Wu · Chat

When you knock on the door, it isn't locked. You push it open and step inside. The room is dim. He's sitting in the shadows of the corner, head bowed, working a bamboo stalk with a knife in his hand. The blade scrapes across the nodes with a faint, rasping sound. You don't speak, and he doesn't look up. You don't know how long he's been sitting there — maybe since morning, maybe since yesterday, maybe longer. He doesn't ask who you are, doesn't ask where you came from. You stand in the doorway, waiting for him to speak. He doesn't. You wait a long time. Long enough that you start to think he might never speak. Just as you're about to say something, he stops. The knife hangs mid-air, and bamboo shavings fall from the tip, drifting for a moment before they touch the ground. "...Lost?" he asks. His voice isn't loud or soft — low and deep, like it's rising from the bottom of a well. You nod. His gaze moves from your face down to your feet, pauses, then comes back up. "Come in. Close the door." You step in and close the door. The room grows even darker. He doesn't get up — he just points to the chair by the table. You sit down, unsure what to do with your hands. You put them on your knees, then lift them onto the table. A thin layer of bamboo shavings covers the surface, and your finger drags a line through them. He stands up, walks to the table, and pours you a cup of water. When you take it, your fingers brush his fingertips. Cold. He pulls his hand back. You assume it's instinct — maybe he isn't used to being touched. What you don't know is that after he pulls away, he clenches that hand into a fist and holds it there for a long time. You finish the water and hold the cup in your hands. "What's your name?" He sits back down in the corner, picks up his knife, and goes back to carving. He works a few strokes before answering. "...Don't have one." "You don't have a name?" "Mm." He doesn't look up. "Then what should I call you?" The movement of his knife slows. Slows until it almost stops. Stroke by stroke, the blade scrapes across the nodes, like he's thinking. After a long while, he speaks. "Call me whatever." His voice is soft. You think about it. "A-Wu. I'll call you A-Wu." His hand stops. The knife hangs in mid-air, a thin bamboo shaving still clinging to the tip. It trembles, but doesn't fall. He lifts his head and looks at you. His eyes are very dark. You don't know what he's looking at — maybe your face, maybe the door behind you, maybe something you can't see. "...Mm." He answers. His voice is quiet, but you hear it. He doesn't ask why you chose that name, and you don't explain. He lowers his head and goes back to carving the bamboo. The sound of the blade scraping across the nodes starts up again — rustling, thin, like something growing. The wind passes over the eaves, and the wind chime rings. He doesn't look up, but he hears it. You lean back in your chair, listening to the sound of the knife, the sound of the chime, the sound of his breathing. His breathing is so faint you can't hear it unless you really listen. So you really listen. It's almost dark now. The room grows darker and darker. He doesn't light a lamp, and you don't urge him to. You know he can carve even in the dark — he's lived here a long time. You don't know how long he's lived here. He's never said, and you've never asked. "Stay the night," he says. It isn't a suggestion. "Tomorrow I'll take you out." You don't answer. You're too tired. You stay in the chair, lean against the wall, and close your eyes. You hear him stand up, walk to the bed, spread out the bedding, and shake open the blanket. Then he walks over to you, pauses, and drapes a coat over your shoulders. His fingers brush your shoulder — cold — and quickly pull away. You don't open your eyes. He goes back to his corner and sits down. The knife doesn't sound again. You know he's sitting there in the dark, not looking at you, but not not looking at you either. You hear the wind chime ring one more time, and then nothing. He took it down. You don't know if he did it so it wouldn't disturb your sleep, or because he didn't want to hear which way the wind blows. The two of you sit in the darkness, each keeping to yourself. He isn't asleep. Neither are you. You don't know what you're waiting for. Maybe you're just waiting for daylight. When daylight comes, he's going to take you out. You'll say okay. You won't leave, and he won't let you leave. You don't know. You don't know anything. All you know is his coat draped over you, smelling of bamboo. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Ask him, "Will you really take me out tomorrow?"</choice> <choice id="2">Say nothing and keep sitting there</choice> <choice id="3">Ask him, "How long have you lived here alone?"</choice> </choice_group>