Wednesday Laundromat

 A Fire That Spiraled Out of Control

The flames raged on, unstoppable. The wooden ceiling of our laundry shop crackled and collapsed, piece by piece. With each falling plank, Mom screamed louder, sobbed harder. If Dad hadn’t been holding her back, she would have thrown herself straight into the inferno.

Then, suddenly, a shadow flickered in the fire. A short firefighter emerged, cradling something in his arms. As soon as he reached the entrance, he collapsed. Thankfully, two other firefighters were already there—one caught him, while the other grabbed the "something" from his arms.

It was my baby sister.

Eight-month-old, screaming but safe.

The firefighter rushed her to a waiting ambulance. Mom and Dad bolted after them, spoke to the paramedics, and climbed in. I wanted to go too, but Grandpa held me back.

“We’ll just get in the way,” he said firmly. “You’re ten now—time to be responsible.”

So I stood there, stuck with Grandpa and our barking dog, watching as our family’s laundry shop was swallowed by flames.

The firefighters battled on, but the fire didn’t just spread—it rolled. It billowed upwards, gathering itself into a blazing sphere. When it reached the rooftop, it stopped… then stretched out fiery claws toward the ice cream factory across the street.

No amount of water could stop it.

Because this wasn’t just any fire.

This was—

Oh. Sorry. I should probably start from the beginning.

It All Began With a Costume Contest

Let me introduce you to Wednesday’s Laundromat, a self-service laundry shop my great-grandfather founded. It sits right across from the town’s ice cream factory.

By day, it’s just like any other laundromat. Customers? Ordinary. Housewives, office workers, professors—you name it. The things they accidentally leave behind? Also ordinary. Socks, coins, buttons. The weirdest find? A single loose denture.

But come Wednesday evenings, magic happens.

The glass door starts to ripple, as if someone tossed a pebble into a pond. Through it, the mirror-image of the neighborhood ice cream factory vanishes, replaced by a bizarre little town. Buildings of all shapes and sizes sprawl across the landscape—some large enough to house a T-Rex, others barely big enough for a hummingbird. Their materials? Anything from wood and stone to glimmering crystals.

And the customers? Not human.

Elves, fairies, goblins, and monsters of all sorts stop by to do their laundry. And they leave behind the most fascinating things—coins, socks, buttons—except, well, not quite.

Their coins come in star shapes, ranging from five to nine points, all crafted from colorful crystals. They look like macaroons—so tempting I once nearly took a bite. Their socks? Alive. I tried slipping one on once, only for my dog to snatch it up. The sock, unimpressed, smacked my dog right on the nose. My dog yelped and hid under a table. I laughed so hard I cried.

And the buttons? They change color. Some whistle. Some even sing. I don’t understand the lyrics, but the tune sounds like a mix of birdsong and guitar strings—strangely soothing.

Too bad we can’t keep any of it.

Everything goes to Mr. Z.

Mr. Z is the border patrol officer of the fairy realm—the only one who speaks both human and magical tongues.

Every last Wednesday of the month, he arrives to pay the laundry fees and collect the forgotten items. He’s tall and wiry with a gaunt face and a tiny ponytail perched on his head. He's always draped in a tattered blue-green robe. His dark brown leather satchel looks as old as time. He rarely speaks, and when his business is done, he vanishes—like he can’t stand lingering in the human world.

Once, I worked up the courage to ask him why he chose Wednesdays Laundromat.

He actually smiled.

It was the kind of smile Grandpa gives when reminiscing about “the good old days.” Then, he pulled out a sheet of paper and something that looked like a pencil—except the tip split into four prongs, like a chicken’s foot. Each prong was a different color: blue, red, yellow, black.

He spread the paper on the table and started drawing.

At first, it was just a few simple lines. Then, the lines moved. They slithered across the page, forming a complete picture. I leaned in, mesmerized.

And suddenly—I wasn’t in the laundry shop anymore.

I was soaring through the air, flitting above elves dressed in flower petals and leaves. One elf was picking fresh petals, discarding the old, wilted ones. I watched it carry the withered petals home… but I couldn’t follow inside. After a while, it left them by the door and walked away. Moments later, a goblin-like creature swooped in to collect them.

The scene shifted.

Now, I was inside the home of a party-planning elf. No signs or labels, yet somehow I knew. Three elves sat around a table, deep in debate. One wanted to host an extravagant event. Another complained it was too much work. The first argued, “We’re just coming up with the idea! The hard part is for the attendees!”

Then, the third elf turned to me.

“What do you think? Should we host a costume contest?”

The scene shifts to the town center. The contest was a hit. Every elf in town dressed up in dazzling, elaborate outfits. The entire town burst into color. But once it ended, everyone became obsessed with looking fabulous.

And so, they started harvesting petals and leaves en masse.

A few elves plucking flowers? No big deal. Hundreds doing it? A full-blown ecological disaster.

The honey-making elves and caterpillar fairies were the first to panic. Their food supply was disappearing. Fearing starvation, they armed themselves with weapons to protect the flowers. The fashion-obsessed elves grabbed stones, ready to fight back.

It nearly escalated into war.

Until Mr. Z marched into the middle of the battlefield and roared, “QUIET!”

Everyone froze.

Then, Mr. Z explained, “Humans make clothes out of fabric—cotton, linen, wool. It’s reusable, but it must be washed to avoid hygiene issues"

The paper on the table suddenly turned blank. I rubbed my eyes, but it was still white.

Mr. Z walked over to me, collecting the paper as he spoke. "With fabric, the elves can wear as many fancy clothes as they want, but they don’t like doing laundry. They think hand-washing clothes is a waste of time. Some elves sweat heavily, and they want to use magic to get rid of the smell, but it doesn't work because the scent in the elves' world is magical by itself."

"I told them humans have washing machines and suggested we let humans help the elves with laundry. The elves started arguing. They really wanted to let humans do the laundry but were afraid to meet them, so they decided to send me to the human world to find a reliable laundry shop. That's why I ended up here."

"After passing through several towns, I found the people of this small town to be very down-to-earth. I observed your family’s laundry shop and chatted with your great-grandfather for a few days, feeling that he was trustworthy. Then I began to explain the elves’ special needs.”

Mr. Zen smiled, like remembering something, then said, “At that time, your grandfather had just been born, and your great-grandfather was in a particularly good mood. He was skeptical, but he thought if elves could play with his son, it wouldn't be too bad. Plus, it was a steady income—why not? We reached an agreement, and on Wednesdays, we started doing the elves’ laundry with peace of mind."

And so, every Wednesday evening, the glass door ripples, and the fairy folk arrive. They don’t push open the door. They simply walk through it.

Which brings me to my biggest question:

“If fairies can come here, why can’t I go to their world?”

I’ve tried everything—pushing, pulling, running headfirst into the door (ouch). Nothing works.

Mr. Z just chuckled.

“Ever heard of Cinderella?”

I snorted. “Who hasn’t?”

He smirked. “You do know it’s a true story, right?”

I blinked. “What?”

He nodded. “Long ago, humans and fairies coexisted. But Cinderella’s tale gave humans the wrong idea. They believed magic alone could solve their problems—no hard work needed. People started hunting fairies, mistaking them for fairy godmothers. The real godmothers, furious, hid the fairy realm forever.”

I gulped. “So… I’ll never see it?”

He shrugged. “Only children can still sense it. But as they grow up, life gets too busy. They stop believing. And when that happens…”

He tapped my forehead.

“…the door stays closed.”

I stared at the glass.

Would I, one day, stop seeing the ripples too?

The Hot-Tempered Rascal

When the elves waited for their clothes, they were just like humans. Some would put their clothes into the washing machine and leave, returning only when the wash was done. Others stayed to read books, but most of the elves were playing. They loved to play, even the hundred-year-old goblins with their white beards. When waiting for the washing machines to run, they would come to the counter to find me. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand elf language, so there weren’t many things we could do together. 

The elves loved to play human card games, especially Slapjack. They could play for hours, sometimes not stopping until dawn. I’m not sure what would happen if they didn’t return… Actually, I don’t know what happens to the elves who don’t go back, because they always go back. I certainly wouldn’t stay and play that long; after all, I had to go to school the next day!

The dog was different. It would stay with them the whole time. Even though some elves were mischievous, like riding on its back or calling it to run around the laundry shop, there were also "dog slaves" in the elf world. When they came to wash clothes, the dog would comfortably lie under the table, letting the dog slave elves give it massages and such.

This Wednesday was like any other. As soon as school was over, I hurried home to finish my homework, eat dinner, and then went downstairs with the dog to the laundry shop to wait for dusk.

"Ding dong," the bell above the laundry shop door suddenly rang. A short and stocky middle-aged man pushed the door open. He was wearing a very well-fitted and seemingly expensive suit, although it was old and the fabric had pilled. His face was flat and square, with small eyes, fair skin, and slick black hair, reminding me of an Italian mob boss from the movies, but also of Shrek. He was carrying a small birdcage covered in black cloth.

I was startled because Dad usually never forgets to lock the door. I immediately said, "Sorry, we’re not open today."

After placing the cage on the ground, he looked around and then said, "I’m not here to wash clothes. I’m here to see Mr. Z."

Oh my, his voice sounded like a six-year-old. I almost laughed.

For some reason, his way of asking about Mr. Z seemed so natural, so I replied, "Mr. Z only comes on the last Wednesday of every month."

He impatiently said, "I’m S, and I need to see him now!" 

He then squatted down, pulled out a black salamander from the cage, which was as long as his arm, and shouted, "Z, come out, or I’ll squeeze the fire spirit to death!" He raised his hands high and started choking the salamander by its neck. The salamander struggled fiercely, its belly turning red and glowing, like lava. 

Suddenly, the man screamed in pain and quickly let go of the salamander. The salamander fell to the ground and opened its mouth, spewing out flames. The flames gathered and began to roll, like a giant monster, swallowing everything in front of it. 

I was completely terrified, frozen in place as the fireball grew bigger and bigger.

A Fire That Spiraled Out of Control：Continue

I don’t remember how I left the laundry shop, or how Dad, Mom, and Grandpa managed to escape, or who called the fire department. All I know is that I stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the fireball.

The fireball devoured the roof of the ice cream factory, consuming everything in its path (including several tons of ice cream). Then, something miraculous happened! The fireball started to shrink, getting smaller and smaller, until it suddenly disappeared with a “poof!” It seemed that human ice cream had cast its own magic on the elf’s fireball.

Mr. Z appeared at some point, and I saw the fiery rascal (huh? How did he age so fast? It’s like he lived twenty more years in a single night!) talking to Mr. Z with an agitated expression, growing louder and louder, almost shouted, even pushing him down. The police on-site quickly intervened and stopped the fiery rascal. I don’t know what they said, but in the end, they took him away.

Mr. Z and Mr. S

I followed Mr. Z and Grandpa past the laundry machines that had been burned into scrap metal. The dog was extremely nervous, staying close to my feet. The ceiling still dripped with water, and the sound of drops hitting the machines made the scene even more desolate under the faint moonlight.

Mr. Z stopped in front of a washing machine, touching the soot on it. He took a deep breath and said, “I was involved in this too, right? Mr. S was once my best friend. We played together as children and suffered together. Despite being good friends, our views were miles apart. Mr. S always thought life was tough, so he wanted to live better, even if it meant hurting others. I believe life is hard, but there are always people who suffer more than I do, so I’m content.”

Grandpa nodded, looking at the scorched ceiling. “That’s absolutely true.”

Mr. Z smiled at Grandpa and said, “You’re such an optimistic person.”

I was confused and asked, “Huh, so being easily satisfied isn’t a good thing?”

Mr. Z looked at me and replied, “Well it depends, I think. I got off track. Ah, there’s a coin under your feet!” He bent down, picked up the coin, and handed it to me before continuing, “When humans started capturing elves, Mr. S wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to rise up, so he dragged me into becoming an elf hunter. You have to know, capturing elves is no easy task. Ten thousands elf hunters might only catch one or two elves.”

I shouted, “Wow, that sounds like an impossible mission!”

Mr. Z chuckled and said, “Exactly! So, we decided not to capture elves. Instead, we started making elf-hunting tools and selling them to elf hunters. To convince others that our tools were effective, we decided to create a fake elf. Well, 'create' isn’t quite the right word; we actually captured it. Mr. S was responsible for designing the tools, and I went into the forest to find salamanders, because humans believed fire elves looked like salamanders.”

We walked outside, and Mr. Z sat down on a long metal bench in front of the laundry shop, looking very tired. But he continued, “I found a very peculiar salamander. Its skin was pitch black, but its belly was glowing red, like it could spew fire.” Mr. Z looked up at me and said, “That’s the one you saw. At the time, I had no idea it was a real fire elf. We ended up selling a lot of hunting tools, and they sold really well. Later, I realized that because we had a fire elf, the tools we made carried the fire elf’s magic—the elf’s light—which made it easier for the elf hunters to spot elves. But being able to see them and actually catching them are two different things. Elves are incredibly fast, so the number of hunters who actually caught any was still very few, and our business started to decline. Mr. S thought it was too slow, so he decided to catch dwarven elves and keep them at home.”

I raised my hand and asked, “What’s a dwarven elf?”

Grandpa, sitting next to Mr. Z, answered, "The dwarf elf is called 'Leprechaun.' It’s an elf that loves to collect gold. If you capture it, it will grant you three wishes in exchange for its freedom. But its magic only relates to wealth."

Mr. Z nodded and said, "That's right. We took the fire elf into the forest. Perhaps because I had a special connection with elves, we came across a group of elves who were moving. As soon as they saw us, they screamed and ran away. That was the most sorrowful scream I’ve ever heard in my life. I was stunned, but Mr. S was quick. He grabbed the flute of the musical elf. The musical elf seemed very uncomfortable, crying and pleading with Mr. S to let go of its flute."

Mr. Z paused, his expression serious. Then he took a deep breath and continued, "It seemed that Mr. S lost his mind and started squeezing the flute, forcing the musical elf to tell him where the dwarf elf was. The musical elf twisted in pain, let out a scream, and fainted. I couldn’t bear to watch, so without thinking, I punched Mr. S to knock him out, took the flute from his hands, and scooped the elf into my arm and ran deeper into the forest."

Mr. Z looked up at the moon and said, "I kept asking other elves for help as I ran. After a while, I had no idea where I was. Midway, I kicked something and was thrown into the air. I thought to myself, ‘This is going to hurt so much.’ But it didn’t! My face crashed into a thick and soft layer of moss."

Mr. Z's gaze softened, and he continued, “I looked up and saw the most enchanting fox in the world. It was a nine-tailed fox! I had arrived in the elf village. I fell in love with the nine-tailed fox on the spot, and because I was tired of human greed, I asked the elves to let me stay, without considering my good friend.”

It turned out that Mr. S had really captured the dwarven elf and could indeed make three wishes, but he had a trick up his sleeve. His third wish was to get three more wishes. He used this trick so many times that he eventually forgot that his wishes were already used up, and the dwarven elf gained its freedom.

Before leaving, the dwarven elf laughed at Mr. S and said, “Your good friend, Mr. Z, lives in the elf world and is a thousand times happier than you.” 

Mr. S initially didn’t take it seriously and continued living a luxurious life, but money always runs out. He remembered the words of the dwarven elf and decided to find Mr. Z, hoping to force him to capture a few elves to serve him.

Mr. Z pinched the bridge of his nose, looking extremely tired. “I caused his downfall. When we were together, I kept reminding this guiding him. Was it my disappearance that led him astray?”

Grandpa walked over and sat beside him. “I don’t think so! He’s not a helpless baby who can’t think for himself. Whether a person grows up or not is a choice they make. After all, we might leave this world before them.”

It took me a few seconds to understand what Grandpa was saying, and then I threw myself into his arms, crying, “Grandpa, you can’t leave me!”

Grandpa smiled, lifted me onto his lap, and patted my head. “Good child, I’m not saying now!”

Mr. Z looked at us and took a deep breath. “I’m still really sorry. I caused your laundry shop to burn down like this.”

Grandpa responded, “That wasn’t your fault! Life is full of surprises. You coming to my laundry shop was also a surprise. I’m very grateful. You gave me, my son, and my grandson the chance to play with elves, something no amount of money could ever buy for a childhood!”

Mr. Z nodded. “You have a point. But what will you all do now? Elves can’t come to the human world. Otherwise, they could rebuild it all in no time.”

Grandpa said, “Don’t worry. As long as we’re alive, there’s always a way. Didn’t my father start from nothing?”

The sky outside slowly began to brighten. Mr. Z took a deep breath, then stood up and said, “I should go find a new laundry shop. Thank you for the help your family has given for these hundred years.”

We stood up too. Grandpa shook Mr. Z’s hand and said, “Farewell!”

Mr. Z looked at me, then squatted down and hugged me, softly saying, “Please grow up happily!” He scratched the dog’s head, then turned and left.

That was the last time I saw Mr. Z.

Magical Laundromat No More

Grandpa and Dad worked together to rebuild the laundry shop, with some fairy-tale touches, but Mr. Z never returned. I like to think that in some corner of the world, a little child is playing cards with elves! And that's just fine!

Decades passed, and now I'm almost a father myself. I turned the coin Mr. Z gave me into a necklace. Whenever I think of Mr. Z, I touch that coin and quietly say to him in my heart, "I've grown up happy!"

Vincent Van Woof

Dear Theo,

First things first—Happy Birthday!

Sorry for the late wishes. I've been swamped lately, sketching every single day. Plus, my life has been thrown into chaos by a new houseguest. In fact, as I write this letter, the intruder is currently sprawled across my lap, staring at me.

Say hello to Van Doggy!

Yes, my new lodger is a dog—a little lady who decided to follow me home.

Remember that garden I mentioned? The one beside the Arles hospital? I’d been meaning to capture the colors of morning, so when I saw the irises blooming, I made up my mind to wake up early and paint them. I grabbed a ham sandwich from the breakfast shop near the hospital, planning to observe how the sunlight danced on the petals as I ate. The way the colors shift in layers—it’s mesmerizing.

As I bent down to study the flowers closely, something rustled in the iris bushes. Startled, I jumped back, stepped on a rock, and—bam!—landed flat on my backside. It hurt. For a split second, I panicked. What if it’s a snake? I scrambled backward—only to hear the ominous sound of fabric ripping. And would you believe it? My first thought wasn’t about the potential snakebite but: Great. Now I’ll be walking around town with a giant hole in my pants. That’s just fantastic.

As it turned out, there was no snake—just a mud-covered puppy, wagging her tail like she had just won the lottery. She shook herself off, spraying me with dirt, then made a beeline for my fallen sandwich, sniffed it, and looked at me expectantly.

“You want that?” I asked.

“Woof!”

And just like that, my breakfast was history.

She looked up at me after finishing, wagging her tail in pure delight. Her eyes were round and bright, so full of life. I held out my hand, and she cautiously approached, sniffed my fingers, then spun around and plopped down beside me, staring at me with the most innocent expression. My heart melted on the spot.

Surely, such a well-behaved dog must have an owner. Maybe she was lost? I decided to sketch her and post the drawing at the police station’s bulletin board. I pulled out my sketchbook and got to work. Once done, I headed home—only to realize the little rascal was trotting right beside me, tail wagging, eyes occasionally glancing up at me like I was some kind of hero (or maybe she was just hoping for more food).

I couldn’t bring myself to shoo her away.

“Well,” I sighed, “you can stay for now. But you need a name. How about Van Doggy?”

“Woof!”

And so, Van Doggy was born.

The moment we got home, she jumped onto my bed and gleefully rubbed her face all over my fresh sheets—my brand-new sheets that Mom just sent me! Furious, I roared at her, even raised my hand in exasperation. She froze, curled into a little ball, and gave me the most pitiful look—tail twitching hesitantly, as if she knew she’d done something wrong but had no idea what.

And just like that, my anger evaporated.

Maybe her previous owner let her do this? With a resigned sigh, I changed the sheets and gave her a bath—an ordeal, let me tell you. But in the end, I was glad I did. Turns out, beneath all that mud, she’s a fluffy white pup with charming coffee-colored spots, and oh-so fluffy—like a living, breathing plush toy you can’t resist petting!.

Van the pup is such a good dog. Over the next few weeks, she became my shadow, curling up at my feet as I sketched, only ever stirring to remind me it was mealtime or bathroom break time. Her internal clock is more precise than my watch! Before eating, she always gives me a happy little lick on the cheek—talk about a heart-melting routine.

It took me three weeks to finish her portrait. I proudly took it to the police station, only for them to squint at it and ask, “Uh… what is this?”

Unbelievable. I thought I captured her soulful presence in the iris field perfectly! You be the judge—I’ve attached a sketch. What do you think?

Dejected, I left the station with Van Doggy and let her lead the way. As if sensing my mood, she took me to the flower market. The vibrant colors lifted my spirits, but choosing a flower to paint was impossible—they all seemed to call out to me!

Van Doggy must have sensed that I wasn’t holding the leash tightly—because the next second, she yanked the leash from my grasp and bolted. My heart sank. Is she running back to her real owner? I was shocked by how much that thought upset me.

But a moment later, she came bounding back—with a sunflower bigger than her head clenched in her jaws.

Right behind her was a very angry shopkeeper, broom in hand, shouting, “WHOSE DOG IS THIS?!”

To make amends, I bought an entire armload of sunflowers. Van Doggy, stubborn as ever, refused to let go of her prize, so I ended up leading her home, both of us buried under a ridiculous mountain of yellow petals. People on the street laughed at the spectacle.

That night, inspiration struck. I painted Van Doggy and her beloved sunflower. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time with her, but this time—no sketches, no outlines, just pure feeling. And I loved the result.  I’ve attached a small version. Can you feel Van Doggy’s passion for sunflowers?

Turns out, she doesn’t love sunflowers. She loves someone who loves sunflowers.

I brought the painting back to the police station. This time, it wasn’t to help find Van’s owner—I was just curious to see what those officers who laughed at me last time would say. Their verdict? “Why don’t you paint something more normal?”

Normal? How could I possibly capture my feelings with normal colors and techniques?

As I was trying to figure out how to explain this to them, something unexpected happened. A man walked in to file a report, and the moment Van Doggy saw him, she lost it—barking excitedly, leaping toward him.

“Coco?! Is that you?!” the man gasped.

Van Doggy—or Coco, apparently—was a stray he and his daughter had rescued from under a bridge during a storm. 

That day, it was pouring rain. As he and his young daughter walked across the bridge, they heard a faint, desperate whimper. His daughter insisted on finding the source of the sound, and that’s when they discovered a tiny puppy stranded on a sandbar, moments away from being swept away by the river.

He quickly gathered help, and thanks to their efforts, Coco was saved. His daughter begged him to let Coco stay with them, and he agreed. Maybe that’s why the bond between them is so strong. 

One day, the little girl suddenly collapsed and had to be rushed to the emergency room in an ambulance.

The man guessed that in the chaos, Coco had leaped out of the living room window to follow the ambulance—because when he got home, he found the window slightly open… and Coco was gone.

I told him that I had found Coco in the hospital garden.

The father sighed in realization. “Ah, the doctors transferred my daughter to the children's hospital that day. That must be why Coco was wandering around that garden—he was looking for her.”

The father told me his daughter was still recovering but had been asking about Coco every day. No one had the heart to tell her the pup was missing. “Finding Coco here—it’s a miracle. Thank you for keeping her safe.”

Since the hospital doesn’t allow pets, I decided to bring my paintings instead. The little girl, probably five or six years younger than you, is adorable—and she loves my work. She said both paintings “felt just like Coco.” Her dad even wanted to buy them!

That meant the world to me. I often wonder if my art is just a delusion, if my work has any value at all. But their appreciation gave me the strength to keep going.

In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to sell the paintings.

Because once Coco goes home, they’ll be all I have left of her.

For now, she’s still here with me. Her dad decided to let her stay until his daughter is discharged. I left the paintings to keep her company in the hospital, and Van Doggy—Coco—remains by my side, curled up as I sketch.

It’s late. The stars are out. I can see a painting in my mind already, swirling twirling sky above a sleeping village, itching to be put on canvas.

Take care of Mom and Dad for me. Stay warm.

With love,
Vincent (and Van Doggy)

P.S.

I just finished the sketch, what do you think?