To Copy Is to Summon

The third page did not ask for a name. It asked for a debt. Whoever copies, lends the hand. Whoever lends the hand, answers for what the hand wrote before.

Lin set the brush down. His fingers were stained red, though the ink on the table was still black. For an instant, in the reflection of the ink, he saw another table, another century, and a woman writing with the same posture as his.

It was not his memory. It was a memory of the notebook, on loan. The woman looked up, as if she could see him too, and said without a voice: Do not finish the seal unless you are willing to be the last.

Lin closed the notebook. The night bell rang three times, which was the signal for silence. In the silence, the ash along the edges moved by itself and formed, on the edge of the table, the first half of his name.