Fifth Chapter | From a Story Begins
When the sky is about to darken but not yet dark, the shop is the quietest.
The sounds from the street outside have not completely faded away, yet they are no longer noisy.
The wind slowly seeps in through the door seams, bringing a bit of damp evening feeling, blowing the dried herbs hanging by the door to touch each other very lightly.
Those faint sounds fall into the shop, like someone whispering from very far away.
She stands behind the counter, placing a newly sealed bottle back on the shelf.
The light inside the bottle is a pale gold color, just put in, still a bit restless, trembling finely in the glass, as if not yet accepting that it has separated from its original owner.
Her hand pauses at the bottle mouth, her fingertip lightly presses over the cap, as if confirming something, or just out of habit.
The door is pushed open.
She does not turn back immediately.
"What do you want to take today."
That sentence comes out of her mouth, steady, gentle, like a opening line she has said countless times, even the ending tone carries a practiced curve.
The person at the door does not respond.
The shop is quiet for a moment.
Only then does she lift her head.
It is him again.
In that instant, she has no expression, only her gaze pauses very faintly, like the water surface being lightly touched by something invisible, quickly returning to calm.
The man stands at the door, still in that ordinary appearance that is hard to remember.
But strangely, every time he appears, it makes the ordinariness seem not quite believable.
As if he just borrowed a sufficiently plain face to conveniently walk into her line of sight repeatedly, not too eye-catching, yet never really disappearing.
He looks at her, his gaze quieter than last time.
Not the way a customer looks at the owner.
Nor the way a stranger looks at another stranger.
More like a person who has walked through a very long time, finally standing in front of someone who was supposed to be there, so nothing is urgent, even speaking seems superfluous.
She speaks first.
"You are not here to take something today."
The man smiles a little.
That smile is very faint, like just admitting that what she said is correct.
"No."
She looks at him, her gaze lingers on his face for a while, not inviting him to sit, nor proceeding as usual.
The light from outside falls behind his shoulder, outlining his entire person with a very thin edge.
She asks: "Then what are you here to do."
The man walks in, his steps unhurried, as if this place is not somewhere that needs to be disturbed for him, but a place he has come to many times before, just that the owner does not remember.
"I came to see you," he says.
She chuckles lightly.
"Same as last time, to see if I have changed?"
The man does not answer immediately.
He just looks at her, as if seriously doing that.
That gaze makes her a bit uncomfortable.
Not because of offense, but because it is too much like comparing.
As if in front of him is not the current her, but many versions of her, stacked one on top of another, and he is distinguishing the subtle differences between them.
When she puts the bottle in her hand away, her fingertip leaves the glass almost imperceptibly faster.
"Your habit is very strange."
She says, "Others come here to forget. You come here, on the contrary, as if to confirm something."
The man's gaze lightly shifts to the row of glowing bottles behind her.
"Because you are here," he says with a shrug, as if it's the most reasonable reason.
"Confirm what?"
He turns back to look at her, his gaze falling low on her face.
"Confirm if you are still you?"
The shop is quiet for two seconds.
She does not respond to that, just closes the account book and puts it aside, her movements still steady, steady as if she did not hear the slightly off meaning in that sentence.
"Do you always speak in such a way that's hard to understand?" she says.
The man smiles.
"Maybe it's just that you don't want to understand."
She does not get angry, at least not on the surface.
She just lifts her eyes to look at him, with a faint scrutiny in her gaze.
As she is always good at categorizing others, but this person is always outside the categories.
"So then."
She says, "Are you planning to continue saying some inexplicable things today, or finally willing to clearly state your intention."
The man does not answer immediately.
He stands in front of the counter, his finger lightly touches the wooden surface, as if suddenly remembering something, then says:
"I remembered a story."
She does not interrupt.
Because she also wants to know where he will circle around this time.
The man looks at her, his voice speaks very slowly.
"There is a person who always meets the same woman in many different places."
When that sentence falls, she just looks at him, her face expressionless.
The man continues:
"The first time he saw her, the sea wind was very strong. The sky was about to darken, she stood on the reef, her clothes corners lifted high by the wind, making her look like she could be carried away at any moment. He thought at that time, this kind of person is not suitable to be remembered, because once remembered, it's hard to forget."
She listens quietly, her gaze unwavering.
"Later another time, in a very narrow alley. She walked over from the other end, glanced at him when passing by, as if recognizing him, or just an unconscious glance. But just that glance, he couldn't sleep all night after returning."
The light in the shop is very steady, steadily to an excessive degree.
She tilts her head slightly, as if listening, or just waiting for him to finish quickly.
The man is not in a hurry.
"Later again, in a very chaotic era. The streets were full of dust, walls had bullet marks, the wind blew, even people's shadows seemed unsteady. She stood in front of a shop, looking different from everyone around. Not clean, but too quiet. Quiet as if she already knew who would die, who would return, and who would slowly rot while waiting."
Her eyelashes tremble very lightly.
Very fine, very short.
The man sees it, yet acts as if he doesn't, continuing:
"That time, he asked her, Who are you waiting for?"
"She said, Waiting for someone who promised to come back."
The air in the shop suddenly feels pressed down by something.
She stands in place, unmoving, her expression unchanged, only the hand on the counter, her fingertip retracts very lightly.
The man looks at her lowly.
"He felt strange at that time. Because the way she said that, it didn't seem like she believed someone would return, but rather like leaving a reason for herself to stand in place."
She finally speaks.
"Your story is very long."
The man smiles a little.
"Not finished yet."
She looks at him, the faint patience that was almost perfunctory in her eyes slowly retracts, like the tide receding to a deeper place.
"You better have a worthwhile second half to say."
The man is not pushed back by her tone, instead smiles even lighter.
"The second half is the key point."
He pauses.
"They meet every time."
"Sometimes, she recognizes him first. But most of the time, he recognizes her first."
"Sometimes, she is very good to him. Other times, she just looks at him, like looking at a person unrelated to herself."
"Sometimes, they almost come together, but always get abruptly cut off at the last moment by something."
The man says here, his voice lowers a bit more.
"The funniest thing is, every time he thinks, this time it will be different."
She frowns slightly.
Not because of the story, but something more subtle.
That frown is not understanding, but discomfort.
Like a very fine thorn, not yet piercing in, but the skin senses the pain first.
The man suddenly asks:
"Do you think this kind of person is foolish, or too greedy?"
She does not respond immediately.
After a while, she says faintly:
"Neither."
The man seems a bit surprised.
She lifts her eyes, her tone calmer than before.
"It's not having learned."
She says, "If a person repeatedly walks into the same kind of loss, it's not because of deep affection, most of the time it's just not really seeing clearly what they are chasing."
The man looks at her, a very faint smile slowly rising in his eyes.
"You think he is chasing what?"
"Not that woman," she says.
This time, she hardly hesitates.
"He is chasing the version he thinks will have a result."
The man is quiet for a while, then says:
"Then what do you think of that woman?"
Her gaze pauses lightly.
"What about her?"
"She meets the same person once after another, yet forgets each time. Is she more pitiful, or more fortunate."
This sentence makes the quiet in the shop suddenly deeper.
She looks at him, for the first time not responding immediately.
Because this is not an ordinary question.
It doesn't feel like those story fragments that can be easily observed as someone else's fate.
This sentence is too close, like he suddenly pushes a mirror in front of her, yet still pretends to be talking about others.
She finally speaks, her voice slower.
"Forgetting is not necessarily fortunate."
The man looks at her.
"Nor is it necessarily punishment."
She adds the second half.
The man asks: "Then what is it?"
She is silent for a moment.
"A way to live on."
As soon as that sentence comes out, she herself is quiet for an instant.
As if something in her heart is touched, not heavily, but very clearly.
The man looks at her, his gaze almost gentle, yet not comforting, more like finally waiting for an answer he always knew would come.
"You see," he says softly, "You still know."
Her expression finally changes.
It's not obvious anger, but a kind of appearance where calmness starts to crack after being stepped on the boundary.
"What exactly are you here to do today!"
The man does not answer this, but continues asking:
"If that woman later opened a shop, specifically to remove the deepest memories for others, do you think she is saving people, or repeating what happened to herself."
Her hand finally slowly retracts from the counter.
That movement is very slow.
As if she is controlling herself not to react too obviously.
"Is your story finished?" she asks coldly.
Her tone still sounds steady, but the ending tone is no longer as light as at the beginning.
The man does not stop.
He just looks at her.
"I still want to know one thing...."
She does not respond.
The man looks into her eyes, almost word by word saying:
"If every time it's the same person who recognizes you first, yet you never remember, wouldn't you feel that the real cruelty is not the loss, but only one person living in the past of two people."
She finally falls silent.
This is not the previous kind of poised pause.
It's a very real inability to answer.
Not because she doesn't know how to retort.
But because for a moment, she actually feels an indescribable familiarity in that sentence.
Familiar to the point of absurdity, as if her body understands before her memory.
The man looks at her, not pressing closer, yet more suffocating than pressing closer.
"Haven't you thought," he asks softly, "It's not that I remembered wrong, it's that you threw it away too many times?"
She lifts her eyes to look at him.
This time, her gaze finally turns cold.
Cold in a beautiful and dangerous way.
"Enough."
The man does not retreat.
"You're angry."
She chuckles lightly, that smile as thin as the edge of a blade reflecting light.
"Do you think that by saying a few story-like things and using a few self-smart words to pin on others, that means you know the truth."
The man looks at her, saying nothing.
She takes a step forward.
The hem of her cheongsam sways slightly behind the counter, like a red that suppresses fire.
"You say that man remembers once after another, comes back once after another," she looks at him, her gaze extremely steady, "But have you thought that maybe he is not deeply affectionate, just stubbornly obsessed."
The man listens quietly.
Her voice becomes lighter, yet colder.
"Maybe that woman forgets, not because of cruelty, but because each time she is very clear that some people are not worth bringing into the next life."
The shop is very quiet.
After that sentence, even the lights in those glass bottles seem to hold their breath.
The man looks at her for a long time.
Not stung, nor retorting.
Instead, as if discerning something.
After a while, he says softly:
"What you just said, sounds like you're hating me."
Her breathing pauses imperceptibly for a moment.
Just for an instant.
But it's enough.
The expression in the man's eyes finally changes, no longer just probing, but like a person who has walked too long suddenly hears an echo he has waited for a long time.
Even if that echo carries thorns, coldness, even hate, he still hears it.
She realizes that sentence she just said lost measure.
Or rather, not just measure.
As if some emotion not belonging to "now" borrowed her mouth to speak.
This makes her herself stunned for a moment.
That stun is very short, yet already enough to make her displeased.
She hates losing control the most.
Especially in front of him.
So her voice turns completely cold.
"Get out."
The man still looks at her, not moving.
"I said, get out!"
This time, it's really with fire.
Not big, but very real.
Like ashes buried deep for a long time, finally lightly stirred by someone's fingertip, and there's still heat underneath.
The man stands quietly for a while, finally nods lightly.
"Okay."
He turns to walk towards the door.
Halfway, he stops again, without turning back, just says very lowly:
"You just now finally seemed a bit like before."
The door is pushed open.
The evening wind rushes in at once, blowing those dried herbs by the door to tremble lightly.
She stands in place, not moving, not speaking.
Until the door is closed, the shop returns to quiet, she slowly lowers her head, looking at her own hand.
Her fingertips are still tense.
Her palm is also a bit cold.
She clearly does not remember the places he mentioned, those eras, those repeated meetings and losses.
But she knows that what she just felt was not simply being offended.
That anger came too quickly, quickly not like her.
More like some place in her body deeper than memory recognized something first, so before reason could sort it out, the emotion spoke first.
She stands for a long time.
The evening light gradually recedes, the glass bottles on the cabinet start to glow on their own, illuminating the entire shop like a dream held up by countless secrets.
She finally lifts her head, looking towards that entire row of lights.
After a long time, she says very lightly:
"Who exactly are you."
But that sentence falls into the air, no one answers her.
Only those silently glowing bottles, as always, watching her.