Minh An realized he didn't remember the first time he met Lam.
It wasn't that he'd forgotten.
There was no first time.
He sat alone in the restoration room, facing the photo with three chairs. The first chair held his shadow. The second held Lam's. The third was still empty, but a hand-shaped water stain had appeared on its back.
The photo lay beside the blue umbrella.
Rain continued to fall outside, even though the window was closed.
Minh An opened his notebook. On a fresh page, he wrote:
Lam.
Beneath the name, he continued:
The day we first met: unknown. Location: unknown. Introduced by: no one. First memory: the blue umbrella.
He stopped writing.
A memory with no beginning wasn't like a memory. It was like a story whose first page had been torn away.
Tung came in at 6:12, carrying two cups of coffee and the expression of someone who had just woken up in a room that didn't belong to him.
“You've been here all night?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you eaten anything?”
“Not yet.”
Tung set the cup down on the table. He looked at the photo, then at the umbrella.
“Is she your ex?”
Minh An looked up.
“You think so too?”
“I'm not thinking. I'm asking.”
“I don't know.”
Tung pulled out a chair and sat down.
“You've said that way too many times.”
“Because I really don't know.”
“You remember her standing behind you in the photo. You remember her voice. You remember the way she called your name. You remember an umbrella that never belonged to you.”
Tung pointed at the page.
“But you don't remember where the two of you first met.”
Minh An fell silent.
“There was no first time,” he said.
Tung stopped smiling.
The scanner turned on by itself.
A new file appeared on the screen.
File name: LAM. Date created: 11/17. Created by: MINH AN.
Minh An didn't touch the mouse.
“I didn't create this file.”
“The computer says you did.”
“But I don't remember.”
Tung looked at the date. He reached out to turn off the screen, then pulled his hand back before touching it.
“Maybe that's her real name.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe not.”
The file opened by itself.
It wasn't a photo.
It was a note containing a single line:
DON'T TRUST THE FIRST MEMORY.
Beneath it, the cursor blinked.
A new letter appeared.
T
Then vanished.
Another letter appeared.
Ê
The screen flickered. When it lit up again, the message was complete:
A NAME IS ONLY AN ANCHOR.
Tung shot to his feet.
“An anchor for what?”
Behind them, a photo fell to the floor.
Minh An bent down to pick it up.
The front showed the room with three chairs. But this time, the second chair was empty. Lam's shadow had disappeared. Only one letter remained on the back of the chair: L.
There was a handwritten line on the back of the photo.
You don't remember her name.
You remember a name created so she could be called.
Minh An recognized the handwriting.
It was his own.
“The Archive Room calls this phenomenon an anchor name,” Tung said.
Minh An spun around.
“You knew?”
Tung looked down.
“Bao told me once.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because every time I tell you one more thing, I lose something else.”
“What did you lose?”
Tung looked at the cup of coffee in front of him. Steam rose and obscured his eyes.
“The day we first met.”
Minh An said nothing.
“We've worked together for nine years,” Tung continued. “I know that from photos, documents, paychecks, and the times you've mentioned it. But I don't remember the moment I first saw you.”
“You still know I'm your friend.”
“I know.”
“That's enough.”
“No.” Tung looked at him. “Because I'm starting not to know which parts of my life are memories and which are merely evidence someone else left behind.”
A knock sounded from inside the wall.
Three times.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Minh An stood up.
Tung grabbed his wrist.
“Don't open it.”
“This time, I'm not opening it.”
“Then why is the wall opening?”
The white paint bulged, splitting into fine cracks. Water seeped through and ran down the floor in a long streak. The water stopped right beside the blue umbrella.
Lam's voice echoed from the other side of the wall.
“Don't call my name.”
Minh An didn't.
He only asked:
“Do you know your name?”
A long silence followed.
“Not the way you think.”
“Is Lam your name?”
“It's the first name you saw.”
“What about your real name?”
“Maybe it was never brought across to this side.”
Tung tightened his grip on Minh An's hand.
“Don't ask anymore.”
Lam spoke very softly:
“Do you remember the day we first met?”
Minh An looked at the wet wall.
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why do we remember each other?”
A sigh came from the other side.
“Maybe we don't remember each other.”
The water beneath the umbrella began to spread.
“Maybe we're remembering something that never happened.”
A narrow crack opened in the wall. Minh An saw part of the flooded tunnel, but Lam wasn't standing there. Only the blue umbrella lay between the rails.
On the inside of the umbrella canopy, a line of text appeared:
THE FIRST PROMISE DIDN'T BELONG TO THE TWO OF YOU.
Minh An read it over and over.
Tung suddenly let go of his hand.
“What did you just promise her?”
“Nothing.”
“No. I remember there was a promise.”
“What promise?”
Tung stared into the crack in the wall. His face had gone deathly pale.
“You promised to find her.”
“Where?”
“Where the two of you never met.”
The crack in the wall closed.
The blue umbrella vanished from the tunnel.
On the table, the file named LAM renamed itself.
THE FIRST TIME.
Minh An opened it.
Inside was a single completely white photo.
In the lower corner, a line of text appeared:
TOMORROW, GO TO THE PLACE WHERE YOU DIED.