The rain began just after lunch.
Not the polite sort of rain that sprinkled the windows and stopped after ten minutes.
This was proper Kuala Lumpur rain—thick, noisy, and determined to turn every drain into a rushing brown river.
Ah Boy stood at the kitchen window, watching water bounce off the tiled roof of the little house next door.
“Wah,” he muttered. “Today confirm cannot go anywhere.”
Behind him came a slow shuffle.
“Cannot go anywhere?” his grandfather asked.
Ah Boy turned.
His grandfather, whom everyone called Ah Kong, was standing in the doorway with a flour-stained apron around his waist. His silver hair stuck out in several directions, as though he had just argued with a pillow and lost.
He held up a pineapple.
“We can go somewhere.”
Ah Boy stared at him.
“Where?”
Ah Kong smiled.
“Into the kitchen.”
Ah Boy groaned.
“Again?”
“Again.”
“But we made pineapple tarts yesterday.”
“Yesterday was practice.”
“Practice for what?”
Ah Kong placed the pineapple on the table.
“For today.”
Ah Boy laughed.
“You are making no sense, Ah Kong.”
His grandfather chuckled.
“At my age, I don’t need to make sense. I only need to make good tarts.”
That was how most rainy afternoons went in their house.
Ah Boy and Ah Kong baked.
They peeled pineapples, cooked jam, mixed flour and butter, shaped little pastry flowers, and argued about whether the tarts should be round, square, or shaped like tiny stars.
Sometimes Ah Boy complained.
Sometimes Ah Kong pretended not to hear.
And sometimes they laughed so loudly that their neighbor, Uncle Ravi, would shout over the fence:
“Oi! You two baking or fighting?”
“Both!” Ah Boy would shout back.
But lately, something had changed.
Ah Kong had started forgetting things.
Small things at first.
He misplaced his glasses.
He forgot where he had put his keys.
He once left the kettle on the stove and wandered into the garden to water plants.
When Ah Boy found him, Ah Kong simply scratched his head.
“Old brain,” he said.
Then he smiled.
“Still works. Just sometimes takes the long way.”
Ah Boy had laughed.
But that evening, he had quietly moved the kettle farther from the edge of the stove.
He didn’t tell anyone.
He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.
Because Ah Kong had always been the one who remembered everything.
He remembered Ah Boy’s favorite snacks.
He remembered which tree in the neighborhood produced the sweetest mangoes.
He remembered how to fix broken fans, squeaky gates, leaking taps, and bicycles with chains that had mysteriously fallen off.
Most importantly, Ah Kong remembered stories.
Hundreds of them.
Stories about the old neighborhood.
Stories about Ah Boy’s grandmother.
Stories about the little wooden kitchen where Ah Kong had learned to bake pineapple tarts as a young man.
Stories that Ah Boy had heard so many times he could practically say the next sentence before his grandfather did.
So when Ah Kong began forgetting things, Ah Boy felt as though someone had quietly taken a few pages from a book he loved.
He was afraid more pages would disappear.
Episode 1: The Tin Box
The rain drummed against the windows.
Ah Boy sat at the kitchen table while Ah Kong grated pineapple.
“Ah Boy,” his grandfather said.
“Hmm?”
“Pass me the sugar.”
Ah Boy pushed the container across.
“Not that one.”
“You said sugar.”
“The brown one.”
Ah Boy reached for another container.
“This?”
“Yes.”
Ah Kong smiled.
“Good boy.”
They worked quietly for a while.
The kitchen smelled of butter, warm pastry, and pineapple jam slowly bubbling in the pot.
Ah Boy loved that smell.
It reminded him of school holidays.
Of wooden cupboards.
Of old newspapers spread across the table.
Of afternoons when the entire house seemed to become one giant bakery.
Then Ah Kong suddenly stopped.
“Wait.”
He opened the cupboard above the stove.
He stared inside.
Then he closed it.
He opened another.
Nothing.
“What are you looking for?” Ah Boy asked.
“My tin.”
“What tin?”
“The blue one.”
Ah Boy shrugged.
“Which blue one?”
“The one your grandmother used.”
Ah Boy stopped moving.
He had heard that sentence before.
There was an old blue metal tin somewhere in the house.
Ah Kong had mentioned it many times, but Ah Boy had never seen it.
“What was inside?” he asked.
Ah Kong frowned.
“I don’t remember.”
Ah Boy looked at him.
“You don’t remember?”
His grandfather shook his head.
“No.”
For some reason, that frightened Ah Boy more than all the forgotten keys and misplaced glasses combined.
Ah Kong leaned against the counter.
“Maybe I put it somewhere safe.”
“You always put things somewhere too safe.”
“Correct.”
Ah Boy smiled despite himself.
“Then how are we supposed to find it?”
Ah Kong pointed toward the hallway.
“That’s your job.”
“My job?”
“You’re young.”
“That is not a job description.”
“It is today.”
Ah Boy sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
He began searching.
He checked the kitchen cabinets.
The living room drawers.
The shelf beside the television.
The old cupboard beneath the stairs.
Nothing.
Then he remembered something.
Ah Kong kept old baking equipment in the storeroom.
Ah Boy opened the door.
A dusty smell floated out.
Inside were boxes of Christmas decorations, broken umbrellas, old school bags, gardening tools, jars, and enough mysterious objects to fill a small museum.
“Wah, Ah Kong,” Ah Boy whispered. “Why you keep everything?”
From the kitchen came a reply.
“Because one day you will need everything!”
“That doesn’t explain this!”
“What?”
“This broken rice cooker!”
“You may need it!”
“For what?”
Silence.
Ah Boy shook his head.
He moved another box.
Then he saw it.
A tiny flash of blue beneath an old cloth.
He pulled it out.
A rectangular metal tin.
Blue.
Its paint was faded, and one corner was dented.
Ah Boy carried it to the kitchen.
“Found it!”
Ah Kong turned.
For a moment, his face changed.
His eyes widened.
Then he smiled.
Not his usual mischievous smile.
A softer one.
Almost sad.
“Ah,” he whispered.
He reached for the tin.
His hands trembled.
Ah Boy noticed.
“What is inside?”
Ah Kong didn’t answer.
He opened the lid.
Inside was a stack of old recipe cards.
Some were yellow with age.
Some were stained with butter.
One had a corner burned black.
And beneath them was a photograph.
Ah Boy picked it up.
It showed a much younger Ah Kong standing beside a woman Ah Boy knew only from family photographs.
His grandmother.
She was laughing.
Ah Kong was holding a tray of pineapple tarts.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
First batch. Burnt on one side. Still delicious.
Ah Boy laughed.
“You burned them?”
Ah Kong looked offended.
“Only slightly.”
“Grandma wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“Then she knew.”
“She always knew.”
Ah Boy studied the photograph.
“You made these together?”
Ah Kong nodded.
“A long time ago.”
He touched the edge of the picture.
“Before your father was born.”
Ah Boy looked at the recipe cards.
“Can we make the same ones?”
Ah Kong hesitated.
Then he smiled.
“Today?”
“Today.”
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
Ah Kong nodded.
“Today.”
Episode 2: The Recipe
The oldest recipe card was almost impossible to read.
Some words had faded.
Some measurements had been written in pencil.
And one part was covered by a large yellow stain.
Ah Boy squinted.
“Is that one cup of sugar?”
Ah Kong leaned closer.
“No.”
“Half a cup?”
“No.”
“Two cups?”
“Are you trying to kill us?”
Ah Boy laughed.
Ah Kong took the card.
He stared at it.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then he pointed.
“Three quarters.”
“How do you know?”
“I remember.”
Ah Boy smiled.
“You remembered!”
“Of course.”
Ah Kong tapped his head.
“Still got things inside.”
They gathered the ingredients.
Flour.
Butter.
Egg yolks.
Sugar.
Pineapple.
A little salt.
And Ah Kong’s mysterious secret ingredient.
Ah Boy leaned closer.
“What is it?”
“Secret.”
“You always say secret.”
“Because it is secret.”
“You’re telling your grandson.”
“Especially you.”
Ah Boy rolled his eyes.
The pineapple jam cooked slowly.
Ah Kong stirred it while Ah Boy prepared the pastry.
The rain became heavier.
Water rushed through the drains outside.
The whole neighborhood seemed to disappear behind a curtain of grey.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The kitchen went dark.
Ah Boy froze.
“Uh-oh.”
Ah Kong looked toward the window.
“Power gone?”
A moment later, the lights returned.
Ah Boy sighed.
“Don’t scare me like that.”
Ah Kong chuckled.
“You scared yourself.”
Then he reached for the tray.
His fingers slipped.
The tray fell.
CLANG!
Ah Boy jumped.
“Ah Kong!”
His grandfather stood perfectly still.
The metal tray lay on the floor.
For the first time, Ah Boy saw something that made his stomach twist.
Ah Kong looked confused.
Not annoyed.
Not embarrassed.
Just confused.
“I’m okay,” he said.
Ah Boy rushed over.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down.”
“I can stand.”
“Sit.”
Ah Kong looked at him.
Then, surprisingly, obeyed.
Ah Boy picked up the tray.
His grandfather watched him.
After a moment, he said quietly:
“Your grandmother used to tell me I was too stubborn.”
Ah Boy smiled.
“She was right.”
Ah Kong laughed.
“Yes.”
Then he looked toward the old recipe.
“I don’t want to forget her.”
Ah Boy stopped.
His grandfather’s voice was very quiet.
“I don’t want to forget the taste of these.”
Ah Boy didn’t know what to say.
So he sat beside him.
“We won’t.”
Ah Kong looked at him.
“We?”
Ah Boy nodded.
“We’ll remember together.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Ah Kong reached over and gently flicked Ah Boy’s forehead.
“Good answer.”
“Ouch!”
“Too serious.”
“You hit me!”
“Very gentle.”
“You call that gentle?”
Ah Kong grinned.
“There. Better.”
Episode 3: Rainy-Day Delivery
The first batch came out of the oven twenty minutes later.
They were golden.
The pastry was crisp.
The pineapple filling glistened in the middle.
Ah Boy picked one up.
“Hot!”
Ah Kong laughed.
“Wait.”
Ah Boy blew on it.
Then he took a bite.
His eyes widened.
“Wah.”
Ah Kong raised an eyebrow.
“Good?”
“Very good.”
“Better than yesterday?”
“Much better.”
“Better than mine?”
Ah Boy paused.
“You made them.”
Ah Kong looked pleased.
“Correct.”
They made another batch.
Then another.
Soon the kitchen table was covered with pineapple tarts.
Ah Boy counted them.
“Forty-six.”
“Forty-eight.”
“There are forty-six.”
“Two are missing.”
Ah Boy stared at him.
Ah Kong slowly moved his hand away from his mouth.
Ah Boy burst out laughing.
“Caught you!”
“I was testing.”
“You ate two!”
“For quality control.”
“You ate the biggest ones!”
“Quality control requires dedication.”
Ah Boy shook his head.
Then he looked outside.
The rain was still falling.
“Who are we making all these for?”
Ah Kong thought.
“People.”
“Very specific.”
“Neighbors.”
“Which neighbors?”
Ah Kong smiled.
“You decide.”
Ah Boy packed the tarts into small paper boxes.
He wrote names on them.
Uncle Ravi.
Auntie Mei.
Mrs. Tan from the corner house.
The old bicycle repairman.
The twins who always played badminton in the alley.
Even the grumpy man who complained whenever their football rolled near his gate.
By five o’clock, there were eight boxes.
Ah Boy put on his raincoat.
Ah Kong stood behind him.
“Careful.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Don’t run.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t step into the drain.”
“I know.”
“Don’t—”
“Ah Kong.”
“Yes?”
“I’m twelve, not two.”
Ah Kong smiled.
“I know.”
Ah Boy opened the door.
His grandfather called after him.
“Ah Boy!”
He turned.
“Yes?”
Ah Kong held up a final box.
“For the old man at the end of the lane.”
Ah Boy frowned.
“Which old man?”
Ah Kong pointed.
“The one who always sits by the window.”
Ah Boy looked toward the house at the end of the lane.
It was empty.
No one lived there anymore.
The curtains were always closed.
“You mean Uncle Lim?”
“Yes.”
“He moved away years ago.”
Ah Kong’s smile disappeared.
“Oh.”
Ah Boy returned to the kitchen.
“Are you sure?”
Ah Kong looked at the box.
“I thought…”
He stopped.
Ah Boy placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay.”
His grandfather nodded.
“Then take it to someone else.”
Ah Boy smiled.
“Okay.”
He stepped into the rain.
Episode 4: The Empty House
By the time Ah Boy returned, his shoes were soaked.
The boxes were gone.
Everyone had been happy.
Uncle Ravi had shouted, “Wah! Free food!”
Auntie Mei had immediately asked for the recipe.
The badminton twins had eaten their box before Ah Boy even reached their gate.
And the grumpy man had opened his door, looked at the tarts, and said:
“Too sweet.”
Then he took the whole box.
Ah Boy knew that meant they were good.
But there was one thing he couldn’t stop thinking about.
The empty house.
Why had Ah Kong remembered Uncle Lim?
And why did the old recipe cards feel so important?
When Ah Boy returned home, Ah Kong was asleep in the living room.
The television was on quietly.
Ah Boy walked past him.
Then he noticed the blue tin on the table.
He opened it again.
Beneath the recipe cards was another piece of paper.
It was folded many times.
Ah Boy unfolded it carefully.
There was a handwritten list.
Names.
Dates.
Short notes.
Some were easy to understand.
Auntie Mei — likes less sweet.
Ravi — always asks for extra.
Ah Boy — eats the ugly ones first.
Ah Boy smiled.
Then he saw the last line.
For rainy days — make pineapple tarts and give them away.
Ah Boy stared at it.
Underneath were two words.
Don’t forget.
His throat tightened.
He looked at his sleeping grandfather.
Suddenly, he understood.
The tarts weren’t just food.
They were a way of remembering.
A way of keeping people connected.
A way of saying, I thought of you.
Ah Boy sat quietly beside the blue tin.
He wondered how many memories his grandfather had stored inside that old kitchen.
How many recipes.
How many names.
How many rainy afternoons.
Then Ah Kong opened his eyes.
“You found it.”
Ah Boy looked up.
“The note?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
Ah Kong was silent.
Then he said:
“Your grandmother wrote it.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew I would forget things.”
Ah Boy frowned.
“She knew?”
“Everyone forgets things eventually.”
Ah Kong smiled faintly.
“Names. Places. Recipes. Sometimes where we put our glasses.”
“You do that a lot.”
“Yes.”
“But…”
Ah Boy looked down.
“What if you forget me?”
Ah Kong stared at him.
For a long time, he didn’t answer.
Then he reached out.
He placed his palm against Ah Boy’s cheek.
“I may forget many things.”
His voice trembled.
“But I don’t think the heart forgets in the same way.”
Ah Boy swallowed.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Ah Boy looked surprised.
Ah Kong smiled.
“But I know this.”
He pointed toward the kitchen.
“When you smell pineapple cooking, you will remember me.”
Ah Boy’s eyes became wet.
“And when you bake?”
“You’ll probably remember how badly I taught you.”
Ah Boy laughed through his tears.
“You really are terrible.”
“I know.”
Episode 5: The Great Rainy-Day Plan
The next morning, the rain continued.
School was cancelled because several roads nearby were flooded.
Ah Boy sat at the kitchen table.
He looked at the blue tin.
Then at the recipe cards.
Then at Ah Kong.
“I have an idea.”
Ah Kong looked suspicious.
“That usually means trouble.”
“We make more.”
“More tarts?”
“Lots more.”
“How many?”
Ah Boy grinned.
“Enough for everyone.”
Ah Kong stared.
“Everyone?”
“Everyone in the neighborhood.”
“That is a lot of pineapple.”
“I’ll help.”
“You’re twelve.”
“I know.”
“You’ll get tired.”
“I’ll survive.”
Ah Kong laughed.
So they began.
Ah Boy chopped pineapple.
Ah Kong cooked the jam.
They mixed dough.
They rolled pastry.
They shaped little flowers.
Soon the kitchen became a whirlwind.
Flour covered Ah Boy’s cheeks.
Pineapple jam splattered Ah Kong’s apron.
At one point, Ah Boy accidentally dropped an entire bowl of flour.
POOF!
The kitchen disappeared into a white cloud.
Ah Kong stared at him.
Ah Boy stared back.
Then both started laughing.
“You look like a ghost,” Ah Kong said.
“You look worse!”
“I am older. I have experience.”
“With flour?”
“With everything.”
By lunchtime, neighbors started arriving.
Uncle Ravi brought containers.
Auntie Mei brought paper bags.
The badminton twins brought ribbons.
Even the grumpy man came.
He stood at the door.
“I heard there are more tarts.”
Ah Boy grinned.
“Thought they were too sweet?”
“They are.”
“Then why come?”
The man held out a box.
“Need another batch to confirm.”
Everyone laughed.
The kitchen became crowded.
People who had barely spoken to one another began chatting.
Someone washed dishes.
Someone folded boxes.
Someone wrote names.
Someone played music quietly from a small speaker.
And Ah Kong stood in the middle of it all.
For a while, he looked completely like himself.
Then he suddenly stopped.
“Ah Boy.”
“Yes?”
“What are we doing?”
Ah Boy smiled.
“Making pineapple tarts.”
Ah Kong nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked around.
“And everyone is helping.”
“Yes.”
Ah Kong’s eyes became shiny.
“I remember.”
Ah Boy squeezed his hand.
“Good.”
Episode 6: The Last Batch
That evening, the rain finally softened.
The sky turned pale grey.
Ah Boy and Ah Kong stayed behind in the kitchen.
Only one tray remained.
Ah Kong looked tired.
“Let’s make this one together.”
Ah Boy nodded.
They prepared the pastry slowly.
No rushing.
No arguing.
No jokes.
Just the sound of rain dripping from the roof.
Ah Kong picked up a small piece of dough.
“Your grandmother liked making flower shapes.”
Ah Boy listened.
“She said food should make people smile before they even taste it.”
He showed Ah Boy how to press the pastry gently.
“Like this.”
Ah Boy copied him.
“Like this?”
“Good.”
They filled the center with pineapple jam.
Ah Kong placed the first tart on the tray.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Ah Boy noticed his grandfather had stopped.
“What?”
Ah Kong looked at the tray.
“I can’t remember what comes next.”
Ah Boy felt a familiar ache.
He looked at the recipe card.
Then at his grandfather.
“It’s okay.”
He placed another tart on the tray.
“Next is this.”
Ah Kong watched.
Then he copied him.
Together, they finished the tray.
Twenty-four little golden flowers.
They put them into the oven.
The kitchen became warm.
The smell slowly spread through the house.
Ah Kong closed his eyes.
“Smells good.”
“Very good.”
“Your grandmother would approve.”
Ah Boy smiled.
“You think?”
“Yes.”
The oven timer rang.
Ah Boy opened the door.
Warm air rushed out.
The tarts were perfect.
He carried the tray to the table.
Ah Kong took one.
He bit into it.
He closed his eyes.
“Well?”
Ah Boy asked.
Ah Kong smiled.
“Perfect.”
Ah Boy took one too.
It was warm and buttery.
The pineapple filling was sweet and slightly tangy.
Outside, the rain stopped.
A single drop slid down the window.
Then another.
The clouds began to break apart.
A little sunlight appeared.
Ah Kong looked toward the window.
“Rainy days aren’t so bad.”
Ah Boy nodded.
“No.”
Then he had an idea.
“Let’s write down the recipe.”
Ah Kong smiled.
“You already have the recipe.”
“No.”
Ah Boy shook his head.
“I mean our recipe.”
He took a fresh notebook.
At the top, he wrote:
PINEAPPLE TARTS FOR A RAINY DAY
Underneath, he wrote:
Recipe by Ah Boy and Ah Kong.
Ah Kong watched.
“What is the secret ingredient?”
Ah Boy looked at him.
“Love?”
Ah Kong shook his head.
“Too easy.”
“Then what?”
Ah Kong leaned closer.
“Giving half away before you eat them.”
Ah Boy laughed.
“That’s not a secret ingredient.”
“It is in this family.”
Ah Boy wrote it down anyway.
Secret ingredient: Give some away.
Ah Kong smiled.
Episode 7: The Blue Tin
Months passed.
Some days were easy.
Some were not.
Ah Kong forgot things more often.
Sometimes he repeated questions.
Sometimes he searched for people who were standing right beside him.
Sometimes he became frustrated.
Ah Boy learned not to laugh when it happened.
He learned to answer patiently.
And when his grandfather couldn’t remember something, Ah Boy helped him.
Not because Ah Boy had suddenly become older.
But because he had finally understood something important.
Growing up wasn’t only about becoming taller.
Sometimes it meant learning how to carry a memory for someone else.
The blue tin stayed in the kitchen.
Ah Boy filled it with recipe cards.
New ones.
Old ones.
Notes from neighbors.
Funny mistakes.
Little memories.
One card said:
First rainy-day batch — 48 tarts. Ah Kong ate two.
Another said:
Uncle Ravi still asks for extra.
Another:
The grumpy man says they’re too sweet but keeps coming back.
And one card simply said:
Today Ah Kong remembered everything.
On the hardest days, Ah Boy wrote another card.
Not because he wanted to pretend everything was fine.
But because he wanted to remember the good moments too.
One afternoon, nearly a year after they found the old recipe, the rain returned.
Ah Boy was older by one year.
Taller.
A little less noisy.
Maybe.
He stood in the kitchen mixing pastry.
Behind him, Ah Kong sat at the table.
“Ah Boy?”
“Yes?”
“What are we making?”
Ah Boy turned.
“Pineapple tarts.”
Ah Kong smiled.
“Why?”
“Because it’s raining.”
Ah Kong nodded.
“Good reason.”
Ah Boy brought over the blue tin.
He opened it.
Inside were dozens of recipe cards.
He pulled out a fresh one.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
“To make our recipe.”
Ah Kong looked at him.
Then he smiled.
“Okay.”
They worked slowly.
Ah Boy explained each step.
Pineapple.
Sugar.
Butter.
Flour.
Egg yolks.
And the secret ingredient.
When the first tray went into the oven, Ah Boy opened the window slightly.
Rain filled the air with that familiar smell of wet earth and leaves.
Ah Kong listened.
Then he smiled.
“I remember this.”
Ah Boy looked at him.
“What?”
“This smell.”
He pointed toward the oven.
“Pineapple.”
Ah Boy smiled.
“Yes.”
Ah Kong closed his eyes.
“And your grandmother.”
Ah Boy’s smile softened.
“Yes.”
“And you.”
Ah Boy swallowed.
“Me too?”
Ah Kong opened his eyes.
“Always.”
Ah Boy didn’t correct him.
He didn’t ask whether his grandfather would remember tomorrow.
He didn’t ask whether the memory would disappear again.
Instead, he took a warm pineapple tart from the tray.
He broke it in half.
He gave one piece to Ah Kong.
They sat together beside the window.
Outside, Kuala Lumpur glittered beneath the rain.
Cars moved slowly along the wet road.
Water dripped from the trees.
Somewhere nearby, someone shouted for a child to come inside.
A gate creaked.
A bicycle bell rang.
And inside the little kitchen, two people shared a pineapple tart.
Ah Boy looked at the blue tin.
He understood now why Ah Kong had kept it.
It wasn’t because the tin was valuable.
It wasn’t because the recipe was special.
It was because memories become stronger when they are shared.
A story told once might fade.
A recipe made once might be forgotten.
But a story told again, a meal shared again, a kindness repeated again—
those things could travel.
From grandfather to grandson.
From kitchen to neighbor.
From one rainy afternoon to another.
Ah Boy picked up his notebook.
He added one final line beneath the recipe.
When the rain comes, make something warm. Then give some away.
He closed the notebook.
Ah Kong looked at him.
“Good?”
Ah Boy nodded.
“Very good.”
“Better than my recipe?”
“Definitely.”
Ah Kong laughed.
“Cheeky boy.”
“Old man.”
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“I still know how to flick your forehead.”
Ah Boy grinned.
“Then prove it.”
Ah Kong raised one finger.
Ah Boy leaned closer.
And—
Flick.
“Ouch!”
Ah Kong laughed so hard that he had to hold the edge of the table.
Ah Boy laughed too.
The rain continued outside.
But inside the little kitchen, everything felt warm.
And for that afternoon, that was enough.
The End…
