THESPIRE
2026LiteraryMagazine
The Spire is The Governor’s Academy student literary magazine. Students submit their short stories and poetry to student editors who then decide which entries will be published. The Spire has been a voice for student literary creativity since1966.
Winners of the Murphy Mercer Short Story and Poetry Contest are also included in The Spire. The A. MacDonald Murphy Short Storyand Thomas McClary Mercer Poetry Contest was created more than two decades ago tohonortheworkofthe two English masters, whose combined service to the Academy totaled more than 65 years, and to encourage students’ pursuit of creative writing. Students submit entries which are read and voted upon by the English Department. First prize winners in each category
receive a book prize and their works appear in the annual publications of TheSpireeachspring.
StudentEditors:
ReneeTse‘26
ScarlettZhao‘26
AdityaShrivastava‘26
AnjaSuomi‘27
LanaHardin‘27
BellaDuong‘27
EnglishDepartment
FacultyAdvisor:
TomRobertsonP’16,‘19,‘24
CoverImage: Anomaly
JennyHwang‘27
Specialthankstofacultyandstaffin thedepartmentsofEnglish, Arts, andCommunications.
2026FirstPlace
TheDistanceWeCarry
Renee Tse ‘26
I.ARedTaxi
I haul my three looming suitcases to the curb as the car screeches to a halt. The driver doesn’t get out. I heave them intothetrunkmyself,thefamiliar strain in my shoulders–the first welcome this city gives. Inside, the suffocating, pungent smell of leather basks in all the sunlight reflected off the passenger windows. Ah, the smell of my city. My city where I don’t belong.Mycitythatdespisesme.
“落車”(Getoffthecar).
I hand the driver a worn blue bill, muttering in a lousy accent: “唔該晒” (Thankyou).
II.Toholdaroomthatisn’tyours
Chair.Corner.Leather. Worn.
Notmine.Neverwas. Isitanyway.
She walks in, walking stick in hand, the small wooden heel clickinginsync with the pulse of my heart.Istraighten up, hands numbly stacked on each other as I prepare to face her gaze. It doesn’t come. She looks through me, towards the other side of Victoria Harbour.Hereyesarethecolourofold chrysanthemum tea. They hold the roominawayInevercan.
“你食咗飯未?”(Haveyoueaten?) “Notyet.”
Great-grandmother taps her walking stick, walking to the corner cabinet as shehandsmestickyriceenvelopedina lotus leaf. I unwrap the moist string, revealing a golden brown rectangle of rice, chicken and diced mushrooms. The aroma glides across every vein of my being, temporarily erasing the estrangement dangling in the air. For a brief moment, my thoughts guide me back to the smell of jasmine andsmog of Shanghai, where I feel most at home.
III. He says his veins are coiled aroundhisheart,1979
There is a hierarchy at the dinner table. My grandfather lifts his chopsticks first. Then, like dominoes, my parents, then my sister and I, follow suit. My sister and I are silent, burying our heads in little, steaming translucent-white pearls. I had mastered the art of folding into myself, learning to stay quiet and to be less a burden to my family To be someone my sister can depend on, to be someone that would make my family proud.
Mother and father argue a lot. It seems to have taken up all the silence. I would rather have had silence. In this household, love is debt. To be proud of me is to relieve a little of the debt. So I will be quiet. I will be good. Then the numbers would add up and the debt would seem less burdensome. My veins are not veins; they are coils of wire, tight around my heart, keeping it from beating too loud, from asking too much.
IV.Tse
Our last name is Tse. In Chinese, 謝 (Tse) translates to thanks. A word that we all strive to live by, yet also
ironically the one never spoken at home.
V.Blueprint
I inherit the same silence from my father. The way a wound inherits the shape of what made it. The same hound-like instincttoprotecteveryone, the same frustrationwhenarguingwith each other about the most trivial things, the same stubborn pride that pushes us away from each other like magnets turned the wrong way. The coils of wire around his heart had becomeawallbetweenus.
VI.Speaknothing
My father fills my mother’s rice bowl. My mother leaves me neatly-cut peaches on my desk. I bring back a magnet for my brotherfromeverynew place I go. We speak of nothing, yet somehowthereiseverything.
In art, negative space shapes the subject.
In my family, unspoken words carve theshapeofourlove.
VII.Thelinesonmyhands
Great-grandmotherfindsmeonthe balcony, Hong Kong laid beneath us like a jewelry box spilled wide open.
She takes my hands in hers, her bony fingerstracingthelinesonmypalm.
“你有佢雙手” (You have his hands).
“咁多愛，冇地方畀” (So much loveandnowheretoputit).
I look up. This is the first timewe have ever been this close. I see the silver threaded through her hair, fine lines etched with memory, each wrinkle a dried riverbed where tendernessusedtoflow.
She tells me about the beginning, how Father grew up in allthefighting. “I raised my children poorly, and they, in turn, raised your father the same.”
Her gazefallsaway,eyelidspoolingup withtears,reddeningattherims.
“We fed them with what we had,” she whispers, “which was mostly absence.” A single tear escapes her eye, tracing the path of a dried riverbed.
IX.Wherelovelives
Iwatchthecityspreadbelowme, amosaicofarteriesandveins redtaxiroofspulsinglikeheartbeats
Ithinkofmyfather’shands
rough, scarred with blisters from cookingmyfavouritemeals handsthatrepaireverything but thesilence inbetweenus
Ithinkofmymother howsheremembersallthelittle things, the cut peaches that soften the sharpest parts of me, the hand-written instructions labeling each one of my medicinebottles
Noonethanksher
Inowknowofthelove the language I was taught to speak but never understood, the very silence I once thought was emptiness whenmyfatherwastryingtobuild thewholeworldforme
What did I know of love’s austere and lonelyoffices?
X.Epilogue
I zip my last suitcase shut. The sound is a full stop, an end to my school break. My father standsatthedoorway in my room, hands awkwardly in his pockets.
“Allset?”
“Ithinkso.” He nods, looking down at mysuitcase. Nowordscomeout.
The same red taxi awaits me outside.I slide inside. The taxi smell is just leather.Thecitydoesnotdespiseme.It simply is. I watch the city’s skyline recede behind me,thebuildingsslowly disappearing behind the rearview mirror.
At the airport, I am a single body in a river of goodbyes, surrounded byteary parents sending their children off too. Ahollowspaceopensinmychest.
Myphonebuzzes.It’sfromDad. Safe flight.
Two simple words. No emojis, no “love you,” just unadorned. But now I see it all. I see him checking the weather early in the morning, calculating the time traffic takes to get
to the airport. Iseehimwritingdowna note that detailsmytransferflightsand the “best time to sleep” ontheplaneto avoidjetlag.
The love was always there. It was the silence that I had mistaken for emptiness, when all long he was just givingmespace.
The boarding call echoes across the terminal. I stand, walking towards the gate.
He loved me all the way totheairport. He loves me all the way to the other side of the world. This is his first time being a father, and mine being a daughter. We are bothbeginnerstothis distance, learning to build a new kind ofclosenesstofillinthespacebetween us.
Distant Spires
AlexChen‘26
2026RunnerUp
TheMailman
Yuri Suh ‘29
I had never seen mail being put into the box nor being taken out. So when I slipped myfinishedcomicstrip into the tiny slit of the mailbox, I realized that it might not even get a chance to reach the editorial office. The envelopehitthebottominamuted ‘clunk,’ which bounced off the walls with a lonely crispness, the sound dampenedbynootherletter.
There wouldhavebeenamailman. Every morning, when the roads were empty, the mailman wouldhavedriven a red motorcycle from the post office, makingstopsateverymailboxintown. Even before stepping off from the foot pegs, he would have felt the box’s emptiness. In fact, its emptinesswould have felt so empty that he would have imagined: if it were not for the heavy metal the mailbox was made of, it would have floated away like a hot air balloon. Still, he wouldhaveinserteda key into the box’s keyhole. As the key’s ridgesliftedupthepins,hisheart would have hopped a little, imagining an envelope in the dark. As the pins settled into the key’s valleys,hewould have swallowed down the excitement, for his reason told him that would not bethecase.
But, one day, in one mailbox, he would have found an envelope–awkwardly, but carefullypackaged.An address to a magazine editorial office would have been written on it, each shaky pen stroke engraveddeeplyonto the paper. His pupils would have dilated, his breath would have quickened. He would have wheeled around to see if anyone was there to share this moment. Findingnoone,the mailman would have started his motorcycle. With a bag an envelope heavier, butaheartanenvelopelighter.
And the next morningandthemorning after, he would have continued his job of checking empty mailboxes– mostly empty.
Then there was me. Every week, when a children’s science magazine arrived at mydoor,Iravenouslyripped its packaging open. Running my fingers through the pages, gauging the exact thickness leading to the submissions section, I pictured my comic strip printed on the page. Opening the magazine, I told myself not to be so elated and make the disappointment more disappointing. Mostly, the section would be filled with unfamiliar comic strips labelled with names not mine. Was it because my comic strip wasn’t good enough or was it because it was never delivered?
The only way to find outwastoputan entry form into the mailbox every week and check the magazine the following week. EachtimeIslidanew envelope in, I strained my ears to dissect to the sound. Sometimes it seemed liketherewereotherenvelopes
that cushioned its fall, but sometimes the box seemed recently emptied. It was like a physical experiment of Schrodinger’s cat, only thatIcouldnot open the box to check if the cat was dead or alive– if the mailman existed ornot.
After eight excruciating series of mailing and waiting, my comic strip was published. Skimming through my comic, the readers would have never guessed thatittookamandailytripsto every single mailboxintownandagirl eight times of posting and seven times of disappointment.Thatthetwotended totheirquietrituals,carryingapurpose noonestoppedtoname.
Newburyport Skylines
BobbyLiu‘26
Under Kitchen Light
JoshuaXiang‘26
2026FirstPlace
TheInsandOuts
Willow Dixon ‘26
This wetland nurtures and neglects
The salt spreads flat like a hand
With veins that reach into the perimeter of
Byfield Its breath, a brine-scented breeze
Where herons balance
The ins and outs are
Patiently waiting and deliberately rushing
Half a dozen until it turns
Cradling roots in its palms and swallowing the grass line
Mud smoothed into mirrors where
Bountiful sky is reflected
Here, everything drowns and still
Thrives under the weight of saltwater
Like a thief slipping valuables from its pockets
Sudden, like breath cut short
The marsh is gutted, and the ribs are exposed
Suck and squelch under boot soles
Dragging you down
Then closes its fist without warning
Mussels gasping in their shells
Phragmites and marsh hay knotted and intertwined
A child’s lost sandal, soul lost in the muck
There are many treasures uncovered
But corroded, stripped, and unsentimental
It says “Nothing is yours”
Only borrowed until the tide takes it back
Pavement Gallery
AlexChen‘26
Nature’s Engine
CatPatton‘27
THOMASMCCLARYMERCERPOETRYCONTEST
2026RunnerUp
Uprooted
Tessa Borgatti
‘26
Windwhispersthroughmessypigtailsandscrapedknees
Asitgentlyrockstheswingthroughtheair.
Woodenlimbswoventogetherlikealivingcradle, Boughsneverbudging,trunkstandingstraightasasentinel
Keepingwatchoveritsyoung,recklesscharge.
Mysmallbodystrainsagainstitslimits, Legspumpinghigherandhigher,
Asifthebranchthatheldmyweightcouldsoarthroughthesky.
Myswing,mytree,mylilac-perfumedplayground.
Myspaceship,myplanet,mysmallbutunlimiteduniverse.
Suddenly,amechanicalroarslicesthroughtheearly-morningsilence.
Birdsonghaltsandthebreezeceases
AsIpressmyforeheadtomycold,glasswindow, Breathfoggingupmyviewasiftoblindfoldme
Fromthefellingofmytree.Iwatchtheswingflyonelasttime, Thenfalltotheground,leavesandbarkandbranchesintow.
Mytreeliestherelikeafallensoldier,stillandlifeless
Untilawhirringtruckdragsitaway,nevertobeseenagain.
Asyearspass,pigtailsarebrushedout,fallinginwavesdownmyback
Scrapedkneesheal,legsgrowlonger,wildnessistamed.
Throughoutitall,theghostofmytreelookson, Reducedtoastump,anunmarkedgravestone.
Spring
NicholasZhuo‘27
THOMASMCCLARYMERCERPOETRYCONTEST
2026RunnerUp
sicknessoftheheart
Caleb Kim ‘28
Mygrandfathergavemeasickness thoughwewerehundredsofmilesapart. Mysymptomsshowednofever,cough,orchills, yetIfeltIhadastakedrivenintomyheart.
Myfirstsymptomswereunclear: maybeIwasimmunetothepainofitall. ButIwasreallyjustremoved, interactingwiththeworldthroughthick,glasswalls.
Thensignsarose. Afatigueplaguedmysoul. Ihidmyselfinthetrenchesofsleep likeanostrichdigsitsheadintoahole.
Soonafter,Ithinkotherstooknotice. Filledwithabubblingandboilingrage, myemotionsspilledover andevenmylovedonesfacedtheangerwhichescapeditscage.
Finally,Islippedintoadeepdepression. EverywhereIlooked,darkcloudsovercastmysight. AndinmyblindnesstheonethingIstillcouldn’tdo wastodiagnosethesourceofmyplight.
Withtime,IknowIhealed. Ifoundawaytoreturntothenormalityofdays. Butsuchwerethesymptomsofthesickness mygrandfathergavetomewhenhepassedaway.
THOMASMCCLARYMERCERPOETRYCONTEST
2026RunnerUp
ViewfromtheWindowofaBus
Blanche Qian
‘28
Asycamoreleansoveragraveyard, shadowedstonestippedandcracked,leaning.
Isensethebreathofpassinglives
ButbehindthecarwindowIhearnothing
SoIsettlemyforeheadagainsttheglass tostealaglanceatthenon-living, totakeafinalrestafteralongride. Mybodytipped,leaning.
Dawn of the Surf
BobbyLiu‘26
Winter Daydreams
AlexWang‘27
BesidetheRustedLampposts
Aditya Shrivastava ‘26
Besidetherustedlamppostsbythepond, IbroodonLynnfieldroadsIusedtoroam
Thatledthroughwoodstoopenfieldsbeyond; NowIreturn,astranger,tomyhome. Betweenmyfriendsandmeanoceangrows Aswetrytowavefromrecedingshores; Theirvoicesfadeliketrackserasedbysnows, Andtimesendswavestobeatonopendoors.
YetasIliftmyeyes,Istarttosee Theprogressmarkedbymilesofopenblue; Above,whitetrailsappearasplanesflyfree
Farintheair,theypointmesomewherenew.
MytimeinLynnfielddwindlesdaybyday, Butdistanceisthepricemydreamsmustpay.
Sunday LanaHardin‘27
Peace TigerXiong‘27
SukiFu‘28
DiaryfromtheCongo,1902
Dylan Uttam ‘26
Killing the apes that inhabited this jungle was a game to us. Jules was in the lead with thirty-two. I was sitting dead last in my troop with seven. My stomach churned just a little. Still, I breathed deeply and pulled the trigger. Eight. I managed a slightly uneasy smile while the others in my unit cheered as the animal collapsed. We continued our march throughthedense Congolese forest, constantly chopping vines out of the way just to take a few steps. Occasionally, dark faces would peer out of the gloom until someone fired a shot in their general direction, and they would scurry back into the trees. More cheers. I wiped my brow again.Somehow,theairitselffeltwet.
“Maes!Stopmovinglikeafucking snailandhurryup!”
“Sorry, sir.” I half-ran for the minimum distance that I wouldn’t sustain a rifle butt to the back. Lord knowsIhadenoughalready.
Six more hours in the damn heat, the sun finally set, and I could finally havemyday’sonerestfulmoment.
Dearest Olivia,
I missed Belgium dearly today. It is far too hot for all the walking we have to do.
Furthermore, I have been considering how truly wonderful our civilization is; it is a shame that Africa has yet to discover the joyousness of refined things in life, like restaurants and comfortable boats. I couldn’t imagine life without paved roads and water that doesn’t taste like mud! Anyways, give my love to the kids.
Warmly, Arthur Maes
We stood in front of the ramshackle “throne” that their chief presumably ruled from. The so-called village was nothing more than a collection of mud and grass huts. No one except for the chief dared interact
with us, not that they could anyway, opting instead to dumbly stare outside theholescutinthemudthatmadetheir doors. My train of thought was disrupted by our captain yelling at the dark-skinnedchief.
“How goddamn stupid are you? Just sign the fuckingpaperalreadyand let us leave! I've gotbetterthingstodo than sit in this shithole.” The man, dressed solely in buffalo hide that covered his lower body, just looked at him. After a fewmoments,hegestured briefly at the piece ofpaperthatwould signawayhisterritory.Hethenpointed at the soup can Noah was eating from and made some animalistic clicking noises.
“You want the soup? Probably too stupid to get food yourself, huh?” Our captain responded harshly. Still, he grabbed the nearly-empty can out of Noah’s hand and handed it to the Congolese. Noah did not protest. However, instead of drinking from the can, he proceeded only to sniff it momentarily, curl his bottom lip in
disgust, and dump it out on the dirt nexttohischairofsticks.
“What the hell?” I murmured to the soldier next to me, a veteran who had been serving here for longer than anyofus.
“Our trash is like diamonds to them. They don’t get what’s going on at all. Makes all this a hell of a lot easier at least.” I could hardly believe it,buttheblackliftedthepenandmade a few markings on the dotted line below the text that read: 50,000 kilometers between the Congo and Kasai Rivers will be freely given to His Majesty, King Leopold of Belgium. This land will be under Leopold’s sole authority and used for his and the great nation of Belgium’s gain. The chief seemed perfectly content with his soup can, which he had pulled the wrapper off of and was now admiringly stroking the dented metal of. Immediately, mocking laughter rang out from all of our throats. It was impossible not to with the complete hilarity of the situation. We only had a moment to enjoy,
though, before the captain grabbed the paperandbarkedout,“Huts!”
Without delay, we moved like so many well-trained hunting hounds in a line throughout the village. Twenty minutes later, we were marching onwards, and the ‘village’ of a hundred-some was as still as the trees that surrounded it, except for the ribbons of smoke spiraling lazily up into the air and the clinking of chains fromournowelongatedprocession.
“In a line!” came Captain’s roar. The blacks stared at him from their large huddle blankly. They understood aproddingriflequiteclearly,however.
“Probably the only language they teach in the jungle,” a man whose name Ihadyettolearnjoked.Laughter rang out once more. Everyone sobered up rather quickly, however, when the captainaskedquietly,
“How many of you eat people?”
Another pause for blank stares. One, braver than the rest, slowly stepped forward and started to make a sound. He was immediately interrupted by a bang; he made no further noise. The
muzzle of the man who had joked sizzled. Presumably, one of the dead black’s small female offspring, who was previously determined unworthy of a chain, burstintoincomprehensible wailing and ran forward towards her father’s still warm body. Another bang and the wailing stopped too. Complete silence reigned momentarily. A few more shots flew through the crowd until the captain turned around, gave a sharp nod, and we could finally continue towards our resting place for the night. A long stream of large bugs moved in the direction from which we came. I shivered in disgust. Very excited to be in the tent, I thought to myself.
Dearest Olivia,
In the last week alone, we have signed six peace treaties with the chiefs to further our mission to bring the Good News to this land. Lord knows they need it. You’ll never believe what happened today! These Africans gave us rights to 50,000 kilometers of their land and charged us one empty can of
soup! Tell that story to Leon, I’m sure he will find it quite amusing. It is very unfortunate that we couldn’t bring all of them with us to give them work. Some of them we discovered as cannibals, and it is the opinion of Belgium that the cannibals are beyond God’s love. Too far removed from good Christianity. Still, we are able to help hundreds of them do real jobs and find real purpose beyond their huts and rituals. The charitable work feels good. Give my love to the kids.
Warmly,
Arthur Maes
Myteacherstruckmeacrosstheface.
“You will hit him!” He commandedangrily.
“But I don’t want to!” I protested, looking at the quiet little black boy through eyes made blurry by my own sobbing. My tears and snot were staining the play mat below me. Teacher stalkedofftocollectatowelto preventfurtherdamage.
“His kind do not even feel it. It is science, young man. You just don’t understandyet.
Now, hit him.”Therewasnoroom for discussion in his voice. Slowly, I walked towards the boy standing in front of me. He was about my age, maybe a little older, but it was hard to tell. His dark eyes, both ofwhichwere ringed with black and blue spots, flitted between me and the rug below us, unable to holdeyecontactformore thanamoment.
“ArthurMaes,hithim.”
I was face-to-face with the black child, only a meter apart.Now,heheld eyecontactwithme.
“Now.”
I extended my right arm, rotated my shoulder a few degrees, and struck himgentlyacrossthefacewithanopen palm. He continued to stare at me pensively.
“Again.”
Still unwilling to disobey, I slapped him once more. This time, he winced a little, but still did notmakea sound.
“Harderthistime.”
I closed my fist and extended my arm all the way behind my body and whipped itacrosshischeekwithathud that knocked the boy over and stung myknuckles.
“Good.Continue.”
Emboldened now, I went down on my knees and started swinging continuously, over and overandover.I paused for a moment to look back at my teacher, who was smiling proudly at me. I smiled back at him and continuedhitting.
Dear Mommy, Today I learned about skin color. My teacher used a big word. He called it eugenics. We even did a science experiment to show it! I didn’t wanna do it at first, but my teacher told me I had to, and then it was okay. We have another day of lessons tomorrow. When are you home from your trip?
Love, Arthur Maes
I stood over the wounded Congolese, the stump where his hand used to be dripping blood through the makeshift bandage he had wrapped around it. Behindme,someofourmen had wrapped the hand in the same bandage-cloth and were now playing catch with it. I prodded hisstumpwith the tip of my rifle, and he howled in agony.
“Stop that,” I said curtly and prodded him again. He continued to writhe in pain and started to stumble away while clutching his now-useless arm, but his legs, which I could now see had cuts thatreachedallthewayto the bone, kept giving out. I watchedin silence for a few more moments until he seemed to give up and turned back towardsme.
There was no use fightingmyway out. I couldn’t move, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. The pain was just too much tobear.Imadedirecteyecontact with the white soldier and held outthe remains of my arminavaguepleading gesture.
“Please! My family will die without me!” I begged. But he didn’t understand me. I cringed as he spat on my chest and shoutedbackangrilyina tongueIalsocouldn’tunderstand.
Screaming surrounded me as family, friends, neighbors, all were dying around me. Please, let the white men be right about an afterlife, I pleaded with something, anything that could hear my prayer. I closed my eyes,prepared.
Maybe my teacher was wrong. Clearly,hewasinpain.I’dneverreally stopped to think about that before. Why hadn’tIstoppedtothinkaboutit? I preferred doing this from far away, too far away to see the fear in their eyes, to see the hurt I caused.Butstill, my years of learning reverberated throughoutmybrain. His kind do not even feel it.
Helookedhumantome. His kind do not even feel it. Didhehaveafamily?Iwasn’tsure. His kind do not even feel it.
Maybehehadkids.
“Maes, we’re getting out of here!” My captain yelled from ahead of me.I squeezed the trigger, and he was dead instantly. Blood gushed up from his head,stainingmykhakiuniform.
That brought me up to nine. I joggedtocatchupwiththegroup.
Dearest Olivia,
The weather relented today! Finally, a bit cooler and less humid. Reminded me of home just a little bit. Only a few more months and I’ll be back with you! Please give my love to the kids.
Warmly, Arthur Maes
I’msorrythatI’m“tooloud”
Keira McGowan ‘28
I'vebeentoldthisamilliontimessoIknowitmustbetrue. AndyoushouldknowthatIagree. Ihaveneverbeenabletostatemyopinionswithoutmyvolumestatingthemfor me.
Everyargument,IraisemyvoicebeforeevenknowingwhatImeantosay. EveryjokeImake,thepunchlinegetslostwithinthesoundwaves. Everyconversationendswiththesamelingeringthoughtthatconsumesmymind: Whycouldn’tIjustshutmymouth?
But,mythoughtsarenotonlyloudwhenIpresentthemtotheworld, theyarejustasloudinsidemyhead.Ilaydownatnighttogotosleep butcanneverfindpeacewhenIamconstantlyreminded ofmyun-bottledboldbehavior
ThetimesthatIscreamed,yelled,cried,orlaughed,allonlyforattention. Formyrelentlessneedtofeelseen. Understood.
ButevenIdon’tunderstandwhymyvoicesetsofflikeashortfuse, likeahair-triggeredswitchwithascrutinizingtemper. IantagonizewithmywordsbecauseIwouldneverhavethecourage tofightrealbattles.
IsaythingsIdon’tmean,thewordstumblingrightoutofmymouth. Butastheybegintotrickletoastop, thesilencetakesoverwitharinginginmyears.
Iwonder,doesanyoneelsehearit? Ifsilencecanbesoloud,thenwhycan’tI?
How Long Can I Stay Here?
JoshuaXiang‘26