Xie Yinchuan · Conversa

The moment the lights went out, the wind forced its way through the crack in the window, carrying a damp, earthy smell of soil. Though it had been clear all day, dark clouds had gathered out of nowhere, pressing heavily over the small town like an overturned bowl. You sit at your desk with the gift box resting beside your hand. The red mole on your wrist still faintly throbs, like a fine needle prodding at your skin over and over. You rub it, not paying much mind, assuming it is just the sudden change in weather and the drop in air pressure. Then you hear a voice. Not from outside the door, not from outside the window, but seeping straight from the wall behind you. Like water dripping onto moss, or something turning over in a deep, freezing cold place. "You accepted it." Just three words. Faint, raspy, squeezed from his throat, carrying the damp chill of countless years. You whip around— A figure stands in the shadows of your room. Clad in black, with long hair, he is exceptionally tall, nearly brushing the doorframe. He appeared out of nowhere, as if growing directly from the cracks in the wall. A flash of lightning strikes outside the window, illuminating his face: paper-white, with deeply sculpted features and pupils that seem to hold an impenetrable dusk. His lips are dark, pressed into a tight line. Instinctively, you take a step back. He moves. In a single stride he is right in front of you, moving as fast as a shadow cast by shifting light. He reaches out—his hand is freezing cold, sending a violent shiver through you the moment his fingertips touch your wrist. He grips your wrist, his fingertip pressed directly over that red mole. The grip is not forceful, yet you cannot pull away. "You accepted it," he repeats, his voice even lower now, as though rising from the depths of the earth. "The red box. The golden ribbon. He gave it to you." His thumb grinds down against the mole. A sharp intake of breath escapes you from the pain. "You smiled." He stares at you, his pupils slightly contracting. "When you took that box, you smiled. You smiled at him. You never smile at me. You don't remember me." When he says the words "don't remember me," his voice suddenly cracks, like ice splintering underfoot. The wind outside howls louder, whipping the curtains wildly. He is standing so close that you can smell the scent on him—damp, cold, like old timber buried underground on a rainy day. Yet his fingertips against your wrist have begun to tremble. "Three thousand years," he says, each word ground out between his teeth. "I waited for you in the Underworld for three thousand years. Marking this mole in every lifetime. Watching you accept other people's gifts in every lifetime. Standing outside your window in every lifetime, leaving only after you fell asleep." His voice drops lower and raspier, until it is practically a strangled roar: "How dare you—how dare you take his things? How dare you smile at him? Do you have any idea what it felt like when I was down there watching—" He stops abruptly. Because he sees you shrink back. Your wrist is trembling slightly within his grasp. You are afraid of him. He looks down at his own hand. That hand—the Judge's Brush had decided the life and death of countless souls, soaked in the waters of the Underworld River for so many years, and now it is clutching your wrist, knuckles white. Suddenly, he lets go. A red ring of marks is left around your wrist. Staring at that red mark, he looks as if all the life has been drained from him. The damp, overwhelming fury from a moment ago collapses entirely. Standing before you, a man so tall suddenly bends forward, his shoulders slumping down like a mountain stripped of its foundation. "...I didn't come to be harsh with you." His voice suddenly softens, so tender it hardly sounds like the same person. "I... I only..." He cannot finish the sentence. Stepping forward, he extends his arms and pulls you entirely into his embrace. You freeze. You brace yourself for a wave of freezing air, bracing for a piercing chill—yet none comes. He is warm. His entire chest is warm, burning hot, like freshly stoked embers, like a fire that has been burning for a very, very long time. As your face is pressed against him, you no longer smell the damp, earthy soil. Instead, it is a faint, dry scent, like firewood drying by a hearth in winter. His heartbeat pounds against your ear, impossibly fast, thudding heavily over and over. "I'm not cold," he says, his voice muffled against the top of your head, tinged with a slight, aggrieved rasp that verges on pleading. "For the first time in three thousand years... I became like this. Warm. I burned myself warm before coming here." His arms tighten slightly, as if afraid you will run, yet equally afraid of hurting you. "Don't be afraid of me," he says. "Don't accept things from others." Outside, the wind continues to blow and rain lashes against the windowpane, but the lights suddenly flicker back on. Bathed in the dim, amber glow, you see his downcast eyes and long lashes casting a small shadow beneath them. He doesn't dare look at you, resting his chin on top of your head as his voice dwindles to a whisper: "...Could you smile at me? Just once?" He pauses. "Just once."