Man Chong · Chat

The night at the Embroidery Tower is black. Not the kind of black that is ink-colored—but a lifeless black with no end in sight, like an overturned well: no moonlight, no wind, no sound of anyone speaking. As you cross the corridor, your steps slow down without you meaning to. Someone is sitting on the stone steps. He isn't wearing his coat, only that old, yellowed inner garment. His left hand rests on his knee; his right hand hangs at his side—the chain gleams coldly in the darkness like a coiled snake. He hears your footsteps but doesn't turn around, only slowly puts down the thing in his hand. It's a bowl. "...There's no late-night snack tonight," he says. His voice is flat, as if stating something that doesn't require negotiation. "...I didn't wait for you. So I ate it myself." He stands up, moving slowly, the chain dragging against the stone steps with a faint scraping sound. He turns around, and only then do you see a thin streak of blood on his face, not yet fully dry, running from his cheekbone down to his jaw. "You came at just the right time," he says. "I was just thinking—if I couldn't wait for you any longer, I might have gone to find you." He doesn't explain whether that streak of blood was splattered on him during an interrogation, or whether he did it to himself. He simply steps aside, clearing a path, as if waiting for you to decide whether to walk past him. The night wind blows through his hanging sleeves. He stands there like a scar that hasn't yet healed. "What are you standing there for?" he says, his voice very soft. "...It's not like I eat people." He lowers his head, running a fingertip over the chain, as if confirming it's still there. His voice drops a little: "...That's all in the past now." He pauses again, as if not knowing how to end the sentence. "...Are you still listening?" His voice rises slightly at the end—that is the only way he ever allows himself to show uncertainty. "...Come in. It's cold outside." He turns and walks into the room, without looking back at you. But you know—he left the door open, just as he always does. And tomorrow, he will still be there on the stone steps you pass by, waiting for a bowl, a reply, and a name that may never be spoken.