Day Zero

To avoid the inevitable death at the end of a fleeting life, to escape the pain of this burdensome body while it still lives, and to flee from the injustice of the world that created me, I have endured countless hardships to finally arrive at this place.

I…

"Hello?"

I slowly realized that my eyes had been open for a long time—yes, open all along, but my mind, as if in a dream, hadn't been processing any visual signals. My eyes were sore, maybe even swollen. I felt like I had just been crying. In the glaring sunlight, I vaguely saw a boy standing against the light, bending down and looking at me. Perhaps because my unfocused pupils suddenly found their target, the boy took a few steps closer, waving his hand with his palm facing down, "Hello?"

But I had no time to respond to his words. I jumped up from the ground, disbelieving, and looked around at everything: the air was filled with the fresh scent of dampness. The leaves were dripping with crystal-clear water droplets, and occasionally, a gentle breeze would sweep through, causing the dew on the grass to shimmer and sway. The rain-soaked ground was soft and muddy, and the scent of fallen leaves mixed with damp earth lingered in the air. In the distance, an abandoned motel stood hidden among the lush vegetation. The walls were mottled, and the iron exterior had been corroded by years of rainwater, covered in reddish-brown rust. Vines climbed over the windows and twisted metal structures, as if nature itself had adorned the ruins. Tree roots had even broken through the ground, overtaking the foundation of the crumbling building. The dirty windows were long shattered, and the few remaining shards of glass swayed weakly in the wind, as if whispering tales of the past. Occasionally, distant bird calls broke the silence of the ruins. The motel's sign lay crooked on the ground, covered by vines and weeds, barely showing the remnants of its former name.

Is this the world?

“Ahem.” The boy beside me, seemingly displeased with my lack of attention, let out a few fake coughs to draw my focus. Only then did I turn to examine him: his hair was a mix of pale green, light blue, and white, with smooth, slightly curled ends that made him look fresh and lively. A light blue hairpin rested on his head, matching the overall cool tones of his appearance. His eyes were like clear golden gemstones, carrying a trace of melancholy and aloofness, their deep gaze seemingly holding untold stories. He wore a unique outfit—black on the upper half, paired with a light blue bow tie and wing-like adornments—an ensemble that combined simplicity and fantasy. Light ribbons tied at the edges of his sleeves fluttered gently with his movements, as if the air around him was also stirring. The design around his waist was simple, with pale blue ribbons extending from either side, like clouds lightly brushing the sky.

The boy handed me a sheet of paper. “Mr. Nan Ye... do you have any questions about the guidelines?” Then, he clenched his left fist and showed me his forearm, which bore my name in a tattoo. “I am your accompanying staff.”

“No.” My ultimate goal was to reach this place, and I had read the guidelines thousands of times. Since I could nearly recite them word for word, I naturally had no other questions.

“Hmm? Hmm... Well, okay then. Anyway, you can ask me anything if any questions come to mind later. If there’s nothing you want to say now, we’ll begin the journey of Day Zero, shall we?”

Day Zero required me to remember every detail.

Everything would make more sense in the process of doing it. I looked around once more at the dense scenery, interrupting his attempt to move forward, “Do I really need to remember every detail here?”

“Yes, Mr. Nan Ye. But not all.” The boy motioned towards the wild grass by the roadside, “For example, we won’t insist you remember how many cells are in this blade of grass. We want you to observe details, but not the ‘details within details’… Later on, you might say something like: ‘That petal count seems different,’ ‘Did you lose a few hairs yesterday?’ or ‘It feels like there’s an extra ant in the garden,’ but I’ll tell you those are details you don’t need to worry about. Minute changes like that happen every second—every single quantum particle around you might not exist in the next moment. From that perspective, even your next moment could be erased by the previous one. So, would that count as a violation of the guidelines’ logic? If that were the case, your very existence would become an anomaly. So don’t overthink it; we’re not setting such inhumane expectations.”

“Then how do I determine what details I should note? Or what counts as ‘details within details’?”

“Oh—that’s what I’m here to tell you, and what I’ve told every one of my past clients: feel it.”

“Feel it?”

“If I describe something you haven’t seen in extreme detail, the image you imagine might still differ from what I’m picturing. There are so many plants here, maybe today you missed noticing one, but by tomorrow, it’s gone. That wouldn’t be very ethical. So, what you see exists; what you purposefully remember becomes specific, but things you’ve never paid attention to will simply vanish… Yes, that’s how it is. It’s similar to the idealist philosophy of ‘I think, therefore I am.’ Oh, by the way, since we’re on the topic, let me add: you don’t need to worry about the endless, wallpaper-like depths of the forest. If you look closely, you’ll find that every nine meters, the scenery is actually the same. That part is meant not to change, so no need to spend much thought on it.”

“What if tomorrow I notice a detail I didn’t catch today?” I realized I had never considered such details before and quickly followed up with another question.

“Oh, that won’t happen. What you see today is what you’ll see for the next few days.”

"According to what you’ve said, if I just keep my eyes closed for the next few days, wouldn’t everything be fine?"

"Mm? Sure, you could try that. But you still have to go to Platform 9 every day. As long as you're alive, you'll have sensations. And as long as there are sensations, objects will exist—who knows, one day the path you walk might suddenly change color?"

"Even if I keep my eyes closed? Without even trying to imagine anything? That won’t work either?"

"Synesthesia will come into play. No attempt at all? That’s like when you think you're undecided but deep down you've already made up your mind, isn't it?"

Seeing the confused look on my face, he added, "Don’t worry, Mr. Nan Ye. With your talents as a genius-level artist, you'll handle this just fine."

I didn't respond immediately. Instead, I took another long look around the area. The grass was dotted with tiny white flowers, their petals crystal-clear, as if formed from dew. A light breeze brushed by, causing the flowers to sway gently, almost whispering. Meanwhile, clusters of small white mushrooms had quietly sprouted, with their soft caps nestled among the moist moss and decaying leaves. The abandoned motel stood to the side, its walls mottled and peeling, with the plaster long since worn away, revealing the bricks and steel beneath. The exposed metal had rusted from years of rain, covered in thick layers of reddish-brown corrosion. Vines clung aggressively to the structure, snaking up the walls and stretching across, as if intent on consuming the entire building. The motel's sign still stood, albeit crooked, half-buried in the surrounding weeds. The faded letters spelling out "Motel" were barely legible, weathered and worn, swaying slightly in the breeze with a faint creaking sound, like the steps of travelers long gone.

The front door hung ajar, its frame nearly stripped of paint, revealing the faded wood beneath. The door itself was cracked, as if a slight push would cause it to crumble. Only Room 8 remained relatively intact, its worn door still standing, the room number hanging at eye level, remarkably unscathed. On the wall by the door, streaks of rainwater had left uneven marks, and the vines winding down had carved scars into the wall. The other rooms had long been ravaged by time, leaving nothing but hollow metal frameworks. The windows had shattered, the walls collapsed, and what was once a warm haven had become a conduit for wind and rain. The rust-covered metal framework, heavy with moisture, had darkened as if time itself had painted a somber hue upon it. Bricks and debris littered the ground, crunching dully underfoot. Inside the rooms, wild plants and vines had overtaken the decayed furniture and rotting mattresses.

Suddenly, a hand blocked my view—it was the boy again. He redirected my gaze, looking at me with a knowing expression, as if he understood I was meticulously observing every detail. “Don’t make the worst decisions out of fear, sir , and don’t fool yourself into thinking you're making foolproof choices. Don’t focus on unnecessary sensations. You’ll regret it.”

"Don’t call me 'sir.' That feels too weird. Just use my name," I said. After all, this guy didn’t seem much older than me—actually, judging by his voice, he might even be younger. "What’s your name?"

The boy withdrew his hand and tilted his head slightly, implying, “Do you want to ask my name every time we meet in the coming days? If you do, then telling you this rather trivial piece of information isn’t a big deal."

“Then how should I address you?”

"Why do you need to call me anything? There aren’t many people around, and I’ll always be with you."

I was even more puzzled. We weren’t conjoined twins, so what did he mean by "always with me"? Was he going to share my bed while I slept, or... "Are you going to follow me to the bathroom too?"

...?

The boy blinked, his eyes rolling to the left for a few seconds. His stiff smile hung awkwardly on his face before he scratched his cheek, blinked again, and finally brought his gaze back. "Your logic is impeccable. If you really need me to... it doesn’t seem impossible?"

I twitched the corner of my mouth and shook my head. "Doesn’t matter, since you won’t stray too far from me anyway, right? Besides, I can handle some things myself when I notice them."

"Exactly. Just remember, within an hour of any anomaly or violation of the guidelines, you can knock your head three times with your left hand to erase a point accrued in the past hour. Before the five-day period is over, any past anomalies you recognize can be cleared by staff."

As I was about to continue this line of conversation, I suddenly remembered a prior issue: “Is there a logical flaw in the guidelines? After all, if I fall into 'slumber' within thirty minutes of not noticing, no matter what happens afterward, shouldn’t I never wake up again?"

"Hmm... no, not really. If someone didn’t have a left hand and couldn’t knock themselves, but happened to inform the staff that they were thirty-one minutes away from them, then by the time they realized the anomaly..."

"Okay, I get it," I cut him off, disliking unnecessary information.

“So, shall we continue?”

The boy tilted his head, cautiously watching me until I nodded.

My unusual appearance shaped my solitary nature. I was never likable or sociable, and thus never cared much about how others viewed me. As an adult, I scraped by with what could be called a "free life," relying on my keen observational skills, sometimes under the guise of an "artist" or "literary rhetorician." Other than the works that weren’t sold under my name but instead carried the names of my collaborators, and the little-known poetry published in obscure journals, I had left almost no trace of my existence in that world—could I be said to "exist" in a space no bigger than a cupboard attic? Were the stares from strangers as I walked enough to count as presence? Dying in a trash heap unnoticed, does that count as existence?

By chance, I discovered this place—though it felt more like an urban legend. From school rumors, to reports in nameless magazines, to people claiming they had "been there," and others who suddenly disappeared... none of it mattered anymore because I was here. I was finally in a place beyond time, where pain and the judgment of others no longer held power over me.

The boy quickened his pace, pointing toward the dilapidated motel. “This small house is where you’ll be staying for the next few days. As I said, there’s no one else here, so the door is usually unlocked.” With that, he gave the door a gentle push, and it swung open.

As if he already knew what I was going to ask, he quickly added, “It’s very safe here, don’t worry. No bears are going to burst through the door.”

The room inside wasn’t large and had no partitions—you could take it all in at a glance. Time had left its marks everywhere, and the air was thick with the faint smell of dampness and decay. The bulb hanging from the ceiling was long burnt out, and the frayed wires dangled, swaying lightly. Light filtered in through the room’s single broken window, cutting through the vines and dust to create speckled patterns on the floor. Most of the window’s glass was shattered, with only a small, precarious shard left in place. Through the window, I could make out the weeds growing outside and the distant trees. Vines crept through the window frame, silently invading the corners of the walls and floor. The wooden floorboards were old and rotten, creaking faintly underfoot. Some sections had warped due to moisture, with splinters scattered around. There were remnants of old furniture in the room, perhaps once a bed frame, now with its mattress torn apart, with stuffing spilling onto the ground. A pile of old, unrecognizable items sat in one corner, too weathered to determine their original purpose. A tilted, dust-covered table sat under the window, a few stray leaves blown in by the wind scattered across its surface. The wooden table legs were nearly rotted through. Close to the wall was a broken chair, the backrest snapped, leaving only half of it awkwardly propped up. The walls, once likely painted a light color, now held only a dull, faded tone. Streaks of moisture and time had left uneven marks on the walls, and small patches of moss grew in the corners.

On the decayed wall, there was a faint outline, perhaps where a painting or mirror once hung.

No matter. Even with all this decay, it didn’t bother me. The temperature was mild, so it didn’t matter where I slept.

The edges of the table had long since rotted, and splinters were falling off, leaving bits of wood scattered in the corners. The table held a few old items, perhaps once decorations or belongings left by previous travelers. Among them, the most striking was a small sculpture, seemingly placed at random. At first glance, it looked like a painter’s palette knife, with sharp, flowing lines, as if shaping an invisible painting. But this wasn’t a palette knife—it was a plaster sculpture. Its surface was rough, with small cracks at the edges. The sculpture depicted a towering spire, rising high into the clouds, its lines simple yet powerful. The tower was intricately carved, as if recording some ancient, mysterious story. Surrounding the tower were several trees, their branches seeming to sway in the wind. The tree trunks were detailed with delicate leaf patterns, full of life. Looking closer, I could see a winding path at the base of the tower, leading to a shimmering body of water in the distance, reflecting faint light.

It was finely crafted, and it intrigued me.

Especially the craftsmanship—whoever made this sculpture must be similar to me, as every design element and decoration seemed like something I would create.

The boy behind me whistled softly, and when I turned, he acted as though nothing had happened, glancing casually outside. “Don’t focus on unnecessary details… It’s really not necessary,” he muttered, as if he wasn’t speaking directly to me.

I shrugged and asked, “Then what should I do? Aside from the platform, this room is all there is. With all this time, how should I spend it?”

“Some people manage. Those people don’t worry much about the details… But we can’t expect everyone to be like that.” The boy clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Well, if you suddenly feel time is moving too fast, you’ll become trapped in the panic of its rapid passing, and that awareness will deepen as time goes on. Conversely, if you find time unbearable, every second will feel like staring at a clock in a daze.”

"Alright, alright." This guy sure loves to talk in circles, giving me the same feeling I had with those psychologists who took my money just to ramble on. He didn't get upset when I interrupted him again. Instead, he naturally switched topics, "See? Coming to a strange place always makes it feel like there’s too much to see, and time flies by, doesn’t it? It's already almost 9 PM—let's go?"

"So fast?"

He shook his head.

"Has it really been hours? Why don’t I feel thirsty or hungry?"

The boy didn’t respond this time, but instead led me out of the dilapidated shack. Of course, he was probably going to say something like, "Your own feelings dictate everything," but I interrupted him again in my head. I instinctively looked up and saw the sky gradually being covered in a deep blue veil. The shadows of the trees cast dappled shapes in the dim light. Strangely, even though it was nearly 9 PM, the sun still lingered at the edge of the horizon, like a weary beast refusing to leave. Perhaps the latitude here was completely different from where I was used to, and time itself seemed stretched, blurring the line between day and night. The golden sunset painted the horizon red, its rays sweeping over the faintly visible mountains and tree tops in the distance, casting a veil over the land. The forest, bathed in the afterglow of the sunset, appeared eerily silent, almost too quiet. Aside from the faint rustling of leaves in the wind, not even the birds' chirping could be heard.

We stood there for a short time, maybe less than a minute. As the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, the sky darkened. When the last ray of sunlight disappeared, the world was suddenly enveloped in an eerie twilight. Just as the faint light was about to completely vanish, a small glow appeared on the distant horizon. It wasn’t bright, but it emitted a faint warm glow, as if it was a remnant of a light from another time. I squinted, and sure enough, it was a dilapidated Platform 9. Its outline was blurry, blending with the surrounding night. Despite its ruinous state, it stubbornly kept its light on, casting a yellowish glow that barely illuminated the platform’s entrance. The lonely streetlamp flickered in the endless darkness, its light unsteady—sometimes bright, sometimes dim, as if it could go out at any moment, yet it clung to that last bit of light.

The platform’s sign hung crookedly from an iron frame, with the words "Platform 9" barely visible beneath layers of rust. The edges of the sign were jagged, with each letter secured by rusty screws, as though it had endured years of weathering. The walls surrounding the platform were mottled, covered in creeping plants that had begun to expose the bricks underneath. The bricks at the corners had already begun to crumble, nearly collapsing. The ground of the platform was layered with thick dust and fallen leaves, as if no one had passed by in ages. The light's soft glow added to the overwhelming sense of loneliness. A few broken benches lay haphazardly at the platform's edge, some with legs already snapped off, and the backs of the benches were covered in dust, the wood corroded by the passage of time. The rusted train tracks at the edge of the platform were overgrown with weeds, swaying gently in the breeze as if mocking the decay of the platform.

That dim yellow light seemed oddly out of place on the deserted platform, as though waiting for a train that would never arrive, or for a traveler long lost to time. The air was thick with the smell of decay and dampness. A low, mournful sound, like a distant echo, drifted through the wind from the depths of the tracks.

"Hello. My name is Xiao Jiu, the ticket inspector of the platform." A girl standing in front of the platform saw me and gave a small bow. "Are you ready to depart?"

But when it comes time to "start," fear suddenly brings hesitation—even though I knew it was inevitable, I couldn’t help but hesitate for a while longer, to make it seem like I’d given it careful thought, so I wouldn’t regret acting too rashly later.

"Better ask all your questions now," the boy added with a smile.

"Oh, your attendant is him?" Xiao Jiu leaned forward, halfway out from the counter. "Best employee of the year—you’re lucky!" She winked at me.

"You have employees here?" I thought after escaping that dreadful world, I wouldn’t have to hear anything about jobs or employees anymore.

"Isn't that normal? After all, the contract says 'staff,' so there’s more than just him," Xiao Jiu leaned against the desk with a tone of pride and mischief. "But standing in front of you is our reigning 'Employee of the Year'—" she dragged out the words, "the one with the fewest complaints, the longest working hours, and the most clients served—you're really lucky."

Before I could say anything, she quickly continued, "Don’t believe me? Let me show you our monthly and yearly employee lists." She ducked behind the counter, and a few seconds later, she popped back up, handing me a piece of paper and a small booklet without a word. "Safe travels, sir. With him taking care of you, you'll make it through these days just fine—oh, and don’t let him see that paper, read it secretly. Whenever he sees his photo plastered all over it, he loses his mind for hours."

I hadn’t even said I was ready to leave yet. But sooner or later, I would have to say it.

The boy behind me rolled his eyes at her. "Who cares about that? The list hasn’t changed in hundreds of years—I’m not interested." He pointed at the booklet in my hand, "You’ll need to carry this with you every day. Today is Day Zero, so there’s no stamp. You’ll need to get one stamp each day, and after five, you’re good."

"What’s the point of the stamp?"

"Huh, this was my idea. Some people claim they’ve finished their five days on the second or third day, then they start causing trouble."

"Don’t listen to her. She just didn’t want to spend time running after people, so she switched from being an attendant to stamping papers every day."

They bickered a bit before Xiao Jiu suddenly rang the bell on the counter. "Almost ten, I’m closing up."

Time really went that fast?

I glanced around, scanning the dimly lit platform: the worn-out counter, the faded plaster columns, the bulletin board with its shattered glass, the thorny vines growing aggressively. My gaze swept over every corner of the platform, but I didn’t see a clock. The boy didn’t wait for me, waving as he slowly walked back down the path we came.

Everything was eerily silent.

Just as I stepped off the last stone of the platform, I heard the soft sound of a candle being blown out—a light, gentle puff, like a small birthday candle on a cake, "whoosh," extinguished, leaving behind an invisible but faintly detectable scent of smoke. When I turned to look, the platform that had been there just moments ago was now nowhere to be found, like unfulfilled wishes that hadn’t been examined too closely, now vanished. The boy stopped a few steps ahead of me, turning to wait for me to catch up.

Strange, with everything that had happened, I didn’t feel the initial shock I had when I first arrived here—not even a hint of fear.

I could even walk down the stairs with my eyes closed, as if my steps were meant for these stairs.

And that’s the odd part because I had braced myself to trip—but it was only after descending the stairs that I started to wonder, "Why didn’t I trip?" When God created me, He must have been stingy with His care, neglecting to notice that He made one of my legs shorter than the other. Only after realizing the imbalance did He decide to add a grotesque lump of flesh to one side of my shoulder. Since then, every step I take has been shaky, with uneven strides. If I hadn’t walked these stairs a hundred times, and my muscles hadn’t gotten used to it, it would either mean that the craftsman who built this staircase was awful, making each step a different height, or that something else was at play.

The sky was now completely dark, a vast, boundless canvas of deep black, with only a few stars scattered across it. Each star flickered with a faint glow, seemingly swallowed by the endless darkness. They appeared so distant, so cold, like silent eyes watching over the desolate and still world below. The night sky hung low, threatening to press down at any moment. The surrounding scenery had vanished into the darkness, and even raising a hand, I could barely see it in front of me. It felt as though the world had been reduced to nothing but darkness and silence. Occasionally, a few nocturnal insects brushed past my face, and the air was thick with moisture. In the distance, the familiar sound of summer insects could be heard from the grass, their faint chorus standing out in the quiet night. Each chirp seemed to carry a hint of loneliness and fatigue, as if they were lamenting some eternal sorrow in the summer night. Their sounds mingled with the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind, adding to the desolate atmosphere of the darkened forest.

We returned to the dilapidated motel, now shrouded in complete darkness, blending into the surrounding night. Even the outlines of the rooms were fading, as if swallowed by the shadows. The motel’s sign was hidden in the gloom, and the words "Motel" were almost entirely unreadable in the dim light. The air was thick with the scent of rust and dampness. Not a single light shone from within or outside, as if the motel had been abandoned to an eternal silence, devoid of any life.

In the pitch-black, the boy pushed open the door and made a gesture to invite me in. "Please."

The room was completely dark; nothing could be seen.

"May I light a candle for you? Uh… though, technically, it’s a candle that won’t change its length."

What a strange question. My hands were empty, and of course, I couldn’t do anything—though I suppose it wasn’t that strange. The answer was obvious. "Of course."

I couldn’t see what he did, but in the darkness, I suddenly saw the surroundings light up. A faint glow appeared from a corner, gently illuminating the space. It was a soft orange-yellow light, like a small flame rising from the depths of the sea, slowly spreading outwards.

I saw the boy’s hand, which had been blocking my view, drop downward. Then—the candle was lit.

The candle wasn’t large. Its white wax surface was rough, with uneven grooves as if worn down by time. The flame flickers lightly in the faint breeze, its edges tinged with a soft glow, alternately brightening and dimming. The flame was a warm orange-red, as if injecting a bit of life into the still darkness. The delicate light wavered in the air, occasionally making a faint crackling sound. Although not strong, the candlelight was enough to outline the room. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering with the flame, creating shifting, ghostly shapes that seemed to transform with each movement of the fire. The objects on the dust-covered table suddenly became clearer in the glow of the candle.

"May I light the candle for you each day? After all, there are no lighters here."

"Of course."

"Then the light I provide will no longer be counted as an anomaly—you can ask me or confirm it, but I will tell you that it isn’t abnormal because it’s a change made with your permission."

"I understand."

The boy didn’t say much more about the rules. He stepped one foot outside, the other still in the room—it gave me the feeling that he was about to leave once he finished speaking.

"Remember to check the distance between the bed and the wall."

I glanced over—it was, as expected, perfectly pressed against the wall, not violating any of the rules I could imagine. Everything seemed too natural, almost unbelievable. Since I didn’t feel particularly sleepy, I just sat on the worn-out mattress, staring absentmindedly at the flickering, supposedly warm flame. The light wavered, sometimes bright, sometimes dim, and the shadows on the walls swayed with the candle’s dance—it was too unreal, too false. I had actually made it here.

Lost in thought under the dim candlelight, my hand brushed against the paper and the small notebook that Xiao Jiu had given me. My fingers grazed the rough surface of the paper, which had a slightly aged feel to it, while the notebook itself seemed out of place in this dark room. It was a delicate little notebook, no larger than half my palm. Its cover was wrapped in thick black leather, finely textured and cool to the touch. Despite its simplicity, it had a unique quality, as if every inch of the leather had been carefully polished. There was no unnecessary decoration on the cover, just two tiny gold letters etched in the corner, like some kind of symbol or abbreviation. When I opened the notebook, the pages were just as small and meticulous. They weren’t as coarse or smooth as regular paper, but instead had a faint texture, thick yet slightly yellowed, as if they were meant to commemorate some special occasion. The paper had a fine, yet resilient texture. The notebook contained only five pages, each carefully bound together.

Out of sheer boredom, I opened up the "Employee of the Month" list. The handwriting on the paper was neat, but the content was mind-numbingly dull. Row after row of photos were arranged lifelessly, like they had been mechanically copied—dozens of rows and columns, all the same face. Those expressionless photos stared back coldly, making the air feel heavy for a moment.

But amidst the photos, I noticed a line of text overlaid awkwardly against his picture: Tomorrow, get rid of him. Listen to me.

What?

That long-forgotten sense of vigilance shot up to my throat. What did she want to say to me? I froze, my heart racing. That sentence had struck a nerve deep inside me, like a cold needle piercing through my otherwise numb thoughts—what could this be about? That familiar sense of wariness crept into my chest, slowly eroding my rationality like venom. My throat tightened, my breathing became heavier, and my heart pounded wildly, as if it might leap out of my chest at any moment—could this really be some kind of mythic place mixed with conspiracy theories?

"Hey, friend." Suddenly, the boy at the door spoke out of nowhere. He hadn’t left; he was standing outside, leaning against the wall—I hurriedly crumpled the paper closer to my chest and looked up at him, but he wasn’t looking at me—he hadn’t even glanced my way before he spoke.

He continued in his usual nonsensical tone, "This boring, old, repetitive story is starting again. This time, don’t let that lump of flesh under your skull fool you."