CHILDREN WERE FICKLE and fleeting creatures. I had known that in my last life, and I recognized it all over again now.
I remembered what this day had looked like before. Lumi in a depressive slump, closed off from the world, refusing food and daylight. When I had tried to reach her she had looked somewhere past my face, as though I were furniture she had learned to navigate around.
And yet here she was , six years old, watching me with an expression of misplaced maturity, as though it were her job to make sure I was alright.
I wish I could understand you, Lumi. The thought moved through me without quite meaning to. Wouldn't it make everything easier to know exactly what you need, what you dream of, what you're afraid of?
It would, Dad.
"H-huh?"
I looked around the room. The lights were still off. Nothing had shifted. No supernatural presence I could account for. It was only the warmth of Lumi sitting close, only the glimmer of her eyes in the dark.
"Fi-ckle," she said aloud, drawing out the syllables with poorly concealed delight. "It sounds like tickle."
That was exactly what I had been thinking.
I stared at her.
How could she have known?
Lumi—
"Hi, Dad." A small pause. "Can you hear me?"
I lurched backwards. She pouted immediately.
"I'm not a ghost. I'm Lumi."
There was no rational explanation. I thought it over and over and came up empty, and then I stopped trying, because she was climbing into my arms with the focused determination of someone who had already decided this was happening, and the moment her small, warm weight settled against me, I forgot what thinking was for.
I understand, Dad. You were in a lot of hurt too. Not bruised. Not bleeding. Hurt in the heart.
Hey — Dad — why are you crying?
I pressed my face into the top of her head, into the worn fabric of her oversized shirt, and said nothing for a moment.
Sorry, dumpling. That got away from me. Dad is just—happy. So happy.
Happy? Why?
Because I can understand you. Because I can help you.
She pressed closer. Deliberately. I was certain of it. My arms tightened around her until she let out a small, involuntary sound of protest.
I also want to help Dad achieve his dreams.
"You want to help Dad help you achieve your dreams?"
"Eh?"
Her head tipped back like a dizzy bird's who flew into a building. Round eyes, full of bewildered surprise. I pulled back and flicked her nose.
"Silly dumpling."
Something's wrong. Is Dad saying good things about me, or bad things?
"Good things. Extraordinarily good things about my adorable dummy dumpling."
My dream is to make Dad's dream come true. But Dad's dream is to make my dream come true. How can this be? Do I have to let him make my dream come true first?
I smiled. I couldn't help it.
"Yes, dumpling." I adjusted her in my arms. "So tell me. Why do you want to sing?"
I expected something sweet and guileless. What I got instead was a faint, involuntary grimace that came there and gone, and then her face going carefully neutral in a way that was too deliberate for a six-year-old.
Lumi?
I kind of don't like that question, Dad.
She lowered her head.
I gathered her back in. Tell me. Why don't you want me to know?
I saw in your mind. Singers have to sing in front of people. So many people.
That's because you haven't met enough people yet, dumpling. It's not that you don't like singing. It's that you don't know people yet.
I...
You can sing about whatever you like. The rain. The thunder. That butterfly you once saw through the window.
A long pause.
That's... em-barr-a-ssing.
Wanting something is not embarrassing. Chasing it is not embarrassing.
Another pause. Longer this time.
It feels like you want this more than I do. She pulled back just enough to look at me. Why do you want me to be a singer, Dad?
Because it's your dream.
She broke free of the embrace entirely. That face, the one that had no business being accusatory and yet somehow was, turned up toward mine.
"You're lying, Dad. You're hiding something." She pressed a hand flat to her chest. "I can feel it."
I exhaled slowly.
"I kind of don't like this, dumpling."
This telepathy was extraordinary, and it was a trap. There was no privacy. No shelter of implication. Whatever I carried, she would carry too, whether or not I gave her words for it.
"In that case," I murmured, "it's better to say everything."
I want you to be loved by people, baby dumpling. By all people.
You want to sing and to dance. You want to be an idol, and I want you to be a superstar.
I want to see the whole world scream your name. I want people to spend every day with your voice in their ears, with your face in their minds, wishing they could be closer to you.
I want you to be so loved, so completely, overwhelmingly loved, that it will always remind you, every time, that I love you more.
Silence.
Then a dampness at the hem of my trousers. I threw my arms out in a panic.
D-dumpling, don't cry!
She had raised her head. Her eyes were wet and bright and perfectly clear.
"Lumi was only..." she began, and then smiled, small and certain. "Happy. So happy."
My arms hung in the air, inches from her shoulders.
Please, Dad, she said, without speaking. Make me a superstar.
I pulled her in.
My dreams are your dreams because my happiness is your happiness. It doesn't matter which comes first.