Chapter Three: The People We Forget

In the morning, Chen did not recognize his wife's photograph. Wanzhao played the recording. He watched an unfamiliar version of himself describe an unfamiliar woman. At first there was only bewilderment. Then his fingers tapped the rhythm of “Moonlight” against the blanket. “It feels,” he said, touching his chest, “as though someone used to live here.” Xinghe sat at the piano and played the new melody. Mianmian placed a paw on the keys and added one chord. As tears fell down Chen's cheeks, every streetlight outside flickered. “A-Tang,” the professor whispered—his wife's name. The memory lasted only a second, but forgetting was not irreversible.