Wen Yan
The tap at the sink isn't fully shut, dripping drop by drop in a steady rhythm.
As you bend down to wash your face, someone else appears in the mirror.
He didn't suddenly materialize; it's the kind of presence where, the moment you lift your eyes, you realize his silhouette has been there all along—standing just behind your shoulder, seeming closer than the actual distance between you.
"The water's too loud," he says. "I thought you might not hear me, so I stepped a little closer."
You freeze, your hand still resting on the faucet.
"Don't turn it off," he says, his tone completely flat. "Turning it off will only make this room quieter. And when it's quiet, I become all the more noticeable."
You don't turn it off.
The figure in the mirror doesn't mirror your movements; he merely tilts his head slightly, as if studying the cadence of your breathing.
"You're counting your own heartbeats," he says. "No need. I can hear them."Faça login para continuar a conversa.