The words on the station floor disappeared before Minh An could take another picture.
The water drained into the cracks between the tiles. The pale blue ink faded until only a thin streak of light remained, like a scratch on glass.
Tung was still standing perfectly still.
“Do you know where the Archive Room is?” Minh An asked.
Tung shook his head.
“No.”
“But you just said they were waiting.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
Tung looked at Minh An, his face weary. “That's the problem. Some things come out of my mouth before I have time to think.”
Minh An lowered his gaze to the station floor. The wet handprint had dried. He took the White Point ticket stub from his pocket. On the back of the ticket, where there had previously been nothing but loose paper fibers, an address had appeared.
Basement 3, city library.
No street name. No building number.
Tung read it and remained silent for a long time.
“We shouldn't go.”
“Why not?”
“Because people don't write addresses on train tickets to places that don't exist if they're inviting you over for tea.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
Tung looked toward the wall where Lam had just disappeared.
“Yeah. Forget it.”
Minh An put the ticket away.
“Can you forget?”
Tung didn't answer.
On the way out of the station, he walked more slowly. At the last step, Tung suddenly stopped and pulled an old key from his pocket.
“Whose is this?”
Minh An looked at the key. A V was engraved into its metal shaft.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“Let me see it.”
Tung clenched his hand.
“No.”
Minh An looked up.
“Did you remember something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hiding it?”
Tung looked at him, then finally opened his palm.
“Because I just remembered that I once gave it to someone.”
“Who?”
“Her.”
The rain outside had stopped, but the sky was still pitch-black, as if morning had never come. The two of them said nothing more. They walked to the city library in silence, each carrying a piece of memory they couldn't believe themselves.
The library had been closed for years for renovations. Dust coated the iron gate, and an old, faded notice still hung on the wall. Tung tried pushing the gate. It opened at once.
There was no electricity inside.
The streetlights provided just enough illumination to reveal rows of empty shelves. The smell of damp paper and plaster clung to the air. A clock hanging above the librarian's desk had stopped at exactly 4:17.
“The address says basement three,” Tung whispered. “This library only has one basement.”
Minh An shone his phone's flashlight on the floor.
At the far end of the reading room, a bookshelf had been pulled away from the wall. Behind it was a staircase leading down.
The first step was covered in dust.
The second was wet.
On the third lay a cream-colored button.
Minh An didn't pick it up.
He kept going.
The staircase stretched far beyond the dimensions of the library. Small lightbulbs mounted along the walls switched on one after another as they passed, but the lights behind them immediately went out. Tung stayed close to Minh An, one hand gripping the V-shaped key.
“Do you hear that?”
“Paper.”
Far below, thousands of sheets were moving. The rustling grew louder, like a crowd turning pages in books all at once.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a gray metal door.
There was no handle.
Only a small keyhole.
Tung looked at the key.
“Let me.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
He inserted the key into the lock.
The door opened before he could turn it.
Inside was a long hallway lined with glass cabinets. Each cabinet held an ordinary object: a child's shoe, a bus ticket, a chipped ceramic cup, a hair clip, several faded photographs.
A white label sat atop each cabinet.
No names.
Only dates.
Minh An approached the nearest cabinet. Inside was a paper airplane. The date at the bottom made him stop short.
The day of the accident.
Tung stood beside him.
“What is this?”
“What was left behind.”
The voice came from the end of the hallway.
A man stepped out of the darkness. He wore a black coat, and his face was thin and composed. Minh An recognized him even though they had never met in person.
The man who had stood behind the wall.
“Bao,” Tung said.
Minh An turned to him.
“You know him?”
Tung looked at Bao, his face gone pale.
“No.”
Bao tilted his head slightly.
“You still haven't remembered.”
“Who are you?” Minh An asked.
“The one who cleans up.”
Bao walked slowly down the hallway. He stopped in front of a glass cabinet containing an old photograph of Minh An. In the picture, he stood alone on the station platform.
But reflected in the cabinet glass behind him was Lam.
“You call this place the Archive Room,” Bao said. “We preserve the things the two worlds don't have enough room to contain.”
“Where is Lam?”
Bao looked at him through the glass.
“In her world.”
“Which world?”
“The world that kept her.”
“And this world?”
“It kept you.”
Tung stepped forward.
“What did you do to my memory?”
Bao looked at the key in Tung's hand.
“Not me.”
“Then who?”
“You chose to leave it behind.”
Tung gave a dry laugh.
“I chose to forget someone?”
“No. You chose to forget a choice.”
The hallway suddenly trembled. Words began appearing on the white labels atop the glass cabinets, one after another. People's names. Addresses. Short sentences like hurried notes.
Don't let her sleep alone.
He's come back, but he's not the same person anymore.
If you still remember, don't say the name.
Minh An looked at the label beneath the cabinet containing his photograph. It was still blank.
“Why doesn't my photograph have a name?”
Bao didn't answer right away.
He reached out and opened the glass cabinet. He took out the photograph and placed it between them.
On the back of the photo, a line had been written in blue ink.
One person was saved. One person was kept.
Minh An felt his chest tighten.
“Did Lam die in this world?”
Bao looked at him.
“She died in this world's memory.”
“How is that any different?”
“It is. The dead can be buried. Someone who's been erased has nowhere to return to.”
Tung snatched the photograph.
The instant his fingers touched the photographic paper, all the lights in the hallway went out.
A sound echoed from behind the glass cabinets.
The sound of a girl crying.
Tung froze.
“Lam?”
Bao turned around sharply.
“Don't say her name.”
But it was too late.
A glass cabinet at the end of the hallway cracked. There was no object inside, only a deep, endless darkness. From that darkness, Lam's voice rang out, very close:
“Tung, you promised you wouldn't let him remember.”
Tung stumbled backward as if someone had shoved him.
“I don't remember that promise.”
“That was what you chose.”
Minh An looked at Bao.
“Is she inside the cabinet?”
“No.”
“Then why can I hear her?”
Bao glanced at the photograph in Tung's hand.
“Because you brought her memory here.”
The glass of the last cabinet shattered without a sound. The fragments floated in the air, each one reflecting a different scene: Lam in the tunnel, Lam beside the blue umbrella, Lam pressing her hand against a glass door, Lam looking at someone lying underwater.
And in the final scene, Minh An realized that the person lying underwater was him.
He stepped forward.
Bao grabbed his wrist.
“Not yet.”
“Let go.”
“If you keep looking, you'll remember everything.”
“That's what I want.”
“No.” Bao tightened his grip. “You only want to remember Lam. Those aren't the same thing.”
On the other side of the floating shards of glass, Lam turned and looked straight at Minh An.
She said nothing.
But her eyes made him understand: she was afraid of what was about to return, too.
A bell rang from the end of the hallway.
Every glass cabinet lit up at once.
On the metal door behind Bao, a line of red letters appeared:
THE MEMORY KEEPER HAS ARRIVED.
Bao released Minh An's wrist and turned toward the door.
“You have to leave. Now.”
“What about you?” Tung asked.
Bao looked at the V-shaped key in his hand.
“I'll stay and remember for you.”
The door at the end of the hallway began to open.
Behind it was not a staircase leading back up to the library, but a vast, endless room filled with rows of file cabinets stretching into the darkness.
In the middle of the room stood a silver-haired woman with her back to them. In her hands was a photograph of three people.
Minh An.
Lam.
And Tung.
The woman didn't turn around. She only said:
“It's time to return the dates you lost.”