't allow himself to be cared for.
Magic, of course, got it all wrong. Or all right?
On the floor, the natural fiber rug, an impersonal beige color, began to ripple. One end rose like a wave in the sea. In a fluid and surprisingly quick movement, the rug slid across the floor, wrapping itself around Kim. It climbed up his legs, circled his waist, enveloped his arms, and, in a final graceful turn, covered his shoulders, leaving only his head exposed.
Kim was curled up like a burrito, completely still.
“I’m being attacked by a rug,” he realized, depressed and incredulous. “My house hates me.”
From high up on the shelf, Chay let out a nervous chuckle that sounded like a handful of glitter being thrown into the air. But the chuckle died quickly, because this wasn't right. His human was confused, sad, and scared. He needed help. Help that wouldn't terrify him. But he wouldn't accept help… what could Chay do?
The last straw for Kim was the coffee maker crying.
The following night, after the carpet incident, Kim went to make another of his nightly coffees. As he filled the water reservoir, the Italian coffee maker began to make a sound. It wasn't the normal bubbling; it was a low groan, followed by metallic hiccups. From the spout, instead of steam, thick, dark tears of espresso began to leak.
“No,” said Kim, recoiling as if the appliance were a ghost. “No, no, no.”
The next morning, a wise-looking gentleman with round glasses was in his living room. It was Khun Pit, an expert on “unusual household phenomena” whom Kim had contacted after a desperate internet search. The man examined the windows, the cushions, the carpet, and the coffee maker.
“Hmm…” Pit said, adjusting his glasses. “You have an infestation.”
"Of ghosts?" Kim asked, arms crossed.
“Magic. Fairy magic. A household fairy, to be more precise.” Pit smiled, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “They are tiny, shimmering creatures with dragonfly wings. They are designed to bring warmth to a human's home.”
“'Warmth,' Kim repeated, his voice dripping with irony. 'Carpets that rock me against my will. Cushions that float and distract me. Petals falling from the ceiling. I can barely compose a symphony. Khun Pit, you call this warmth?'"
“For a clumsy fairy, yes.” Pit pointed a pencil at Kim. “Your skepticism, my dear, is exactly why your coffee maker is crying. Their magic works with feelings. Your fairy is, most likely, a novice, shy, deeply clumsy, and terrified of you. He feels it, the house manifests it. He’s trying to help, but your skeptical and cold energy scares , and the magic becomes… let’s say, creative.”
Kim remained silent. The logic of it all was absurd and insulted his intelligence. But the image of a tiny, frightened creature, hidden in some corner, awkwardly trying to brighten his sad life, drove a splinter into his hardened heart.
"What do I do?" the question escaped him before he could rationalize it.
“Get to know him. Treat him well. Let him know he’s welcome. He just wants… comfort.”
Behind the large vase in the corner of the room, Chay overheard the entire conversation. He was huddled up, hugging his knees and crying, his wings pressed against his back in a constant tremor, thinking the worst possible things.
“He’s going to see me, think I’m a disaster, and kick me out. What does an unemployed fairy do? Live in a public garden? Eat breadcrumbs off the floor? It’s going to be a disaster. If I cry any more, the washing machine will flood the room with perfumed foam. Damn it! I’m the worst fairy in the world!”
His little heart was beating like an out-of-control drum. And with each beat of that out-of-control drum, a new tiny phenomenon occurred. The chandelier began to drip glitter, the leaves of the plant pot curled up as if praying, and the refrigerator door opened by itself, emitting a beam of shimmering light that danced around the kitchen like a small rainbow.
That afternoon, Kim sat at the dining table. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, tinging the room with a golden hue. He had just made coffee, and the steaming cup lay before him, its strong aroma filling the air. Kim picked up a book on music theory, trying to distract himself. The room was strangely calm. He had made a silent decision that he would no longer fight the inexplicable. He would simply observe it.
Chay, for his part, had decided to take a closer look. Taking advantage of the silence, he flew towards the table, fascinated by the aroma of the coffee. He had never smelled anything so strong, not even in the fairy's magic garden. Chay landed on the rim of the white porcelain cup, and his little walnut-shell boots made a practically inaudible sound. Chay leaned over the dark liquid, watching his own tiny reflection ripple on the surface. It was then that the strong smell of coffee powder tickled his nostrils. He tried to contain it, wrinkling his little nose and shaking his head. But it was inevitable.
“Atchoo!”
The sneeze was a crystalline sound, like a small wind chime. But the effect was immediate. The magic of invisibility, which had kept him hidden, dissolved like a silken veil.
Kim, who was bringing the cup to his lips at the exact moment of the sneeze, froze. His hand stopped in mid-air, the cup inches from his mouth. On the porcelain rim, less than a hand's breadth from his face, lay the tiny creature.
It was real. Tiny. Absolutely, terribly real.
Kim's eyes met Chay's. Large, brown, filled with pure, crystalline dread, with long eyelashes that now trembled. Pearly skin shimmered in the sunlight. Transparent, veined wings captured the golden afternoon light and returned it in iridescent shimmers—pink, green, blue, lilac—as they vibrated with fear. Tiny droplets of glitter fell from the little creature's unruly hair, evaporating before touching the table.
It was the most fragile and absurdly beautiful thing Kim had ever seen.
“You…” Kim’s voice escaped. “You’re real.”
Pure terror overwhelmed the little fairy. His thoughts were a whirlwind of panic. Chay could swear Kim would grab him and yell at him. Chay tried to run, but his feet tripped over each other. He fell on his bottom onto the wooden surface of the table. Desperate, he ran behind a clear glass salt shaker, which now revealed more of him than it hid, like a tiny display case. His wings closed, and he cowered, his little hands covering his head.
Kim, still in shock, acted on instinct. The instinct of a logical man confronted with the illogical: capture, examine, and understand. Kim dropped the cup, which fortunately didn't break, and groped around the table for something, quickly finding an empty glass. He picked it up and, in a swift and clumsy movement, turned the glass over the salt shaker, intending to trap the creature to observe it better.
He couldn't catch Chay. The little fairy, in a reflex of terror, had thrown himself to the side, rolling across the table and stopping behind a napkin holder. But Kim's supposed intention hit Chay squarely.
"He wants to hurt me. He rejected me. He hates me..."
An immense and crystalline sadness, the first real rejection of his fairy-like existence, exploded in Chay's chest like a soap bubble bursting.
On the other side of the kitchen, the Italian coffee maker, which was on the stove, began to bubble on its own. But no coffee came out. Instead of steam, thick, dark tears of espresso began to flow from the spout again, running down the counter like a sob. Kim looked at the crying coffee maker, looked at the empty cup in his hand, still upside down on the salt shaker, and then his eyes turned to the tiny figure huddled behind the napkin holder. He could see the small shoulders trembling, he could hear, in the silence of the room, an almost inaudible sob, thin as a thread of silk breaking.
Kim felt guilty, and this cracked the cold armor of logic he had built around himself.
Kim lowered the glass slowly, with extreme care, and took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... arrest you. It was a shock. I got scared."
The tears from the coffee maker diminished to a restrained drip.
Kim, very slowly, as if approaching a wounded little animal, slid out of the chair. He knelt on the floor to be level with the table. He rested his elbows on the wood and his chin on his crossed hands. His dark eyes, always so stern, were now brimming with a curiosity that struggled against tenderness.
"Hello!" Kim whispered softly.
Two small, bright brown eyes peeked out from behind the napkin holder.
"Hello..." replied a tiny voice so small that Kim had to hold his breath to hear it.
“My name is Kim,” he continued, without making any sudden movements. “I live here. And it seems you do too.”
The little fairy sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, taking a step outside and clasping his tiny hands in front of his body. His petal jacket was a little crooked.
“I know,” Chay said, his voice trembling. “I… I am Chay.” He swallowed hard, summoning all the courage in his small, brilliant existence. He took another step, emerging completely from behind his hiding place. His wings still trembled, but he raised his chin. “I am your fairy of the home. I came… to take care of you. And your home. To bring…” he paused to gather his courage. “warmth. And comfort. But I’m a little clumsy. Actually, very clumsy. My magic always goes wrong. And you don’t seem to like clumsy things. So maybe… you don’t want me. And that’s okay, I can go, if you…”
“Chay.” Kim’s voice interrupted him, firm but gentle. For the first time in days, a hint of a smile softened the hard line of his mouth. “The rose petals… were those you?”
Chay stopped talking, blushing from his cheeks to the tips of his wings.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I thought the song was so beautiful. And so sad. I wanted to make it more cheerful.”
"And what about the floating cushions?"
“You were frustrated. I was too. I wanted to help. The pillows… they just wanted to tickle you. To keep you from getting so serious.”
"And the rug that wrapped me up like a...?"
“A burrito,” Chay finished, shrugging in an adorable apologetic gesture. “You were cold. And you looked so lonely. The rug just wanted to hug you. Me too. I wanted to hug you too.”
Kim extended his hand, palm facing upward, forming an inviting platform right next to the napkin holder, beckoning Chay to take his hand.
Chay looked at the immense palm, at the lines of skin that formed an unknown map, at the dark and tired eyes of the human that now no longer carried rejection, but a genuine curiosity.
Porchay then took a step. Then another. His little walnut-shell boots made a very cute little sound as he walked. Chay stopped at the edge of Kim's hand. The human's skin radiated immense heat, a living, pulsating heat. He hesitated for a second, looked up at Kim's eyes, searching for some kind of trap, but found none. With a small, graceful leap, he landed right in the center of Kim's palm.
The sensation was indescribable. Kim's hand was warm, but not burning. It was firm, but not hard. Chay sank his tiny feet into the skin, feeling the human heartbeat reverberate like a distant drum. Kim raised his hand with infinite care, as if carrying a soap bubble that could burst at any moment. He brought it close to his face. He could see every detail of the iridescent wings, every strand of golden-brown hair, the shimmer of magical dust falling like fine snow from Chay's shoulders. He could even feel the rapid heartbeat in the little fairy's chest.
“You are…” Kim whispered, his eyes shining with a mixture of awe and something he couldn’t name. “You’re real. And you’re tiny. And you’re trembling.”
“It’s just that you’re very big,” Chay replied, with a sincerity that made him blush again. “But up close… it’s less scary up close.”
A smile, a genuine smile, finally broke across Kim's face. It was small, hesitant, but it was there, and it completely transformed his serious expression. It was as if the sun had suddenly entered the room.
"I can try to be less... scary."
“That’s it,” said Chay, pointing to Kim’s smile, his eyes sparkling with joy. “That’s a great start!”
In the first few days after the revelation, Kim's apartment became a territory of silent negotiations. Kim, accustomed to absolute solitude, now shared his space with a tiny creature that left a trail of glitter wherever it went and had very strong opinions about the lack of color in the environment.
Living together was a constant juggling act. Kim discovered that Chay had an inexhaustible energy for chattering about things he considered irrelevant, like the texture of a basil leaf, the shape of a cloud passing by the window, or the beauty of a raindrop running down the glass. Chay, in turn, discovered that Kim was a well of silence. He could spend hours at the piano, his eyes fixed on some distant point and his fingers motionless on the keys, as if waiting for something that never came.
In the first week, Porchay made his first demand.
“P’Kim,” he called, hovering in front of the human’s face with a determined expression. “I want to take a bath.”
Kim, who was trying to read a book about musical harmony, raised an eyebrow.
"Bath?"
“A bath,” Chay confirmed, crossing his little arms. “I have accumulated fairy dust. My wings are heavy. I need hot water. And chamomile. Chamomile is calming and makes the wings shine.”
Kim sighed, closing the book, getting up and going to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards until he found a small, shallow white porcelain dessert bowl that he rarely used. Kim filled it with lukewarm water, testing the temperature with his fingertip, keeping it not too hot, not too cold, just as he would for a baby. Then, he opened a small box of chamomile tea that had been forgotten at the back of the pantry and dripped a few drops of the amber liquid into the water. The soft, floral aroma quickly filled the air, pleasing him.
"It's ready," Kim announced, placing the bowl on the dining table.
Chay flew in circles above the bowl, inspecting it with critical eyes.
"Perfect," he declared. And then, without ceremony, he dove in.
Chay dove in too hastily, and a drop of water splashed and fell onto the table. Then he emerged with a sigh of pure pleasure, his golden hairs plastered to his forehead and his wings floating on the surface of the water like two translucent leaves. Chay began to swim in circles, making tiny waves with his hands, humming a melody that didn't exist in any human musical score.
Kim was watching, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. It was ridiculous, he thought. Absolutely ridiculous. He was a serious composer, a logical and functional adult, and there he was watching a cute creature the size of a teacup swim in a dessert bowl. But something in Chay's radiance, in his purity and the way he laughed and splashed water everywhere with his clumsy strokes, made a very hidden corner of Kim's chest ache. It wasn't a bad ache. It was as if a muscle he hadn't used in a long time had suddenly been exercised.
“P’Kim!” Chay called, floating on his back, belly up. “The water’s delicious! You should try it!”
"I don't fit in that bowl," Kim replied.
"Oh, that's right!"
After the bath, Kim took a soft tissue with moisturizing lotion and held it out to Chay. The little fairy, dripping wet and happy, climbed onto his palm and let hinself be enveloped by the tissue. Kim dried him with extreme care, rubbing the tissue over his unruly little hairs, which immediately stood on end in all directions, forming a fluffy spiky sun around Chay's head. Then, with the tip of the tissue, he gently stroked his wings, removing the droplets of water. The wings, now dry and clean, shone with an even more intense iridescent hue, and were so fluffy they looked like they were made of crystallized gauze.
"Done," said Kim, placing Chay on a cushion on the sofa.
Chay looked at his reflection in the polished surface of the coffee table. His hair was an adorable mess. He looked like he'd been struck by a bolt of cuteness.
“I look very handsome!” he declared, spinning around. “Thank you very much, P’Kim.”
Days passed, and Chay discovered the pleasure of sleeping in a bed made by Kim: a matchbox lined with cotton and a scrap of silk that Kim had found at the back of a closet. The little box sat on the bedside table, next to Kim's bed.
"That way you stay close," Kim explained.
"In case I have nightmares?" Chay asked, nestled in the cotton.
"Just in case you try to do magic while sleeping and the refrigerator explodes."
Chay, for his part, tried everything to see Kim happy. He performed small acts of magic. One morning, the coffee appeared with a heart-shaped foam. One afternoon, a tiny rainbow formed above the piano when the sun hit the glitter particles that Chay had scattered in the air.
“You don’t have to do that,” Kim said, as Chay tried to persuade the curtains to change color to a more cheerful shade, even while nestled in his comfortable cotton, ready for bed.
"What to do?"
“Cheer me up. I…” Kim hesitated. “I’m not a happy person, Chay. And I don’t know how to be. There’s something inside me that’s… empty. I’ve always been empty. Dying is too easy, so I just keep living, without really having a purpose.”
“I don’t know how to be one either,” Chay confessed. “A domestic fairy should know how to bring happiness. But you’re so sad that my magic gets confused. I so wanted to help you. I so wanted you to see how beautiful the world is…”
"I wanted that too."
That night, Chay didn't sleep in his matchbox. He nestled in the crook of Kim's neck, where his skin was warm and his pulse beat at a steady rhythm. Kim didn't move him. He simply closed his eyes and, for the first time in weeks, slept without unsettling dreams.
But days passed and, even so, the symphony didn't come out.
Kim spent hours at the piano, exhausted and unmotivated. Sometimes he would play a few notes, but then stop, dissatisfied. The sheet music remained blank. The metronome blinked relentlessly, marking a tempo that led nowhere.
“Why don’t you try composing something happy?” suggested Chay, sitting by the empty picture frame.
“Because I don’t know what happiness is,” Kim replied. “How can I compose something I don’t know?”
Chay bit his lower lip. He looked at Kim's hands, resting inertly on the keys. They were beautiful, strong hands, capable of creating beauty. But they were paralyzed by a sadness that Chay couldn't reach.
“If you could touch anything right now,” Chay asked, “anything in the world, what would it be?”
Kim closed his eyes.
“A symphony,” he said. “A symphony about beauty. About finding beauty where there was only emptiness. About… about waking from a very long sleep and seeing the world for the first time.”
Chay felt his little heart pounding. That's it. That's what he needs. Beauty. Hope.
And it was at that moment that the idea was born. A dangerous idea. An idea that would make his magic tremble, but that could, perhaps, save Kim from his darkness.
The following morning, Kim announced that he was going to the market.
“I need coffee,” he said, putting on his shoes. “And… I don’t know. Food. Do you want anything?”
“Honey,” replied Chay, who was sitting on the edge of the toaster, swinging his little legs. “Honey is good for the voice. And you’ll need your voice when your symphony is finished.”
Kim rolled his eyes, but mentally noted that he would have to buy honey.
"Don't make a mess while I'm away."
"Never!"
The door closed.
Chay waited five seconds. Then another five, just to be sure. Then, Chay prepared his wings and flew to the piano.
The imposing black instrument gleamed in the morning light. Chay landed on the keyboard, his tiny boots making a soft clicking sound on the keys. He looked at the piano, then at his hands, then at the wings buzzing behind him, and reflected once more.
There was an ancient magic, a very powerful magic, that the household fairies rarely used. It was the magic of total giving, which transferred all their vital energy into an object, imbuing it with beauty and perfection. It was a dangerous magic, one that could completely drain a fairy. But Chay didn't think about that. He only thought about Kim. About Kim's sadness. About the symphony Kim insisted on so much, and never managed to continue. About the way Kim's eyes faded a little more each day.
Chay closed his eyes, placed his two little hands on the keyboard, and began to sing. It wasn't a song with words, it was a nameless melody, a song he had learned in the fairy garden, which didn't exactly have lyrics. As he sang, his body began to glow. A golden, intense, pulsating light emanated from his chest and flowed romantically into the piano. The keys absorbed the light like a sponge, and the wood trembled, the inner strings vibrated, producing a chord so perfect that it seemed to contain all the emotions of the world: joy, sadness, hope, love, and all the emotions that did not yet exist.
Chay sang and sang, and the light continued to flow from his body. He felt his strength waning and his body weakening. His wings, which had once beaten vigorously, began to falter, but Chay continued nonetheless, because he could not disappoint his human with incomplete magic.
When the last note was played, Chay fell.
Its tiny body tumbled onto the keys, producing a dissonant and mournful sound. Its wings, once so bright and fluffy, were broken. The delicate membranes were torn, the iridescent veins now opaque and motionless. It didn't move. Its chest neither rose nor fell. The fairy dust around it had faded. The piano, however, shone. It was enveloped in a soft, golden aura, as if it now contained a pure, beating heart within it. But now, with a dead fairy upon it.
Later, Kim opened the apartment door carrying two shopping bags. He placed them on the kitchen counter and called for the fairy.
"Chay? I brought honey. And also a cheese bread, because you said you wanted to try it."
Silence.
Kim frowned.
“Chay? Are you okay?” he asked.
Nothing. No buzzing of wings. No tinkling voice. No cushion floating in greeting.
A sudden chill ran down Kim's spine. He paced the room, his eyes scanning every surface. There was no glitter in the air, no floating objects, no rainbow in the window. No trace of Porchay.
Until Kim found a trail.
On the piano keyboard, a small, motionless being.
“No…” Kim ran. His legs gave way, and he almost fell as he approached. “No, no, no…”
Chay lay on his side on the keys, his eyes closed, his pearly skin now pale and dull. His wings, his beautiful iridescent wings, were broken in the middle and twisted, like shattered stained glass. Chay didn't move. His chest didn't move. He was so small, so fragile, so beautiful, so innocent, so still. And now, suddenly, so lifeless.
Kim extended his trembling hands. He touched Chay's body with his fingertips. It was cold.
"What did you do? Chay, what did you do?"
Kim looked around and saw the piano enveloped in golden light and filled with kindness, which made him think that Porchay had sacrificed himself so that he could finally compose his symphony and find a little pleasure in life.
"You fool... You brilliant little fool. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this. I just wanted..."
Kim held on as best he could, but he couldn't control himself, and tears streamed down his cheeks. For the first time in years, Kim cried. Kim cried, saddened by Chay, by the gentle little fairy who, even clumsy, only wanted to bring comfort to his home and make him a little happy. Kim cried for himself, for the sadness he carried like a burden, knowing that he would never truly be happy, and that not even such a pure and innocent being could heal the emptiness in his soul. Kim cried for the symphony that would never exist, for the beauty he never knew how to see and knew he never would.
With infinite care, Kim took Chay in his hands and lifted him to his face, feeling the tears stream down and drip onto his broken little wings.
“Please,” Kim whispered, resting his forehead against Chay’s cold body. “Please don’t leave me. You’re the only beautiful thing that ever happened to me. The only one. Please…”
A thick, warm tear from Kim fell directly onto Chay's chest. Right where his little heart used to beat. The tear was absorbed by his pearly skin, and, magically and suddenly, a glow began to spread.
First, it was a faint light. Then, stronger, making Kim's eyes hurt. A golden, orange, and pink light enveloped Chay's body like a cocoon, warming Kim's hands. But Kim immediately recoiled slightly, his eyes wide, bewildered. The brightness grew, and grew more, and grew, and grew, until Kim had to close his eyes to avoid being blinded.
There was a sound, like a distant bell. And then… silence.
Kim opened his eyes.
Chay lay on the piano keyboard, no longer on it, but slumped beside it on the bench.
But not the tiny Chay. Was it Chay in human size?
Chay was naked. His petal and moss-like clothes were torn by the sudden growth. His skin still had a pearly sheen, but now it was the skin of a healthy, handsome young man. His golden-brown hair was unruly, scattered around his face. His wings, his poor broken little wings, were still there, on his back, split in half, but now they were human-sized wings, beautiful even in their destruction, like an ancient stained-glass window that had survived a war.
To Kim's surprise, and even Chay's, Chay began to breathe and cough, dazed, weak, and confused.
"Chay?" Kim's voice came out curiously.
Chay's eyes opened. They were still brown, huge, and full of innocence. He blinked, confused. He tried to move and groaned in pain, and his broken wings were aching terribly.
“P’Kim,” his voice was no longer a tinkling sound. It was a human voice, soft and a little mischievous. “What happened? Why are you so big? No, wait…” He looked at his own hands. His hands were now as big as a human’s. “I’m the one who’s big? What…? How did this happen?!”
Chay tried to get up and immediately fell awkwardly, tumbling onto the rug. Kim rushed to catch him, wrapping his arms around him before he hit his head on the floor and hurt himself further. Naked and trembling, Chay snuggled fearfully against Kim's chest, lamenting the broken and painful wings that hung uselessly.
“You’re alive…” Kim whispered, his voice still wet with tears. He brushed the hair away from Chay’s face, looked into his eyes, touched his cheek with his fingertips, as if needing to confirm it was real. “You’re alive. You fool. You bright little fool!”
"I'm sorry about my wings. They broke. But the piano... the piano is magical. You'll be able to compose now!"
“Screw the piano.” Kim interrupted him. “You almost left, Chay.”
“I’m sorry…” Chay raised his hand and touched Kim’s face. His fingers, now the size of human fingers, traced the jawline, the arch of his eyebrows, and the curve of his lips. “I just wanted you to see how beautiful the world is. And I didn’t know how to show you. So I gave what I had. My magic. My life. Because…” A rosy blush rose up his cheeks, just as it had when he was tiny. Kim noticed that the blush now spread across Chay’s human face, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his ears, and now even halfway up his wings.
"Because?" Kim asked.
Chay looked away, confused. Then he looked up again, and with the impulsiveness that had always characterized him, Chay leaned forward and stole a kiss from Kim.
It was a typical movement of a clumsy little fairy who had just gained a human body and didn't quite know how to use it. His forehead almost bumped against Kim's. His nose brushed against Kim's. And of course, his soft, warm, trembling lips touched Kim's. Immediately, Porchay recoiled, his face and wings ablaze.
“That…” he swallowed hard, his eyes wide as if he himself couldn’t believe what he had just done. “That was a kiss. I read about kisses in the books on your shelf. It says it’s a human way of showing… affection. Tenderness. Things like that. I just wanted… I wanted to thank you. For crying. For taking care of me. For letting me be your fairy godmother.”
"You stole a kiss from me," Kim said slowly, as if he were processing the information.
“I stole it!” Chay confirmed, and there was a shy pride in his voice, like a child who had just committed a mischief and didn’t know whether he would be punished or celebrated. “It was my first kiss. I hope it was good. I didn’t practice. There wasn’t time. It was kind of an impulse…”
Kim kept looking at him, at his flushed face, at his eyes that tried to look away but always returned to him, at his broken wings that were still the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
Then Kim smiled. At first, it was just a kind gesture, but the smile grew and grew until it became a full, genuine smile, lighting up Pochay's face.
“You’re ridiculous!” Kim said. “Absolutely ridiculous. You almost die, come back to life, become human again, break your wings, and the first thing you do is steal a kiss?”
“It was the most logical thing to do,” he defended himself. “I was going to thank you with words, but words are too complicated. Kisses are more direct and sincere. At least that’s what the book said. But if you didn’t like it, I can…”
"I liked it," Kim interrupted.
"Did you like it?"
Chay's smile was so bright it seemed to regain all the magic he had lost.
"So everything's alright?" Chay asked hopefully.
“Everything’s fine,” Kim replied. “Everything’s… more than fine.”