The "happy" Zhang Ming went to the kitchen himself and cooked everyone an exquisite meal, eating his fill as well.
"Even a last meal should have some style."
After eating his fill, Zhang Ming returned to his room.
Under the pale yellow light, he began cleaning.
Zhang Ming was a nostalgic person. Every so often, he tidied his room to keep it from getting too messy.
The floor, walls, and beams were all built from metasequoia wood from Turtle Island. Two hundred years had slipped by just like that, and even though the ship had been well maintained, traces of rot had still appeared.
The only window stood open. The setting sun, about to sink below the horizon, the lights on the deck, and occasional gusts of cold wind came in through it.
As the day ended, a sparse drizzle quietly fell from the sky. White clouds slowly turned into banks of dark clouds, roaming across the rose-red horizon.
A moth had gotten soaked in the grass and flown beneath the eaves with all its strength.
Much of the powder on its wings had been knocked off. Just before it collapsed, it finally found somewhere sheltered from the wind and rain, cautiously breathing in the atmosphere of everyday life there.
This truly was a little ship that had been through so very much. It was still working, still serving as the home of an indigenous trading caravan. If one listened closely, laughter could still be heard.
Happiness was simple, yet difficult. It depended on just how much one asked for. The more one needed, perhaps the harder happiness became.
The objects in the room were a jumble too. Left untended for a while, they had piled up here and there on the desk and in the corners.
Suddenly, deep inside