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7
"If there's something truly complete in this world, it's this wall," the gatekeeper asserted. "No one can cross this wall. No one can break it."
At first glance, the wall looked like a simple weathered brick fence. It seemed as though the next strong storm or earthquake might easily bring it down. How could something like this be called complete? When I questioned this, the gatekeeper's face contorted as if I had insulted his family without reason. He grabbed my elbow and led me to the wall.
"Take a closer look. There's no gap between each brick. And each brick's shape should be slightly different. Yet, each one fits so perfectly that not even a strand of hair could slip through."
He was right.
"Now, try scratching the brick with this knife." The gatekeeper took a utility knife from his coat pocket, snapped open the blade with a click, and handed it to me. The knife looked worn, but the blade was meticulously sharpened. "It shouldn't leave a scratch."
He was correct. The knife's edge only made a dry, crisp sound against the brick, leaving no mark.
"Do you understand? Storms, earthquakes, even cannons—none of them can break this wall. They can't even harm it. They haven't been able to before, and they won't be able to in the future."
He looked at me triumphantly, as if striking a pose for a commemorative photo with his palm pressed against the wall and his chin held high.
No, there's nothing truly complete in this world, I whispered to myself. Anything with a form, no matter what it is, always has weaknesses or blind spots somewhere. But I didn't voice these thoughts.
"Who built this wall?" I asked.
"No one built it," the gatekeeper's unwavering view was, "It was here from the beginning."
By the end of the first week, I had attempted to read several of the "old dreams" you had chosen for me. However, those old dreams didn't convey any meaningful information to me. All I heard were uncertain murmurs and all I saw were fragmented images that lacked focus. It was like watching a reel of randomly spliced together audio tapes and film, played in reverse.
In the library's archive, countless old dreams were lined up instead of books. It seemed no one had touched them for ages; they were all covered in a thin layer of white dust. Resembling eggs, the old dreams came in various shapes and sizes, each one different. They were like eggs that various kinds of animals had laid. But they couldn't exactly be called egg-shaped. When held and examined up close, it was clear that the lower half was slightly fuller than the upper half. The balance of weight was uneven. However, this imbalance made them stable to sit on and prevented them from falling off shelves even without support.
The surface was hard like marble, smooth to the touch, yet lacked the weight of marble. I didn't know what material they were made of or their strength. Would they shatter if dropped on the floor? Regardless, they needed to be handled with great care, like rare biological specimens.
The library didn't hold a single book—none at all. Once upon a time, rows of books must have been here, and people from the town likely visited seeking knowledge and enjoyment. It must have been a typical town library. The ambiance still lingered faintly in the air, like a remnant scent. However, at some point, all the books were removed from the shelves, replaced by these old dreams.
As it appeared, I seemed to be the only "dream reader." At least for now, I was apparently the only dream reader in this town. Was there another dream reader before me? Perhaps there was. Looking at the meticulous rules and procedures about dream reading, it was likely.
Your role in the library was to protect and manage these old dreams. You selected dreams to be read and recorded when they were read. You opened the library's doors before dusk, lit lamps, and started a fire in the stove during colder seasons. To ensure this, you made sure there was enough lamp oil and firewood, and you prepared a potent herbal tea in deep green—specifically for the dream reader, or rather, for me. It soothed my eyes and calmed my heart.
You came with a white, large piece of cloth to carefully wipe away the white dust that had accumulated on the old dreams. Placing them on the table before me, I put on my green-tinted glasses and gently placed my hands on the surface of the old dreams. I cradled them in my palms. After about five minutes, the old dreams gradually woke from a deep slumber, and their surfaces began to glow faintly. A natural warmth, comforting and gentle, flowed through both of my hands. And then, they began to spin their stories. Like silkworms weaving threads, they started hesitantly and gradually, then with an appropriate enthusiasm. They had something to say. They had been patiently waiting on the shelves for the time when they could emerge from their shells.
But their voices were too fragile to be fully understood. The images they projected lacked distinct outlines and faded, crumbling, drawn into the void. Perhaps it wasn't their fault; maybe it was because my new pair of eyes hadn't yet functioned properly. Maybe my understanding as a "dream reader" wasn't yet fully developed.
And so, the time came to close the library. Although there were no clocks, you naturally knew when it was time.
"How's the job going? Are you making progress?" you asked.
"Slowly but surely," I replied. "However, just reading one dream can be quite exhausting. Perhaps I'm doing something wrong."
"Don't worry," you assured me. Turning a knob, you closed the stove's air vent. Extinguishing each lamp one by one, you sat across the table from me and looked directly into my face, which made me uneasy. "There's no rush. Time is plentiful here."
Following the prescribed steps meticulously, you gradually closed the library. Your focus was intense, your movements calm and deliberate. From what I observed, the sequence of your actions never changed. Was it truly necessary to secure the library so thoroughly in this quiet and tranquil town? Who would break into the library in the middle of the night to steal or destroy these dreams?
"Would you mind if I walked you back to your home?" On the third night, as we stepped outside the building, I mustered the courage to ask.
You turned around, your eyes widening as you gazed at my face. One of the stars in your black eyes reflected a white shimmer. It seemed my proposition wasn't easily comprehensible to you. Why would I need to be escorted to my home?
"Even though I've just arrived in this town, you're the only person I can talk to," I explained. "I'd like to have a conversation while walking with someone. Also, I'd like to get to know you better."
You contemplated this for a moment, and a slight blush colored your cheeks.
"Your home is in the opposite direction from mine," you said.
"I don't mind. I enjoy walking."
"But why do you want to know about me?" you inquired.
"For instance, where do you live in this town? And with whom? How did you end up with the job at the library?" I responded
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You remained silent for a while before speaking.
"My home isn't far," you said. Just that. But it was a fact.
You were wearing a blue coat made of rough fabric, akin to an army blanket. A black turtleneck sweater with frayed edges and a slightly oversized gray skirt completed your attire. They all looked like hand-me-downs. Yet, despite your modest clothing, you were beautiful. As we walked shoulder to shoulder along the night-lit road, my heart tightened. It felt as if I couldn't breathe properly. Just like that evening in the summer of my seventeenth year.
"You mentioned that you've just arrived in this town. Where did you come from?"
"I came from a city much farther east," I responded vaguely. "A big city far, far away."
"I've never been anywhere outside this town. I was born here and have never left beyond the wall," you said softly. Your voice was gentle, carrying a soothing tone. The words you spoke were guarded by a wall about eight meters high.
"Why did you come all the way here? You're the first person I've met who arrived from elsewhere."
"Why, I wonder?" I replied, evading a clear answer.
I couldn't tell you that I came all this way just to meet you. It was too soon for such a confession. Before revealing that, I needed to learn more facts about this town.
We walked eastward along the riverside road under the scarce light of the street lamps, just like we used to. Our shoulders were aligned, walking side by side. The gentle sound of the river flowed into our ears. The brief, pure calls of night birds echoed from the woods on the other side of the river.
You expressed curiosity about the "faraway city in the east" where I had lived until recently. This curiosity seemed to draw us slightly closer.
"What was that city like?" you asked.
What was that city like, the one I had lived in until just a short while ago? What kind of life did I lead there? In that city, words flowed incessantly, laden with countless meanings they produced. However, how much of that could I truly explain? You had grown up in this quiet, reserved place, where time seemed to stand still. It lacked electricity and gas, the clock tower had no hands, and the library had no books. Words spoken were only intended meanings; things remained steadfastly within their designated places or visible surroundings.
"I don't know how to describe it," I admitted. "You see, we all carried shadows with us in that city."
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6
We didn't exchange letters all that often. Roughly once every two weeks, I'd say. But each one of them turned out to be quite lengthy. And on the whole, I think your letters were a bit longer than mine. Of course, the length of the letters didn't hold any significant meaning in our correspondence, but that's how it seemed.
I still have every letter you wrote, but I never bothered to make copies of mine, so I can't quite recall the exact contents of what I wrote. It couldn't have been anything too remarkable. I mainly jotted down the daily events and small occurrences around me. I wrote about the books I read, the music I listened to, the movies I watched. I wrote about things that happened at school too. Being on the swim team (though I only joined due to unavoidable circumstances and couldn't be called a dedicated athlete), I probably wrote about the practices. With you as the recipient, I could naturally put my thoughts and feelings into words. I could express what was on my mind as I wished. It was an unprecedented ability for me, as I had always believed I was bad at writing. As I mentioned before, you probably drew out that ability from me. You always appreciated the subtle humor in my writing. "That's what my life lacks the most," you said.
"Like some kind of vitamin?" I asked.
"Yes. Exactly like a kind of vitamin," you replied with a strong nod.
I was captivated by you, and when awake, I was probably always thinking about you. Most likely even in my dreams. Yet in the letters, I refrained from directly confessing such emotions and attempted to restrain myself. I decided to stick to the practical and concrete aspects as much as possible. At that time, I wanted to cling to the tangible world I could physically touch, preferably with a touch of humor. Because, if I began writing openly about the inner workings of love and emotions, I felt I would be led down a dead-end path.
In your letters, unlike mine, there were fewer concrete details about the external world and more about internal feelings. Sometimes you wrote about dreams or short fictional stories. Several dream stories remain etched in my memory. You frequently had long and vivid dreams, recalling every detail. It was incredible how you could remember those dreams, almost as if you were recalling actual events. That was something hard for me to believe. I rarely dreamed, and even when I did, I couldn't recall their content. Upon waking up, those dreams would disintegrate and vanish into thin air. Even if I woke up in the middle of the night from a vivid dream (which was rare), I would quickly fall back asleep, and by the next morning, I'd remember nothing.
When I mentioned this, you said, "In my case, I keep a notebook and a pencil by my bedside, and as soon as I wake up, I jot down the dream from the previous night. I do it even when I'm busy and pressed for time. Especially when I wake up in the middle of the night after a vivid dream, I write down as much detail as possible. Those are usually important dreams and teach me a lot."
"Important things?" I asked.
"Things about the me I don't know," you replied.
For you, dreams were almost on par with events that took place in the real world. They weren't easily forgotten or lost. Dreams were like precious sources of insight for your mind.
"That's the result of practice. If you put in the effort, I'm sure you can learn to remember your dreams in detail too. So, give it a try. I'm really curious about the dreams you have," you urged.
Sure, I'll give it a shot, I said.
However, despite some effort (though I didn't go as far as placing a notebook and pencil by my bedside), I couldn't bring myself to take an interest in my own dreams. My dreams were too scattered and lacked coherence, generally being incomprehensible. The words spoken in those dreams were unclear, and scenes were hard to pinpoint. Sometimes, they contained disturbing elements that I couldn't discuss with anyone, dreams that would soil my underwear without my intention. Instead of those, I preferred to listen to your stories of long, colorful dreams.
Occasionally, I appeared in your dreams. Hearing about that always made me happy. In whatever form, I could participate in your imaginative world. And you seemed pleased when I appeared in your dreams too. In most cases, my role in your dreams wasn't that significant; I was more like a supporting character in a drama.
I wondered if you ever had explicit dreams—dreams that were sometimes too embarrassing to talk about openly in front of me. Were you genuinely telling me all about your dreams? That's what crossed my mind as I listened to your dream stories.
You appeared to be candidly disclosing various things, but in reality, no one could know for sure. I thought, in this world, everyone holds secrets in their hearts. That's essential for survival in this world, isn't it?
Don't you think so?
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5
On the third evening since entering the town, I pushed open the door of that building. It was an unremarkable old stone structure, situated a short walk east along the river road, just beyond the central square facing the old bridge. No signs adorned the entrance; to those unfamiliar, it might not have appeared to be a library at all. A simple brass plate bore the engraved number "16" lacking any pomp or flourish. The plate had tarnished with time, and the letters were difficult to read.
The heavy wooden door creaked as it opened inward, revealing a dim square room. Not a soul in sight. The ceiling was high, the light from the wall-mounted lamp was feeble, and the air carried a faint scent akin to someone's dried sweat. Everything seemed to be veiled in a dimness ready to disintegrate into molecules and be absorbed into some unseen place. The worn cedar floorboards creaked sharply with each step, echoing throughout. Two tall windows adorned the walls, and not a single piece of furniture occupied the space.
At the far end of the room was a door. It was a simple wooden door with a frosted glass window at face level, bearing the same number "" in an old-fashioned decorative font. A faint light shone through the frosted glass. After lightly knocking on the door and receiving no response, I waited. No footsteps were audible. After steadying my breath and turning the discolored brass knob, I gently opened the door. The door creaked, almost as if warning the surroundings that someone had arrived.
Beyond the door was another square room, approximately five meters on each side. The ceiling wasn't as high as in the previous room. Again, no sign of anyone. There were no windows, only walls of plastered stucco. No paintings, photographs, posters, calendars, and certainly no clocks—just bare, flat walls. There was a modest wooden bench, two small chairs, a table, and a wooden coat rack. Coats weren't hanging on the rack. In the center of the room stood an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, rusted and emitting a fiery glow, upon which black pots and cans emitted steam. At the far end, what seemed like a lending counter was positioned, with an open ledger upon it, as if someone (likely a librarian) had left it halfway through some task. Perhaps this someone would return to this room before long.
Behind the counter, there was a dark door that seemed to lead to the archives. This, then, was indeed the "library." Even though not a single book was in sight, the unmistakable aura of a library remained. Whether large or small, old or new, it carried the distinct atmosphere that libraries all around the world possess.
I hung my heavy coat on the coat rack, sat on the hard wooden bench, and warmed my hands by the stove's heat as I waited for someone to appear. The room was filled with absolute silence, akin to the depths of a still pond. I coughed slightly, just to break the silence, but even that didn't sound like a cough here.
You opened the door that led to the archives and emerged about fifteen minutes later (at least, I think it was about that long; with no clock, I couldn't be precise). Seeing me seated on the bench, you momentarily stiffened, your body tensing, your eyes widening. Then, taking a slow breath, you spoke, "I apologize for keeping you waiting. I didn't know someone was here."
Words I should say escaped me, and I merely nodded a few times. Your voice wasn't quite your voice—it differed from the voice I remembered. Perhaps, in this room, all sounds and voices resonated differently from the norm.
The lid of a container suddenly clattered, as if awoken, and it shivered like a small startled creature.
"By the way, what brings you here?" you inquired.
I was here for the "Ancient Dream."
"The 'Ancient Dream,'" I replied, showing you a pair of deep green glasses. They were unmistakably the eyes of a Dream Reader. They couldn't withstand the harsh daylight.
"I understand. Only Dream Readers are allowed to touch the 'Ancient Dream,'" you said, your gaze briefly dropping. Perhaps my eyes unsettled your composure. But there was no choice—I had to alter my eyes this way to enter this town.
"Are you starting work today?" you asked.
I nodded. "I still don't know if I can read them effectively, but I have to get used to it little by little."
The room remained as silent as before. Not even a single sound echoed. The container that had stirred had returned to its silence. You finished your incomplete task with the ledger and neatly stored it away on a shelf behind you. I watched you from the bench. Outwardly, you hadn't changed at all. You were the same as that summer evening. I recalled your bright red sandals and the locust that had suddenly taken flight from the nearby grass.
"I wonder if we've met somewhere before?" I involuntarily asked, even though I knew it was a futile question.
You raised your gaze from the ledger, holding a pencil in your left hand (yes, you were left-handed, both in this town and wherever you may be). You shook your head.
"I don't think we've met," you replied. Your respectful tone was likely because you remained sixteen while I was already seventeen. I had become an older man in your eyes. It couldn't be helped, but the passage of time stung my heart.
After finishing your incomplete task with the records, you closed the ledger, put it back on the shelf, and began brewing herbal tea for me. You took a container from the stove and carefully combined the hot water with crushed herbs, creating a rich green brew. You poured it into a large ceramic cup and placed it in front of me. This was a special beverage provided for Dream Readers, and it was one of your duties to prepare it.
I sipped the herbal tea slowly. It carried a distinct, slightly bitter taste that wasn't easy to drink. Yet its nutrients healed my still aching eyes and calmed my mind. It was a special drink for this purpose. You watched me from across the table, concerned about whether I liked the herbal tea you had prepared. I nodded slightly, assuring you that it was fine. You responded with a relieved smile, a familiar smile I hadn't seen in a long time.
The room was warm and quiet. Time moved silently, even without a clock, like a slender cat walking soundlessly atop a wall.
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Neither you nor I ever visited each other's homes. We never met each other's families, nor did we introduce each other to our friends. Essentially, we both desired to avoid being disturbed by anyone – by anyone in this world. You and I found contentment simply spending time together, without feeling the need to add anything else. Moreover, even from a physical perspective, there was no room for adding anything. As I mentioned before, there are plenty of things we need to talk about, and our time together is limited.
You rarely spoke about your family. What I know about your family is limited to bits and pieces. Your father was a local government employee, but due to some mishap when you were eleven, he had to resign and now works as an administrative assistant at a prep school. I don't know the details of the "mishap." However, it seemed like an event you didn't want to talk about. Your biological mother passed away from organ cancer when you were three. You hardly have any memories of her, not even her face. Your father remarried when you were five, and your stepmother gave birth to your sister the following year. So, your current mother is your stepmother, and you once mentioned that you might feel a bit closer to her than to your father. You said it just once, in passing, as if it were a subtle footnote. About your six years younger sister, I didn't gather more than the fact that she's allergic to cat hair, preventing you from having a cat at home.
During your childhood, the only person you felt a true natural connection with was your maternal grandmother. Whenever you had the chance, you'd take the train alone to visit her house in the neighboring ward. During school breaks, you would even stay there for a few days. Your grandmother adored you unconditionally. She would buy you small things despite her meager income. However, every time you went to see her, you could see a displeased expression on your stepmother's face. She never said anything, but over time, you started visiting your grandmother less and less. Unfortunately, your grandmother passed away suddenly from heart disease a few years ago.
You shared these fragmented stories with me, as if carefully scooping something tattered out of the pocket of an old coat. Another thing I still remember well is that whenever you talked about your family to me, you would always stare at your own palm, as if it were crucial to interpret the lines or symbols there in order to follow the narrative.
As for me, there was very little to tell you about my family. My parents are just ordinary parents. My father works at a pharmaceutical company, and my mother is a housewife. They behave like ordinary parents and talk like ordinary parents. They have an elderly black cat as a pet. There's not much noteworthy to share about my life at school. My grades aren't terrible, but I'm not exceptionally outstanding either. The library is where I find the most peace at school. I enjoy spending time there alone, reading books and losing myself in daydreams. I've already read most of the books I want to read at the school library.
I remember our first encounter quite vividly. It was at the awards ceremony of the "High School Essay Contest." The top five winners were invited there. You and I were ranked third and fourth, sitting next to each other. It was autumn, and I was in my second year of high school while you were still a freshman. The ceremony itself was quite dull, so we exchanged short whispers between the speeches. You were wearing a navy blazer coat as part of your school uniform, with a matching pleated skirt. A white blouse with a ribbon, white socks, and black slip-on shoes. The socks were pristine white, and the shoes were polished as if with the care of seven diligent dwarves. You had the paper with my name and address hidden in your pocket over your gently swelling chest.
I'm not particularly skilled at writing. I've loved reading books since I was young and always had one in my hand whenever I had spare time. However, I didn't think I had any talent for writing my own pieces. Yet, our whole class was forced to write essays during language class for the contest. Somehow, mine was chosen among the submissions, sent to the selection committee, made it to the final round, and unexpectedly secured a place. Frankly, I didn't understand what was so remarkable about what I had written. Even upon rereading it, it seemed like a plain and ordinary composition. Nevertheless, since a few judges had found it worthy of recognition, there must have been something to it. My female homeroom teacher was ecstatic about my achievement. Throughout my life, no teacher had ever shown such favoritism for something I had done. So, I decided to accept the prize without further ado, without unnecessary words.
The essay contest, held annually in the fall among various districts, assigned different themes each year. The theme that time was "My Friends." Sadly, I couldn't come up with a single "friend" I wanted to write about, so I wrote about our cat at home. I wrote about how she and I interact, live together, and, to some extent, communicate each other's feelings – of course, within limits. There was plenty to say about that cat; she was exceptionally intelligent and unique. I assumed that there were a few cat enthusiasts among the judges. Cat enthusiasts tend to naturally feel a connection or empathy toward other cat enthusiasts.
You wrote about your maternal grandmother. About the interaction between a lonely elderly woman and a lonely young girl. About the modest, genuine values created between them. It was a charming, touching essay. Your piece was many times better than mine. I couldn't fathom why my essay placed third and yours fourth. I told you honestly. You smiled, and then, in a slightly teasing manner, added that you actually thought my essay was many times better than yours. You assured me it wasn't a lie.
"You have a wonderful cat at home," you said. "Yeah, she's a very clever cat," I replied.
You smiled. "Do you have a pet cat?" I asked. "No, my sister has a cat hair allergy," you replied, shaking your head.
That was the first bit of personal information I learned about you. Your sister had a cat hair allergy.
You're a very beautiful girl, at least in my eyes. Petite, with a somewhat round face, slender and elegant fingers. Short hair, with a neatly cut fringe of black hair falling onto your forehead. It's like a carefully crafted shading. Your nose is straight and small, but your eyes are large. By general standards of facial proportions, your nose and eyes might not align perfectly, yet I'm drawn to that asymmetry for some reason. Your lips are a delicate, pale pink, small and thin, always politely closed. They hold a few secrets deep within, like a few cherished secrets hidden away.
Were we lovers? Can I just casually call us that? I'm not sure. But at least during that period, for almost a year, our hearts were completely entwined. We eventually created a world of our own, a secret world only for the two of us – a peculiar city enclosed by high walls.
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Autumn, the bodies of the beasts are covered in resplendent golden fur, preparing for the impending cold season. Their single horns on the forehead are sharp and white. They wash their hooves in the cool waters of the river, stretching their necks to greedily devour red berries and nibbling on the leaves of the golden trumpet creeper.
It was a beautiful season.
Standing in the watchtower set against the wall, I wait for the evening call of the horn. Just before the sun sets, the horn is blown, a long sound followed by three short ones. That's the tradition. The mellow notes of the horn glide through the dimming cobblestone streets. The horn's sound has probably repeated itself for centuries (or maybe even longer), unchanged. It seems to have permeated the gaps in the stone walls of houses and the stone statues lined along the square's fences.
When the sound of the horn echoes through the city, the beasts raise their heads towards the ancient memory. Some cease chewing leaves, others stop tapping their hooves on the pavement, and some awaken from a final nap in a sunny spot, each lifting their heads at the same angle.
For a moment, everything is frozen, as if carved in stone. The only moving things are their soft, golden fur swaying in the wind. But what exactly are they looking at? They tilt their heads in one direction, gazing at the sky, motionless. And then, they listen intently to the sound of the horn.
As the last echo of the horn is sucked into the air and fades, they rise to their front legs, or stretch and adjust their posture, and start walking, almost simultaneously. The momentary enchantment is broken, and for a while, the city's streets are dominated by the rhythm of their hoofbeats.
The procession of beasts advances along the winding cobbled streets. There's no one leading or guiding the formation. The beasts lower their eyes, swaying their shoulders gently from side to side, walking along the silent river. Yet, there seems to be an indelible bond connecting each individual, even though they are silent.
After observing for a while, it becomes apparent that the path and speed of the beasts are meticulously predetermined. They pass over the gentle arched bridge, joining groups here and there, crossing the ancient bridge over a still river, walking towards the square with sharp spires (as you mentioned, the clock hands are both missing on the clock tower). There, they join a small group feeding on green grass on the river's islet. They walk along the riverside path upstream, through the industrial district along the canal that stretches north, and collect a group that had been foraging for nuts in the woods. Then they change direction to the west, pass through the covered passageway of the foundry's roof, and climb the long staircase along the northern hill.
There is only one gate in the wall that surrounds the city. The gatekeeper's task is to open and close it. It's a heavy, sturdy gate with thick iron plates hammered vertically and horizontally. However, the gatekeeper effortlessly opens and closes it. No one else is allowed to touch the gate.
The gatekeeper is a robust man who is clearly physically strong and profoundly dedicated to his job. His pointed head is cleanly shaved, and his face is smooth. Every morning, he boils water in a large pot and meticulously shaves his head and face with a sharp razor. His age is impossible to determine. Twice a day, at dawn and dusk, it's also his duty to blow the horn that gathers the beasts. He climbs the roughly two-meter-tall tower in front of the gatekeeper's hut and blows the horn towards the sky. How does such a rugged, almost coarse-looking man produce such soft, glossy notes? Every time I hear the sound of the horn, I wonder.
When dusk falls and all the beasts have been led outside the walls, he pushes the heavy gate shut and finally lowers a large lock with a dry, cool sound.
Beyond the northern gate lies a place for the beasts. There they sleep, mate, and give birth. There are woods and thickets, and a small river flows. And that place is also enclosed by a wall. It's a low wall, just a bit over one meter high, but for some reason, the beasts can't or won't cross it.
Six watchtowers are provided on both sides of the gate. With old wooden spiral staircases, anyone can climb up there. From the watchtower, you can overlook the beasts' dwelling place. But usually, no one bothers to go up there. It seems that the city's residents have no interest whatsoever in the beasts' lives.
However, only in the first week of spring, people willingly ascend the wall's watchtowers to witness the intense battles of the beasts. During that time, the beasts become incredibly fierce, far from their usual appearances. Male beasts forget about eating to fight for female mates, relentlessly striving. They growl, attempting to thrust their sharp single horns into the throats or bellies of their rivals.
During that one week of mating, the beasts don't enter the city. The gatekeeper closes the gate to ensure the city's inhabitants remain safe (hence, during that period, the morning and evening horn is not blown). Many of the beasts suffer injuries in the battles, and some even lose their lives. From the crimson blood spilled on the ground, new order and new life emerge. Just like how the green branches of willow burst forth in spring.
The beasts live within their unique cycle and order, beyond our understanding. Everything is rhythmically repeated, and the order is redeemed by their own blood. Once the intense week passes and the gentle April rains wash away the blood, the beasts return to their usual serene and gentle existence.
Yet, I have not witnessed such scenes with my own eyes. I've only heard the story from you.
In autumn, the beasts squat in their respective places, their golden fur sparkling in the evening sun, silently waiting for the sound of the horn to be drawn into the air. The number of them probably exceeds a thousand.
This is how the day ends in the city. Days go by, and seasons change. However, days and seasons are merely transient. The true time of the city lies elsewhere.
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In This Actual World, You and I Reside in Separate Places. Not Too Distant, Yet Not Close Enough to Meet Spontaneously. Changing trains twice and spending about an hour and a half, I could reach your city, where you live. And the cities we live in are not enclosed by high walls, allowing us the freedom to travel between them.
I live in a quiet suburban neighborhood near the sea, while you reside at the heart of a much larger and bustling city. That summer, I was a senior in high school, and you were a junior. I attended the local public high school, while you went to a private girls' school in your city. Due to several reasons, we could actually meet face-to-face only once or twice a month. Almost in turn, I would visit your city, and you would come to mine. When I visited your city, we would go to a small park near your house or perhaps the public botanical garden. Although there was an entrance fee for the garden, right next to the greenhouse, there was a café that was never too crowded, and that became our favorite spot. There, we would order coffee and apple tarts (a little extravagance), indulging in our quiet conversations, just the two of us.
When you visited my city, we would usually take a stroll along the riverbank or by the sea. There were no rivers or seas near your house in the middle of the city, so whenever you came to my city, you'd want to see the river or the sea first. The abundance of natural water there—your heart was drawn to it.
"Why is it that I feel so calm when I look at water?" you would say. "I like listening to the sound water makes."
We got to know each other on a certain occasion last autumn, and it has been about eight months since we became close. Whenever we met, we would hug in a secluded place, and our lips would gently touch. However, the relationship didn't progress further. One reason was that we didn't have much time for that. Also, there was a practical reason—we couldn't find a suitable place where we could be more intimately connected. But more than that, we were engrossed in our private conversations, cherishing the time and engrossed in talking. Neither of us had ever met someone with whom we could share our true feelings and thoughts so freely and naturally. Meeting someone like that seemed like a miracle. So, whenever we met once or twice a month, we would forget about time and talk endlessly. No matter how long we talked, there was never a shortage of topics. When it was time to part and we said goodbye at the station's ticket gate, it always felt like we had forgotten to talk about many important things.
Of course, it's not that I didn't have physical desires. It's natural for a healthy seventeen-year-old boy to feel sexual desires when faced with a sixteen-year-old girl with a beautiful bosom, especially when her supple body is in his arms. But I instinctively felt that those things could wait for later. What I needed right now was to meet you once or twice a month, take long walks together, and have honest conversations about various things. To exchange intimate information and get to know each other better. And then, in some shaded spot, embrace and kiss—a wonderful time like that, I didn't want to rush into it with other elements. If I did, something precious might be lost, and we might never be able to return to the way things were. Let's leave those physical matters for later. That's what I think. Or perhaps it's my intuition telling me so.
But what kind of conversations did we have, leaning our foreheads against each other? I can't recall it now. We must have talked so much that it's become impossible to pinpoint each topic. But after you started talking about the special city surrounded by high walls, that became the main part of our conversations.
You mainly spoke about the city's origins, while I posed practical questions, and you provided answers. That's how the specific details of the city were determined and documented. Originally, the city was something you concocted, or perhaps it had existed within you from before. But to bring it to life as something visible, something described in words, I believe I contributed quite a bit as well. You spoke, and I recorded it. Just like how ancient philosophers and religious figures had their faithful and meticulous scribes, or disciples, behind them. As a competent scribe, or a faithful disciple, I even created a small dedicated notebook for recording it. That summer, we were completely immersed in this collaborative endeavor.
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You taught me about that town.
On a summer evening, we walked upstream, sniffing the sweet scent of grass. We crossed several small waterfalls, pausing occasionally to watch slender silver fish swimming in the pools. Both of us had been barefoot for a while. The clear water cooled our ankles, and the fine sand at the riverbed enveloped our feet like soft clouds in a dream. I was seventeen, and you were a year younger.
You casually stuffed your red sandals with low heels into a yellow vinyl shoulder bag and continued walking ahead of me from sandbank to sandbank. Wet grass blades stuck to your tired calves, becoming lovely green punctuation marks. I carried worn-out white sneakers in both hands.
You sat down among the summer grass, seemingly tired from walking, and gazed at the sky without saying a word. Two small birds swiftly crossed the sky in unison, chirping sharply. The precursor of the blue dusk embraced us in silence. A strange feeling washed over me as I sat down beside you. It was as if thousands of invisible threads were delicately intertwining your body with my heart. Even the slightest flicker of your eyelids and the faint tremor of your lips stirred my soul.
At that moment, neither you nor I had names. We were just two vivid emotions on the grass by the riverside—a seventeen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old. Soon, stars would begin to twinkle overhead, but even the stars had no names. We sat side by side on the grass by the nameless riverside.
"The town is surrounded by high walls," you began to speak, finding words from the depths of silence. It was like someone diving deep into the ocean alone to collect pearls. "It's not an expansive town, but it's not so small that you can easily see everything."
It was the second time you mentioned the town. And so, the town acquired its high enclosing walls through your words.
As you continued talking, the town revealed itself—a beautiful river, three stone bridges (East Bridge, Old Bridge, West Bridge), a library, an observatory, an abandoned foundry, and humble communal housing. In the fading light of a summer evening, you and I leaned against each other, gazing at the town. Sometimes we squinted from a distant hilltop, and other times we opened our eyes wide as if the town were within our reach.
"The real me lives inside the town surrounded by high walls," you said.
"So, the you in front of me now isn't the real you," I naturally asked.
"Yes, the one here with you is not the real me. I'm just a substitute, a mere transient shadow," you replied.
I pondered over it. A transient shadow? But for now, I decided to reserve my opinion on the matter.
"What do you do as the real you in that town?" I asked.
"I work at the library," you answered in a quiet voice. "My working hours are from around five in the evening until around ten at night."
"Around?" I questioned.
"There, all the time is 'around.' There's a tall clock tower in the central square, but it has no hands."
I envisioned a clock tower with no hands. "Can anyone enter the library?" I asked.
"No, not everyone can enter freely. You need a special qualification to enter. But you can enter because you possess that qualification."
"What kind of qualification is it?" I inquired.
You smiled softly but didn't answer the question.
"But if I go there, I can meet the real you, right?"
"If you can find that town. And if…" You paused, blushing lightly. Though I couldn't hear the words you didn't speak, I understood them.
And if you're truly seeking the real me… Those were the words you deliberately left unspoken. I gently wrapped my arm around your shoulder. You wore a pale green sleeveless dress. Your cheek rested against my shoulder. However, in that summer twilight, it wasn't the real you whose shoulder I embraced. As you had said, it was just a substitute shadow of you.
The real you resided within the town surrounded by high walls. There, a lush green sandbank of willows adorned the beautiful central island, and several small hills dotted the landscape. Quiet creatures with a single horn roamed everywhere. People lived in old communal housing, leading a simple but comfortable life. The creatures enjoyed eating the leaves and fruits of the trees that grew in the town but during the long winter when the snow piled up, many of them perished due to the cold and hunger.
How strongly I longed to enter that town. I yearned to meet the real you there.
"The town is surrounded by high walls, making it very difficult to enter," you said. "Leaving is even more challenging."
"How can I enter then?" I wondered.
"You just need to desire it. But it's not so easy to truly desire something. It may take time. And during that time, you may have to abandon many things that are important to you. Things that matter to you. But don't give up. No matter how long it takes, the town won't vanish."
I imagined meeting the real you within that town. An expansive forest of apple trees outside the town, the three stone bridges spanning the river, and the sound of unseen nocturnal birds. And the small, old library where the real you worked.
"A place is always prepared for you," you said.
"A place for me?"
"Yes. There's one vacant position in the town just for you. You'll fit into that position."
What kind of position could that be?
"You'll become a 'Dream Reader'," you whispered, revealing a significant secret.
Upon hearing that, I couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, I can't even remember my own dreams. It would be quite challenging for someone like me to become a 'Dream Reader'."
"No, you don't have to dream yourself. You just have to read many 'old dreams' collected in the library's archives. But not everyone can do it."
"But I can, right?"
You nodded. "Yes, you can. You have the qualification. And I'll be there, beside you, helping you with that work, every night."
"So, as a 'Dream Reader,' I read many 'old dreams' in the library of the town. And the real you is always with me. The real you," I repeated the presented facts aloud.
Your naked shoulder, covered in the smoothness of the green dress, trembled slightly in my arms. Then, you suddenly tensed. "Yes, but please remember one thing. Even if I meet you in that town, the me there won't remember anything about you."
Why is that?
"Do you not understand why?" you asked.
I did understand. Yes, the one I was gently embracing was merely a substitute for the real you, who resided in that distant and mysterious town surrounded by high walls.
In my hands, your shoulder felt so smooth and warm, and I could only think that it belonged to the real you.
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