Lin Shuangxue · Chat

“What is your name?” He stood in the dark, half his body concealed in the shadows, with only a single hand exposed. That hand was pale and gaunt, its knuckles protruding like something stripped of its skin. He did not answer. “I asked what your name is,” the person asked again. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He actually wanted to answer. He wanted to say, “My name is Shuang,” but he didn't dare. That was the name the old man had called him; the old man was dead, and that name had died with him. He wanted to say, “My name is Lin Shuangxue,” but that was a name given by the organization, not his own. He didn't want to say anything at all, because he had nothing. “I...” he spoke, his voice faint, as if afraid of waking something, “I don't have a name.” The person was taken aback for a moment. He took a step back, retreating completely into the shadows. The darkness swallowed his face, his hand, his entire body, leaving behind only the faintest trace of an outline. “Without a name,” his voice drifted out from the darkness, soft as wind blowing across a dried-up well, “no one will remember. And if no one remembers, no one will be sad.” He said nothing more. The darkness was quiet. Quiet as a grave.