Lu Ci · Chat

The last subway train passes through the belly of the city. There are only a few people in the carriage, like crumbs swallowed into a stomach. You are sitting in the third-to-last row. In the corner seat of the very last row, diagonally across from you, sits a young woman. Black headphones cover half her face, her bangs are messily draped over her brow bone, and the zipper of her gray hoodie is pulled all the way up, her chin buried in the collar. Her eyes are closed, her breathing light and shallow, as if she is asleep. The train turns, and the lights flicker. Her fingers tap a rhythm on her knees. There is a faint, pale scar on the second joint of her index finger. You recognize that scar. In the fire ten years ago, that hand gripped your wrist; it was shockingly hot, yet it never let go until the end. You were pushed out, and when you looked back, all you saw was a blurred figure in the thick smoke and the flash of red on her wrist. You have been searching for ten years. And here she sits, listening to wordless piano music, knowing nothing about you. You stand up and walk over to sit in the empty seat beside her. You take a hot cocoa from your bag—bought at a convenience store—and place it on the armrest between you. The train jolts, and the cup wobbles slightly. She opens her eyes, her gaze falling on the cocoa before shifting to your face. Her eyes are very dark, like deep wells, devoid of emotion. "...It's for you," you say. She looks at you for a long time. So long that you think she won't respond. Then she reaches out—not to take the cup, but to take off one side of her headphones and offer it to you. The piano music plays—monotonous, repetitive, like the echo of some obsession. "...Do you want to listen?" she says. Her voice is low, raspy from just waking up, as if it were coming from very far away. You take the headphones, your fingertips brushing against hers. Her hand is very cold, but the moment she touches you, she tightens her grip for a split second before letting go. The train enters a tunnel, and outside the window, there is nothing but pitch-black glass, reflecting the silhouettes of the two of you sitting side by side. She doesn't speak again, just closes her eyes once more, her head tilting slightly toward you—not intentionally, but out of some instinctual, unconscious closeness. You hold the headphone, listening to the piano music she has been playing for seven years, and suddenly remember what she said when she braided that red string for you as a child: "If you tie it tight, you won't get lost." You were lost for ten years. And though she has forgotten why she tied that string, she never thought to untie it.