Mango.

It’s a scent of fresh air.

Which should be worrying when you’ve lived all your life in a place that’s permanently marked with piss. This is even more troubling when you opened your eyes and what lies before you is a bright blue sky instead of your usual depressing grey skies.

The scene before your eyes is one made from dreams. The sky is bright cerulean blues, tinted with fluffy white clouds here and there. Spread before you are myriads of trees, colourful clashes of leaves and unfamiliar fruits, yet a harmonious combination amongst each other. If your eyesight hasn’t betrayed you yet, four rivers flow from different parts of the area. Crystal blue water sparkles under the bright sun and different animals lounging nearby, looking refreshed as if the shine doesn’t betray the quality.

Where is this?

“Aye! She’s awake!”

You turn around to find a woman bounding towards you, ashy purple hair bouncing with joy while holding a tumbler of bubble tea. However, that’s nothing compared to the tiny wings attached to her head, flapping excitedly as this… woman crouched next to you.

“Hi! Are you in pain somewhere?” she asks, concern written all over her face.

“I’m… okay.”

The strange figure before you nods in satisfaction. They pursed their lips and asks, “What’s your name?”

You open your mouth to respond, but you’ve drawn a blank. You try again, this time with a stubborn certainty that you know your name. Sadly, your mind doesn’t supply any names.

Nothing.

There’s this cottony buzzing in your head when you try to recall your name. It writes off any attempt to recover your identity even as you wad through your earliest memory. Your parents’ voices were muffled, their faces blurry when they called your name. The name on your most recent transcript was written off, masked by these fuzzy black jumbled letters on the paper. Memories of identity cards and multiple voices ring in your head, but none of them breathes a single word of your name. You try recalling your friends, nicknames built over years of friendship – and still, nothing.

The stranger tilts their head and addresses you carefully, “You don’t know.”

The lodge in your chest becomes heavier. Your head spins a tad faster. Strength seems to have abandoned you in a hurry. You don’t feel any bones. Just a sizzle of freezing ice pumping through you, drowning you. Your stomach seems to agree that this is an excellent moment to spew your lunch, but even the smallest of mercy hasn’t left you this privilege.

The stranger seems to know this and pats your shoulder in genuine empathy.

You turn towards them and asks, “Where am I?”

“Well, we call this place Eden.”

“Really.”

The stranger shrugs, but a knowing smirk appears on their face.

“Then, I reckon my chance of going home is slim, huh.”

“I wouldn’t say slim….”

“Yes, basically nonexistent,” you reply, dry and acquiesce. “Okay, so what can I do here?”

A brief pause and then, “What.”

“This looks like a forest with a myriad of plant varieties I’ve never seen before, so I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I assume you do have training for people who clearly have no idea what the hell they’re doing so—”

“Hang on,” the stranger interrupted you. “What… do you think you’re gonna uh, do?”

“I’ve got no clue. Aren’t you supposed to tell me or something?” You raised your brow at them and now going just a tiny bit wary of whatever this establishment is. From experience, if someone who’s clearly been here a while has no idea, then they’re very doomed.

“Uh, well, yes, but usually my participants are a tad more… panicky, I guess?” The stranger sipped their bubble tea, which turned… purple?

Huh.

Great. Another seedy establishment with dodgy management. You squint your eyes and feels a twitch at the corner of your mouth.

“Wait, so—I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I never said.”

“Okay, but can I ask for your name?”

“Naw,” the stranger tilted their hair with a bright smile. You want to smash your head to the ground. “It’s not really fair that I have a name and you don’t, hey?”

“Honestly, it’s the least of my problems right now, but yes, the lack of names ticked me off somewhat.”

They laughed, excited and wild as they jumped into your face. Christ, and you thought the extroverts had been the absolute worst.

“Alrighty then! I’ll give you a name!” they hum, lips pursed and a finger tapping on their chin. At this point, you’re exhausted, and the grass looks comfortable enough to swallow you whole.

“How about Mango?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll take it,” you shrug, trying to be cool. Seconds pass, and your curiosity wins. “Can I ask why, though?”

“You’re vivid,” the stranger smiles, so genuinely raw because you look away. You tell yourself it’s because you hate compliments; they’re strange, murky words that can be either weaponised or full of pity. You’re a lucky one if you ever receive them for free. You hate it, but the stranger doesn’t seem to catch your discomfort because they continue, “You like helping people. You’re full of joy. Your humour is incredible. And I think you’re a literal sun—”

“God, sorry I asked,” you frantically wave your hand, flustered at the array of words. “Okay, yes, hi, I’m Mango. What’s your name?”

“Hi, Mango, my name’s Abijah, but—” the stranger amends at your judgey raised eyebrow. “You can call me Abi.”

“Sure thing, Abs,” the strange scoffs, perhaps insulted. You might amend that nickname later. “What am I supposed to be doing here? Again, emphasising at the idea that you seem to know what’s happening?”

The stranger smiles and stands, shaking your hand with boundless excitement that doesn’t seem to dissipate. Internally, you think it’s adorable, but since this is a stranger, you hold your tongue from making any comments. They let go and walk away, motioning you to come.

“Alright, Mango! Just follow me!”

You really, really shouldn’t. The entire thing has been very dodgy so far, and here you are with a complete lunatic of a stranger with two wings on their head and their weird bubble tea that changes flavour every time you pay attention and this… this Eden thing is so very suspicious, you’re not even sure where to begin. Even this entire situation is bizarre. How did you even manage to get here? How come you couldn’t remember your name and yet, the memories of yesterday are fresh in your mind? And who in the living fresh is this stranger? Legitimate emotional questions, really.

Yet, you follow still, “Because really, you’ve got nothing to lose at this point, haven’t you?”

No, you answer the new echo. You’ve got nothing on you. Not a single thing is precious to you anymore. Life has, indeed, been a cruel mistress to you.

So Mango follows Abijah to the unknown.

Abijah leads her to a level pathway strewn with various flowers and herbs in between. Mango only recognises a handful of them; smiling at the tall sunflower that seems to greet them warmly as they walk past, throwing a curious look at the carrion flower that sits innocently around a circle of white daisies, and somewhat compelled to nod at the calla lily that almost trip her. So far, none of the plants jumps out to sing or wave at her – small mercies never-ending, indeed – but Mango finds Abijah intriguing.

There’s this oddly calming effect that sweeps you off your feet when you’re with Abijah. It’s the way this stranger welcomes you whole-heartedly with a big smile and wit but actions laced with care and patience. Mango can’t place her finger on it. Even as Abijah walks and leads her with an occasional warning to her steps, not once the tone was laced with a commanding force, and yet, the compliance to Abijah’s alerts made you feel rewarded. It makes you think you’re indulging in a pleasurable experience instead of the typical consequential sequence you experience. And the way their surroundings seem to respond to Abijah cheerfully is another mystery on its own.

Who in the blazes is this person?

“Here we are!”

In front of them is a pathway leading to a rickety bridge with a cottage on the other side. The dark wooden bridge was adorned with little vines, tiny white flowers sprouting all over the handrails. The wooden deck doesn’t look better, especially with poorly placed planks and random mushrooms planted at the edges. Ahead, the cottage stands in a frighteningly similar state to the prelusion bridge. Tall trees surround the sad building, but the chokehold vines of flowers around the wooden structure make the perfect picture of a pathetic attempt to brighten up the cottage. The bushes of wildflowers do help with the colour schemes. However, the choir of rustling leaves and the steady hum of the creek below don’t really support the safe environment you’re trying to picture.

A heavy sigh escapes before Mango can swallow it, making Abijah turn around with a snicker. She smiles sheepishly at being caught, doing the signature double chin with an awkward smile. Abijah bursts into a full laugh at the display and motions Mango to come along.

“Okay, this might sound embarrassing,” Mango stops Abijah before taking another step towards the bridge. “You need to hold my hand when we cross this bridge. Please.”

Abijah laughs, gleeful but not unkind, “Come on, then.”

“Thank you,” for not teasing me.

Abijah offered a hand when they’ve reached the bridge. Mango inhales quickly and takes the offered hand, stepping tentatively on the first plank. When the first step doesn’t send Mango plunging to nothingness, she looks up and finds Abijah’s reassuring smile. Mango chews her lips and suddenly jumps towards Abijah, who makes a low shriek at being pulled.

Mango lands next to Abijah, amber eyes wide in wonder when the plank doesn’t crumble. She stomps again with both feet, jaw hanging at the resounding thunk the plank made. Abijah smiles with an eye roll, tugging her to move along because they’re not here to be amazed at a bridge—

“Which was probably made out of ebony, I don’t know, can’t remember,” Abijah says.

Mango snorts, “No way. Ebonies aren’t that strong. I’d say it’s mahogany.”

The corner of Abijah’s lips quirk, “Uh-huh, and you know a lot about wood, huh?”

Mango snaps her mouth shut, a heavy weight lodged in her chest.

Abijah skipped towards the entrance’s pathway with arms wide open and a huge prideful smile when they reached the cottage. Mango snorts, but she understands the pride of this beautiful building in front of them. The missing sunray now looms over the cottage, highlighting the chock-full of greenery. Vines peppered with various flowers dance all over the wooden walls, while the bushes and wildflowers are content to stay near the entrance and underneath the windows. When Abijah steps closer to the door, the greenery seems to hum louder, the tall trees dance in greeting, and the creek echoes a splash. Mango assumed someone else must be coming, but the silence that follows shuts her early assumption.

The gentle jingle of keys snaps her attention back to Abijah, opening the thick wooden door with ease. Smiling at the interior of the cottage, Abijah turns to Mango and says, “Come in, come in! I’ve got so many things to show you!”

She really should’ve learnt her lesson too, if any of the last moments with Abijah can teach her anything. What had been a modest cottage setting Mango had glimpsed shifts into an elegant display of a vintage hotel. A simple gold chandelier gently illuminates the room, letting the natural daylight does its best work. The round wooden tables stand proudly with a gold band decorating their edges while the chairs mirror its table companion faithfully. However, the main spotlight of the room is the bar. It commands most of the space with ornate ruby linings coupled with stools made out of mahogany. The smooth gloss finish reflects the incandescent display of concoctions and bottles shelved on a glass sapphire.

“Pretty, right?” Abijah nudges, hands on hips with a beaming smile, looking like a proud parent.

“Yes, of course. But isn’t this a little, oh I don’t know, too much?” Mango breathes out.

“Oh, definitely not. I only give the best for my best, you know?”

“Right. I’m assuming I won’t be the only one here?”

Abijah smiles much wider if it’s even possible, “I’ll be here too!”

God, Lord almighty, “Right. So, what is this place exactly?”

“Hm, well, long story short, I haven’t gotten a name for it yet. But what do you think?”

“Er, I don’t know? It looks like those fancy vintage hotels where I’m from.”

“Cool, we’ll call this place ‘The Bar’ then!” Abijah nods, satisfied with the half-formed answer. “All right, so! Questions or any kind? I can start explaining right away, but I just wanted to see where your brain’s at right now, so go for it!”

“I don’t have any questions because I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, Abijah.”

“Yeah, sure, but is there any other questions you want to ask?” Abijah wiggles their eyebrows.

Of course. Of course, there are a billion questions Mango wants to ask. How can there be none? Even from the moment she awakened, questions brew inside her like swirling, suffocating storm clouds. Abijah has been very kind, answering as much as possible, but Mango knows from experience that no establishment has never been great at transparency. So she swallows her questions, trusting her gut and says the closest thing to truth, “No. I’ve got nothing.”

Abijah blinks, bemused, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now explain to me what in the seven blazes this place is and what I can do here.”

“Uh, yeah. Do you want some tea first? English breakfast? Or would you prefer orange and cinnamon for the day?” Abijah asks, motioning for her to sit while walking behind the bar.

“I’ll take the English brekkie, please. Thank you, Abijah.”

Abijah pops out from underneath a bar with a cerulean teapot and matching tray. The colour is gorgeous, exactly like the colour of the sky and the way its material reflects the movement of the clouds as Abijah move around is a work of art. The teapot seems to be this translucent porcelain material as water pours into it, sparkling with entrancing beauty even as the water boils—

“Wh—how?” Mango points at the teapot.

Abijah’s head tilted, purple eyes following Mango’s finger, “Oh! That. I made the teapot self-boil, makes life easier, you know? Besides, our patrons can reboil this themselves without having us do it. And, not to mention—”

“Abijah, what the hell is this place? Am I still on earth? Because self-boiling teapot is not a thing and not to mention that teapot’s material definitely does not exist—or perhaps it’s just a porcelain material that I miss, but still—”

“The teapot is the one that tips you off?!”

“Yes?! That’s not normal!” Mango’s voice rises.

Abijah mutters, fingers massaging an area between the eyebrows and eyes clamped. Then Abijah sighs deeply, pouring a cup and taking out a deep blue glass-like coaster to place the cup in front of Mango.

“Drink first—and swallow it,” Abijah commands. “I won’t have you spit on my face.”

Mango takes the porcelain cup, material smooth and cool in her hands. Her assumption was correct; it’s high-quality porcelain, somehow crafted into this translucent porcelain finish with a shine that contains glittery dust over it. Another thing that throws her off is the way the glitter dust moves. It circles the cup calmly, moving in an upward direction as if it’s imitating the puff of steam from the tea.

It’s beautiful.

She knows. She understands that she should be more suspicious. Even from the start it had been unfamiliar, unearthly. The sky, the rivers, the animals, the plants, Abijah. Everything is unnaturally beautiful. And Mango had been trained to know beauty and create appeal for an audience. She knows beauty, knows how to weave it with her technology and manipulation and words. Mango understands what beauty should look, sells it for a living, manipulates it into existence, and entices an entire population with breathless promises. And another thing about being well-versed in beauty is that you learn how to differentiate between pure, unadulterated beauty and artificial ones. Mango’s encounter with the former had been extremely rare. Few exist here and there, but Mango knows by heart that these are rarely welcomed with open hands. This is why people like her exist: to broil down the indescribable into something digestible for all audiences.

Here, she’s spoiled. Suspicion is far from her mind as she feasts on every colour, every glint, every detail. What she made is nothing compared to this… entire “thing.”

Mango understands why Abijah is frustrated at the teapot reaction. But Mango also knows that Abijah is showing off, which was why she avoids pouring out compliments. Indeed, the teapot reaction is… more dramatic than Mango anticipated, but goodness gracious. It’s a rare moment when you see a pure, unadulterated work of art that’s also practical. There’s this tingle between your fingers, hungry to touch, to investigate. Curiosity then turns into a deep appreciation, warm addiction shooting signals to your brain to want, to own.

And don’t we all know what “want” can turn someone into?

“Alright,” Abijah lets a marbled bottle made a loud thud on the counter. “I wanna be so mad at you, but I know it’s practically a delicacy for you to see pretty things that are like, functional—ugh, I’m still mad—but anyway! Question away, my dear Mango. Hit me.”

Abijah says all of this while taking out a bright pink glass, pouring the content of the marble bottle generously. The liquid is a shiny burgundy colour, deep and thick. However, what catches Mango’s attention is the pink glass which, instead of its elegant pink before the liquid was poured, shifts into an unhealthy purple as the glass turns foggier by the second. Abijah notices this too and grimaces. Gagging at the display, Abijah pours the entire content of the glass into a gold sink and, with a wave of a hand, banished a whole bottle into nothingness.

Mango sips her tea quietly.

“Oh, come on!” Abijah throws both hands into the air in blatant frustration. “I just made an entire concoction disappear and you blink at me?!”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Mango clears her throat before making an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God! It disappears!”

“You’re the absolute worst.”

Mango nods, “Thanks.”

With a roll of eyes, Abijah disappears to grab another bottle and glass. This time, the bottle is an orange marble with flecks of gold. Abijah pours the content generously as well, but instead of turning into a depressing purple shade, the pink glass stays transparent but shimmery lines of white and gold slowly appears, circling the glass just like what Mango’s cup did before. Abijah groans in relief and immediately downs the entire glass in one gulp. Mango realises too late that the liquid must have been alcoholic.

“Okay, questions,” Abijah begins.

Mango shrugs, “I have nothing.”

“You balked at a self-boiling teapot. I know you have questions.”

Mango places her cup down, tapping her chin. Then she turns to Abijah and says, “Then teach me how to serve the patrons here.”

Abijah blinks.

“Show me how things work here. I don’t know about the self-boiling teapot, so there’s probably one billion things I don’t know about your appliances and other working utensils,” Mango barrels on. “I wanna help you make this place into… uh, whatever it is that you want it to be.”

Abijah shoots her this look and says, “And what if I ask you to take care of the people? What if my plan is to restore the people I’m serving?”

“That’s an odd choice of word.”

“I meant every word.”

Mango bristles at Abijah’s words. Suddenly, a weight pulls her lungs, ready to trample her entire stomach at any moment now.

Abijah was right: Mango is inept at taking care of people. She’s never done it – never got involved emotionally with her loved ones, never let any flood of emotions pour. The usual “fake-it-til-you-make-it” way is a terrible method for this context. She couldn’t do that, not to the people that have made this place special in their hearts.

“Well, you’ve got nothing to lose now, haven’t you?”

The echo is right, too: Mango is no one here. No special skills to defend herself, no unique talent to propel herself forward nor upward. She is simply a Mango who lost her name and has nothing to compensate for.

Mango only has a heart to go on from.

“I can’t do it,” Mango sighs at her cup. “I’ve never done it before and I’m sure one hundred percent I’ll fail. I’m socially inept and it takes a while for me to warm up to strangers. I’m reckless because I’m the type to go headfirst-eyes-closed. I’ll probably break some of your stuff,” Mango inhales deep, nerve dancing at the tip of her fingers. “But I still want to help. That’s all I ever want to do. That’s why I want you to teach me everything because I know this place means a lot to you. You’re very proud of it – proud of every detail that you put in here. And I don’t know why yet, but seeing as I’ve got nothing to lose, I’m more than happy to help you.”

“You don’t even know what I do here,” Abijah leans back, arms crossed with a sceptical expression. “What if I’m actually running something else?”

“No, you don’t,” Mango blurts before thinking. “Uh, sorry. Gut reaction. But you’re right. I don’t know anything and I’m basically saying yes if you want to exploit me.”

Abijah squints, lips dropping downwards even further, “That’s very stupid of you.”

Mango shrugs, “Eh. My guts have never been wrong about people. I’m sure if you’re suspicious, I’d make some flimsy excuse to get out, but so far, I’m here.”

“Alright,” Abijah moves forward, handing a deep blue aluminium bottle to Mango. “Now drink.”

“In one go?”

“Yes. You have to finish it.”

Mango sighs, “It’s vile, isn’t it?”

Abijah’s playful smile returns and slides a white plate towards her. On it was a single cracker.

“And I have to eat this too?”

Abijah nods, “I promise it’s good food.”

Mango tilted her head back with a groan and opened the bottle cap. She leans forward to catch a sniff and immediately presses her lips tightly. The mixture of tangy and pungent scent assaulted her nose, dizzying and irritating her senses. Wouldn’t it be easier to just close this cap and forget whatever it is that she just said. Then, she can just move forward to whatever Abijah thinks is better for her instead of offering herself to whatever this is.

All because this liquid is just putrid.

And Mango curses herself because she’s stubborn with pride the size of a small tree, drinks the entire content of the bottle in big gulps until the final drop hits her tongue, replaces the cap back on, and shoves the bottle back to Abijah. Mango swiftly grabs the cracker, trying not to let a single drop of vomit pour from her lips.

The cracker is straightforward; dry and plain as the Sahara. When she swallowed it, the broken pieces bring sweetness as its parting gift. Mango’s expression must’ve been amusing, because Abijah giggles and claps excitedly.

“Hoho! Well done, you! I knew you can do it!”

Mango glares.

“Just so you know, that was to protect you from demons! Just in case some of them do try something stupid when I’m not here,” Abijah smiles. “You can keep the bottle. I’ll teach you how to make a purifying concoction today.”

Demons? Mango hasn’t turned deaf because of that awful liquid, right?

“Right, now get down from there and I’ll show you what’s behind here….”