Campus gates rose ahead—tall brick arches, wrought-iron curls like fancy jail bars. Expectations hung invisible in the air, thick as fog. Moon paused at the threshold, tugging her scarf straight. Took a deep breath—crisp winter bite, laced with distant leaf-mulch and coffee carts.
One last trace of that scent clung to her sweater—warm, sweet, fleeting—like a promise whispered on the wind. It brushed her nose, soft as a sigh, before melting into the chill.
She walked on, toward the math hall, unaware the world had already tilted—just a hair. A crack in the ordinary. The first petal falling.
By the time Moon hit the math building doors, her lungs burned from the half-run across campus. Hair plastered to her forehead in damp curls, breath puffing white clouds into the biting air. Please... just this once... let the clock be wrong.
She whispered it like a prayer, fingers fumbling the heavy handle. "Please be late too... please be late too..."
No dice.
The door creaked open—slow, like it was in on the joke—and thirty pairs of eyes snapped her way. The room froze mid-breath. Professor Wáng paused, chalk hovering mid-air over the board, his wire-rim glasses glinting under the fluorescents like tiny daggers.
He turned. Slow. Glanced.
"Miss Moon."
His voice sliced clean through the hush, sharp as a snapped pencil.
Moon locked up in the doorway, backpack sliding down her arm like dead weight. Heat flooded her face—oh god, not the full room stare.
"Uh... g-good morning, professor." Her words trembled out, thin as tissue.
He tapped the chalk once—tap—against the board. Dust puffed white. "You're late. Again."
The class held its collective breath. Moon bowed quick, a half-cringe, whispering frantic, "Sorry— Professor Wáng s-sorry, it was that —my alarm died and—the subway—"
One eyebrow curved, high and judging. "You have excuses for every hour of the day, Miss Moon. Take your seat."
Her gut twisted, dropping like a stone. Ouch. Right in the pride. She muttered under her breath, barely audible, "Yeah, okay, kick me while I'm caffeine-free... real classy."
"What was that?" Professor Wáng's head whipped back, voice a whip-crack.
Moon's eyes bugged wide. "Nothing! Sorry! Super sorry!" She waved her hands like white flags, cheeks sweltering.
Snickers rippled through the rows—soft at first, then bolder. A girl two seats up whispered way too loud: "She's always late. Like, clockwork fail."
The heat crawled up Moon's neck, prickling hot. Kill me now. She nodded her head, weaving through desks like a ghost on fire. "Please just swallow me, floor. I'm ready for it."
She dropped into her window seat—thump—heart hammering like a trapped bird. Notebook slapped open, pen gripped tight, hands still shaky. Okay. Breathe. Just... survive. Don't cry. Crying in math? That's next-level tragic.
Professor Wáng cleared his throat—dramatic, like clearing a stage—and dove back in. Chalk scraped the board: equations sprawling wild, numbers tangling like thorny vines. X's and Y's mocking her from afar.
Moon lifted her pen. Stared at the mess. You got this. Copy. Don't think.
But the second her eyes locked on—
Blur.
Not the soft kind, from tired lids. No. This was wrong. Numbers smeared like wet ink, stretching long, dissolving into gray fog. The board warped, edges curling in.
"H-huh?" Her whisper slipped out, tiny.
Breath hitched sharp. The room's noise—rustle of papers, scrape of chairs, tap-tap of impatient pens—faded to a distant hum. Like someone cranked the volume dial down... then off.
Vision tunnelled. Ears rang soft, a high whine. "No—no, not now—" She gripped the desk edge, knuckles whitening, nails digging wood.
And then—the scent.
Orchid. Warm. Sweet. Glowing soft, like sunlight trapped in petals.
It brushed her nose, light as a sigh, wrapping her tight. Not cloying. Gentle. Like arms she forgot how to need.
Her heart stuttered—ba-dump—racing wild. "What... is happening to me?" she breathed, voice a thread.
Everything cracked open.
FLASHBACK— Age 13: The Cupcake Lie
The board melted away. Chalk dust swirled to steam. The classroom dissolved—whoosh—into yellow light, dim and flickering.
Her kitchen. That kitchen. Years back, walls peeling faint, fridge humming old-man tired.
Tiny Moon hunched at the wobbly table—thirteen, all elbows and braids, eyes too big for her face. One smashed cupcake sat before her, store-bought frosting sagging under a single candle. Flame danced weak, wax dripping slow like tears.
The air hung heavy: vanilla sweet from the frosting, clashing with cold leftover rice in a pot on the stove—stale grains stuck, forgotten. Under it all, faint sour drawl of old cooking oil, greasy ghost from last night's takeout.
"Mom?" Little Moon called, voice soft, hopeful crack. "You coming? I waited..."
Silence answered. Clock ticked loud—tick-tock—mocking the quiet.
Door rattled open minutes later. Li Na shuffled in, purse tapping to the floor, coat shedding snow. Eyes glassy, hair frizzed wild. "Happy... whatever," she slurred, waving limp. "Eat it already. I'm tired."
Moon's smile bloomed anyway—small, stubborn flower. "I saved the candle for you. See? We can blow it together."
Her mom didn't look. Didn't sit. Just shuffled to the fridge, yanking it opens with a clang. Light spilled cold, catching the rice pot's shadow. "Candles are dumb. Life isn't a party, kid. Eat cold. Grow up."
Little Moon's lip quivered, but she held it. Leaned to the flame alone, whispering fierce: Please. Please see me. Please stay. Just this once.
The wick sputtered. Smoke curled up—thin, Gray sigh—twisting in the still air. Vanilla turned bitter on her tongue as she poked the frosting with a plastic fork. Crumbs fell soft. Rice smell clung, sour regret. Mom vanished to the couch, TV flickering blue. Door between them shut with a click.
Little Moon sat there till the wax pooled, flame gone. Thirteen, and the hollow started—quiet seed in her chest. Endure, she told the dark. Tomorrow's better. Always is.
BACK TO CLASS —
Moon gasped—air rushing back like a slap. The memory slammed her ribs, heavy brick. She squeezed her eyes shut, whispering frantic, "Stop—please stop—not now—"
Tap on her shoulder—light, hesitant.
"Hey... you okay?" The girl beside her—short bob, kind eyes—leaned close, voice a hush. "You look... ghosty."
Moon jolted upright, blinking wild. The blur clung faint at the edges, but the room sharpened—professor's voice booming distant, numbers steadying on the board. "Y-yeah! Totally. Just... dizzy spell. Low blood sugar? Ha. I'm fine."
She wasn't. Not even close. The orchid scent lingered, warm puff against her cheek—like it pitied her. Or mocked.
The girl tilted her head, brow furrow soft. "Sure? You went all... spaced-out. Want water?"
Moon forced a grin—wobbly, fake as the icing. "Nah, I'm good. Promise. Thanks, though." Liar. Run.
Class dragged on, Professor Wáng's drone a blur of integrals and limits. Moon scratched notes—messy loops, ink smudged—but her hands wouldn't settle. Pen slipped once, twice. Get it together. Don't crack here. Not with eyes on you.
She flicked her gaze to the window—desperate gasp for air. Outside: bare trees clawing Gray sky, students hustling quad-ward in bundled herds. Normal. Safe.
But then—
A shimmer. Tiny. Impossible.
A petal floated past the glass. White. Edges silver-glow, like frost kissed by stars. Drifting lazy, defying wind.
Moon's lips parted—breath caught. "No way."
Another joined—soft twirl, ethereal dance. Brushed the pane, gone in a blink.
The orchid deepened—warm breeze ghosting her skin, sweet pull in her lungs. Her fingers twitched on the desk, rising slow, like drawn to flame. "Someone... tell me I'm not seeing this," she whispered, voice thread-thin.
The petals—they—glowed brighter for a heartbeat. As if hearing. Calling.
Then—poof. Vanished. Air still.
Moon sucked in a ragged breath, hand dropping limp. "Okay. Officially losing it." Shaky laugh bubbled, half-hysteria. "Magic petals? On top of broke, unemployed, birthday-ruined? Universe, you win. Gold star for cruelty."
The girl beside her glanced over, earbud dangling. "Did you... say something weird?"
Moon plastered on the smile—pro-level fake. "Nope! Just internal monologue. You know, the fun kind. 'Buy milk' and 'why me'."
The girl giggled soft, turning back. Class bell rang—ding-ding—mercy chime.
Moon shoved her notebook shut, backpack zipping desperate. Sling it over shoulder, bolt for the door amid the shuffle. Hallway hit—cool rush, chatter swarm. She leaned against lockers, chest heaving. What was that? Petals? Scent? Mom's ghost?
Outside the Classroom
Moon burst through the math building doors like she'd been shot from a cannon—notebook clutched to her chest like a shield, cheeks still burning from Professor Wáng's glare. The hallway chatter hit her in waves: laughs sharp as knives, footsteps thumping like distant drums. Students streamed past, bundled in scarves and hoods, breaths fogging the air in little white bursts.
Breathe. Just... breathe. She pressed a hand to the cool brick wall, eyes squeezing shut for one stolen second. The orchid scent ghosted faint—sweet whisper against the hallway's stale coffee and chalk dust—but it slipped away quick, leaving her alone with the ache.
"Next stop... work," she murmured to herself, voice barely above the shuffle. "Please. Please don't let anything else go wrong today. I can't take one more hit."
Her phone buzzed—sharp, insistent—in her pocket. She yanked it out, heart flipping hopeful. Wèi Chén? Birthday ping? Anything?
Nope. Just the calendar app, glowing smug: Shift: 2 PM – 7 PM. Brew Haven.
Moon let out a long, defeated sigh, fogging the screen. "Okay. Work. I can do that much. Pour coffee. Smile fake. Survive." She tugged her scarf tighter, the wool scratching her neck like a bad omen, and pushed off the wall. Feet carried her down the steps, into the Gray afternoon bite. One foot. Then the other. That's all.
Disclaimer
This story is a fan fiction inspired by The Apothecary Diaries. All canon characters, settings, and elements from the original work belong to their rightful creators.Moon, the storyline she follows, and all original scenes are my own creations. This is a non-commercial, fan-made project written purely for enjoyment. No copyright infringement is intended.