The Box

October 14 is circled on the calendar.

It is my hand.

I did not write it.

That was this morning. The week before had begun with the dream.

The dream came again on Tuesday night.

The water was running.

The water was running down the white tiles.

Someone was counting, behind me.

The count was running.

The count did not stop.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark. The count was still running. I lay still, listening. It did not stop.

It was a dream. I told myself that. It was a dream.

The wall was real — the wall in the underpass, twenty-four tiles across. I had not counted it. I knew. The knowing was already there, had been since Monday. It would not leave.

The count was in me. I did not count. The count counted itself. It did not need me.

I slept badly.

I walked to work. The bakery smelled of bread. I walked on.

I sat down at my desk, turned on the computer. Chen Wei came over. He said I looked tired. I said I was fine. He nodded.

The underpass was the short way. I did not take it — the long way home, the bridge high, the wind cold, the railings wet.

In the evening, I made tea and sat with it.

The closet had one shelf. The box was on it — the past. I did not want to look at it anymore.

I took it down. It was dusty. I remembered what was in it — school things, a badge, a photograph. I had not looked at it in years. I did not open the box. It was lighter than I remembered. I carried it to the door, down the stairs. The bins were by the gate. The lid was heavy. I lifted it, put the box in, let the lid down.

I stood there. The evening was cold. A car went past. The bin was a bin. The box was in it. That was all. That was all of it.

I went back up the stairs. Nothing had moved. The box was not there. That was the only difference.

I made rice, ate. I washed the bowl, stood it in the rack. I wiped the counter, hung the cloth over the tap.

The dream did not come that night.

The week was quiet.

I went to work. The numbers were the same. The meeting was ordinary. On Friday Chen Wei said I looked better. I said I was fine. It was true.

In the evening I did exercises on the floor. I read — finished one book, started another. I did not open the drawer. I slept through the nights.

I went to the market. The morning was cold. The leaves were down, flat on the wet pavement. I bought greens, an egg, mushrooms. I came home, put the food away.

On Saturday I washed my clothes, hung them over the chair. They dried by evening. I folded them, put them away.

On Sunday it rained. I stayed in, read. The rain stopped, started again. I made rice, ate. I set the bowl in the sink.

It got dark. I turned on the lamp and watched the street.

The calendar was still blank. I looked at it once, left it.

The dream did not come. The wall did not come. The water did not come. The count did not come. The static did not come.

I slept. I woke. The ordinary days held. They held all week.

I told myself it was over. The box was gone. The dream was over. It was good.

The quiet was long. I was used to the quiet. This quiet was different. I could not say how. I did not try.

Monday came. The alarm went off at 06:12. I turned it off. The room was empty.

The week passed. Nothing else happened. That was the week.

One morning I woke up. I did not remember dreaming.

I got up, made coffee, looked at the calendar on the wall.

October 14 was circled on the calendar.

It was my handwriting — I knew my own hand. I had written it. I had not written it. I had not been near the calendar. It had been blank when I went to bed, blank for weeks.

I stood at the desk. The coffee cooled. I did not drink it.

I could not remember writing the circle, could not remember the day. I had never circled anything. There had never been anything to circle.

I did not circle anything, did not cross anything out, did not write anything else. The calendar held one date. It stayed all day.

I took the rubbish down. The bins were by the gate. The lid was heavy. I lifted it.

The bin was empty.

The collectors had come. The box was gone.

I stood there — the lid cold in my hand. It was gone.

The date was still on the calendar. I did not look at it again. I knew it was there.

That evening I called my mother.

The phone rang. She answered. ‘Hao,’ she said. She said my name the way they say it at home. It was the only way she said it.

‘How are you,’ I said.

‘I’m well,’ she said. ‘The radiator is making noise again. The old one. At night it knocks. I keep meaning to call the man.’

‘You should call him,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Next week. Your cousin’s wedding, have you heard? November. They’ve booked the hall. The bride’s family is large. Your aunt says the food will be—’ She stopped. She let it go.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’s good.’

‘It is,’ she said. ‘She’s a good girl. They’ll be happy. They’re young.’ She paused. ‘Are you eating?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Both were true.

‘I made soup yesterday,’ she said. ‘It’s in the pot. It keeps the kitchen warm.’

‘That’s good,’ I said.

‘Is your flat warm?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. It was.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘How is the work?’

‘It’s fine,’ I said.

‘Good,’ she said.

‘The cold is early this year,’ she said. ‘The leaves are all down by the gate. All of them.’

‘It’s cold here too,’ I said.

She waited. I waited.

‘The wedding is in November,’ she said. ‘If you can come—’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well. Take care of yourself.’

‘I will,’ I said.

‘Goodnight, Hao,’ she said.

‘Goodnight,’ I said.

I put the phone down. The flat was quiet.

The dark had come. I turned on the lamp, stood at the window. The date was behind me. It did not go away.

I stood very still.

I looked at the calendar. October 14 was still circled.

It was my handwriting. It was my hand.

I did not write it.

I could not remember the fourteenth of October. I had nothing on the fourteenth. I had never had anything on the fourteenth.

The calendar had been blank. I had kept it blank.

The handwriting was mine. The day was not.