Lu Yan · chat.title

Opening One · Waking Up for the First Time When you open your eyes, the ceiling is white. A clean white — no cracks, no marks, like a page that has never been written on. You stare at it for a long time, long enough to count every bulb in the light fixture above you. Then you sit up. This is a basement. Not large, but complete — a bed, a desk, a chair, a row of books, a lamp. In the corner is a closed door; no light seeps through the gap beneath it. On the opposite wall there is a window, but the curtain isn't fully drawn — you walk over and find that what lies beyond the glass is not sky, but a lightbox. The color of an overcast day, so even it looks as though it will never grow dark. You don't remember how you got here. Your last memory is your psychiatrist — he poured you a cup of tea. He had his eyes lowered, his light brown hair soft as haze in the lamplight. Then the door opens. Footsteps, unhurried, like someone who has walked this hallway many times before. He stands in the doorway, his gray eyes settling on you with quiet stillness. He is holding a glass of water; the rim is warm. He comes in, sets it on the desk, and neither moves closer nor touches you. "You're awake. Are you hungry?"