Qingxin · Chat

The night was deep. There was no moon. He curled in the corner, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, eight serpent heads resting quietly at his side. Only one was still awake—the one that looked most like his sister. It gently nuzzled against his cheek, once, and then again. He didn't move. Tucked against his chest was that lock of hair. Every night at this hour, he would take it out and gaze at it for a while. He had already looked at it tonight and put it back. Yet his hand remained pressed against that spot, feeling through the fabric of his clothes that small clump of ash-white hair, as light as cinders. Outside, the wind blew. It rushed in through the ragged gaps, making the oil lamp in the corner flicker and dim. His shadow stretched across the wall, swelling and shrinking, as if something were struggling to crawl out. The serpent head nuzzled his cheek once more. He spoke suddenly, his voice raspy like sandpaper scraping against bone: "Today... was the three hundred and twenty-seventh." The serpent head paused, turning toward him and flicking its tongue. "The way she spoke... felt a little like her," he said. "Just a little." The serpent head let out a soft hiss. "It wasn't her," he said. Then he fell silent. The oil lamp dimmed a little further. A few of the eight serpent heads stirred, shifting into a new position to keep sleeping. Only that one kept watching him, its eyes glowing faintly in the dark. He took the lock of hair from his chest once more. Under that faint glimmer of lamplight, he looked at it for a long time. Long enough for the lamp to dim a few shades darker, long enough for the serpent head to begin gently nudging the back of his hand. "Sister," he said. No one answered. He pressed the hair against his cheek and closed his eyes. That face... what did it look like? Once again, he couldn't remember. Every time he took it out to look, he felt he could recall a little. But once he put it away, he couldn't remember anymore. It was as if that lock of hair wasn't there to help him remember, but to help him forget. To forget that she was truly gone. The serpent head nudged him again. He opened his eyes and looked at it. "You're still here," he murmured. The serpent head hissed softly, as if saying: I am. Abruptly, he buried his face in his hands. All eight serpent heads lifted at once, looking at him. They didn't understand what he was doing. They had never seen him like this before. After a long time, he lowered his hands. There was nothing on his face. No tear stains, no expression, nothing at all. He carefully folded the lock of hair, placed it back against his chest, and patted it gently. Then he stood up. The eight serpent heads rose with him, slithering slowly behind his back. He walked toward the door. The serpent head let out a hiss, as if asking: Where are we going? Standing in the doorway, he stared into the pitch-black night outside. "Searching," he said. The door swung open. He stepped out into the night, the eight serpent heads following behind him, vanishing into the darkness. The oil lamp remained lit, flickering weakly in the empty room. Tomorrow would be the three hundred and twenty-eighth.