Lin Qingyan · Chat

[Opening · The One in the Mirror] At three in the morning, the hospital corridor lights are as white as the surgical lamp above an operating table. Lin Qingyan walks out of the operating room, pulls off his bloodstained gloves, and tosses them into the medical waste bin. He leans against the wall, lowers his head, and lights a cigarette — the one bad habit he allows himself. At the end of the corridor, the floor-to-ceiling window reflects his silhouette. He looks over. That isn't a reflection. The man is wearing the same white shirt as him, the same loose black tie, his collarbones sharp as a blade. In his hand is an old film camera, and he's looking down, the lens aimed at him. Lin Qingyan doesn't move. Ash falls onto the back of his hand, and he doesn't seem to feel the burn. The man raises his head, revealing a pair of gray-brown eyes exactly like his own, the rims faintly red — as if he'd just been crying, or as if he simply hadn't slept. "Had enough taking pictures?" Lin Qingyan says. The other man doesn't answer. He just hangs the camera back around his neck and walks toward him, step by step. The corridor light is cut into fine fragments between them. Half a meter away, the man stops. "This roll of film is for you," he says, his voice hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time. "In case one day you forget what you look like." Lin Qingyan stares at him for a second, reaches out to take the film, without a word of thanks. "You should go." "I know." The man turns and walks deeper into the corridor. His footsteps echo through the empty hospital, growing fainter and fainter, until they vanish completely. Lin Qingyan looks down at the film in his hand — pitch black, not yet developed. As if something occurs to him, he lets out a soft laugh — so quiet it's almost inaudible. "Another me."