9Ep.. The Watcher

That day, instead of running, Siu opened the window. Rain blew into the room. Hari took his hand beside him. He still didn't remember who she was—but he didn't want to let go of that warmth.

You… you're Gwan. The one who vanished ten years ago. Who drew this same alley.

Beneath the streetlight, the old man slowly raised his head. A dry, hollow voice rose, mingled with the rain.

I lost my name. My face, the reason I ever drew. All that remained, in the end, was this one alley. The first thing I ever drew with my whole heart.

Then what is that face? The thing standing down there last night—it was my face.

My face? I forgot my own face too. An empty face—the one looking into it pours himself in. What you saw in me was never once me.

The strength went out of the hand gripping the sill. The first time, the face had merely resembled him. Last night there had been no doubt at all. It was not the man down there who had grown to look like him. It was only that, as Siu emptied out, that empty face reflected him more exactly.

And the messages. 'The alley you just drew—look out your window.' 'Now it's your turn.' You sent those too.

I've forgotten what a phone even is. …I received those messages too. Ten years ago. When I finished the alley and set down my pen.

Siu started to ask, and stopped. Gwan's face was the face of a man who had already asked that question, ten years ago.

Stop calling it your gift. It isn't yours. The alley takes what's true in you and prices it. You and I—we were only ever the hand.

Beside him, Hari's hand went still. She was looking down at the diary on her knees. If what the alley took was not drawings but earnestness—then what the erased things had in common had never been Siu's hand. It was his heart. And if that was so, there had never been any ground for believing that what came from her own hand would stay.

I told you to stop. But you couldn't either. None of us can. To be seen, to be acknowledged, to save someone—we give ourselves away, one panel at a time. And when we run empty, we become the watcher: trapped in the world we drew, waiting for the next.

It's your turn. Come. You'll forget it all soon anyway—why hold on? Come here, and at least it stops hurting.

Siu's foot moved a step toward the sill, without his meaning it to. That empty peace felt, for a moment, sweet. His knee touched the ledge. A wet hand rose out of the dark and closed around his wrist. It was not hot, and it was not cold. It had no temperature at all.

Hari locked both arms around his waist from behind. She drove her heels into the floorboards and threw her whole weight backward. They went down together onto the floor. The thing holding his wrist let go without a sound.

He's not going! He's different from you. You forgot everything alone and got trapped—but he has someone who remembers him. I wrote it all down. Not a single letter left out!

Through the sound of rain, a silence fell. Gwan's hollow eyes—for the first time—wavered. Something like envy, or grief, crossed that withered face.

Then the expression cleared. Gwan's gaze slid past Hari and came to rest on the thing she had dropped as she fell.

…Wrote it down, you say. On paper. Paper gets wet.

Hari turned her head. The diary lay face down in a puddle beneath the window, the cover darkening as the water soaked through. She crawled to it on her knees, pulled it against her chest, and pressed the hem of her cardigan to the cover. She said nothing. That silence was worse than a scream.

Siu shut the window. He stood a long while with his palm flat against the glass. Beneath the streetlight there was nothing. Rolling back his soaked sleeve, he saw it: five pale marks banded around his wrist. Not a bruise. Not a burn. He rubbed at them. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel like anything at all. That patch of him—had no sensation left.