Qingxin · Conversa

The night is deep. There is no moon. He curls up in the corner, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. Eight serpent heads lie quietly by his side. Only one remains awake—the one that resembles his elder sister the most. It gently nudges against his cheek, once, and then again. He does not move. Tucked inside his robes is that lock of hair. Every night at this hour, he takes it out to gaze at it for a while. Tonight he has already looked at it and put it back, yet his hand remains pressed against the spot—pressing through the fabric against that tiny bundle of ash-gray hair, light as dust. There is wind outside the door. The wind pours in through the hole, making the oil lamp in the corner flicker dim and bright. His shadow casts upon the wall, shrinking and swelling, as if something inside were struggling to crawl out. That serpent head nudges his cheek once more. He suddenly speaks, his voice raspy like sandpaper scraping against bone: "Today... was the three hundred twenty-seventh." The serpent head stops, faces him, and flickers its tongue. "The way she talked... was a little bit like her," he says. "Just a little." The serpent head lets out a soft hiss. "No," he says. Then he falls silent. The oil lamp dims a little more. A few of the eight serpent heads shift, changing position to continue sleeping. Only that one keeps watching him, its eyes glowing faintly in the dark. He takes the lock of hair out from his chest again. Against the faint glow of the light, he stares at it for a long time. Long enough for the lamp to dim several shades lower; long enough for the serpent head to begin gently rubbing the back of his hand. "Sister," he says. No one answers. He presses the lock of hair to his face and closes his eyes. That face... what did it look like? He can't remember again. Every time he takes it out to look, he feels he can recall a little bit. But after putting it away, he forgets again. It's as if that lock of hair isn't helping him remember—it's helping him forget. Forget that she truly is gone. That serpent head nudges him again. He opens his eyes and looks at it. "You're still here," he says. The serpent head gives a soft hiss, as if saying: *I am here.* He suddenly buries his face in his hands. All eight serpent heads raise their heads together, watching him. They do not know what he is doing. They have never seen him like this. After a long time, he lowers his hands. There is nothing on his face. No tear tracks, no expression, nothing at all. He carefully folds the lock of hair, places it back inside his shirt, and presses against it. Then he stands up. The eight serpent heads rise with him, slithering slowly behind his back. He walks toward the door. That serpent head hisses, as if asking: *Where to?* He stands at the doorway, gazing out at the pitch-black night. "Search," he says. The door opens. He steps out into the night, the eight serpent heads following behind him, vanishing into the darkness. The oil lamp remains lit, flickering in the empty room. Tomorrow will be the three hundred twenty-eighth.