I repeat the words in my head, and then out loud, sobbing them over and over to myself like I’m trying to build up immunity, but it cuts deep enough to bleed each time. Hurts in new, different ways. There’s nothing for me. There’s nothing for me anywhere. There’s nothing left. I wasn’t good enough at the only thing I’m good at. Everything I did was for nothing. Everything I gave up just landed me here, alone at the very bottom.

I wipe my eyes roughly with my sleeve, my ribs aching, the weeds tickling my bare ankles. I’m walking so fast that I almost don’t notice the cow crossing the road.

I stop, rub my eyes again, my surprise freezing my tears in place. The cow stares serenely back at me under a trickle of moonlight, its large brown eyes following me as I step forward. It occurs to me that I’ve never really seen a cow up close before, and there’s something majestic about the way it lifts its heavy head to the stars, the gloss of its deep brown fur. It’s chewing grass, its mouth moving in a slow rhythm, like it has all the time it needs.

And for a moment, I forget that my world is ending.

“Hello,” I say softly, through sniffles.

The cow’s ears flicker toward the sound of my voice. Another breeze ruffles the paddies, their surfaces darkening with movement, and the night air turns cooler, the scent of it sweet and laced with Osmanthus. The landscape flows around the creature like a poem, and I’m stunned by how readily my heart makes room for beauty, even at a time like this.

“Did my cow startle you?” An elderly woman walks over from the same place the cow had appeared, wisps of silvery-white hair floating around her bun. She has the sort of face you would stop to ask for directions in a foreign city: Her broad features are kind, her eyes crinkling when she says, “Don’t be afraid. She doesn’t like to bite people.”

“I—I know. I’m not afraid of her,” I say in Chinese, reaching out to the cow. She meets me halfway, bumping her nose gently against my hand, her fur so much softer than I expected, and warm, as if she had been lying down in a sunny orchard just before.

“Then why are you crying?” the woman asks.

My throat threatens to close up again. I could blame it on something else, anything: allergies, a sad movie I watched, a silly argument with a friend. But it’s like I’ve forgotten how to lie and act nonchalant, or maybe I’ve just never been good at indifference. The instinct—the impulse—to tell the truth is overwhelming. “Because I failed.”