The thin voice is silent, as if pausing to listen. Then, it says, “You’re mistaken. There’s only the two of us here.”
She listens again.
The sound is vague. Somewhat far away in the distance, or right by her ear, something like a human voice, or the wind …
The sound withers into silence.
“I’m so sure there was someone there—”
“There’s no one here except us,” the voice says adamantly. “If you think you heard something, it might have been wild animals.” The fingers gripping her left hand give a squeeze. “I think … we should run away from here.”
The voice sounds afraid.
Fear seeps from her fingers through her hand, moving up her arm and into her heart.
Wordlessly, she begins to walk.
Her feet occasionally sink into the unstable ground, almost making her fall. Whenever that happens, the fingers, gripping her left hand so hard that it hurts, hold her steady and help her find her balance.
There is no way of knowing where they are going. Nor of determining where they are. But the thin voice sounds as frightened as she feels, and the fingers that grasp her left hand feel dependable. And so, she decides to believe in the voice and fingers as they walk together over the pitch-black ground into which their feet sink, going further into the unknown.
“Ah, here we go,” the voice says, reassured. “The ground is firmer here.”
That moment, her left foot lands on firm ground. Then, her right.
“It’s so much easier to walk,” says the voice, delighted.
“Shall we rest a bit?” she suggests. Walking endlessly through mud into which her feet keep sinking was exhausting for both the body and soul.
Without waiting for an answer, she sits down on the road. The owner of the thin voice sits down next to her. She can’t see her, but she can sense her sitting down.
“That ring. It must be very important?” the thin voice asks carefully.
She fondles the round, hard, and smooth object on the ring finger of her left hand.
“Well … yes.”
The thin voice asks again, still careful. “Is it … really that important?”
“Well … I mean …”
Her hand keeps touching the ring finger.
A large, warm hand, memories of that hand wrapped around her own, a familiar face she was always glad to see, such pleasure, such happiness … Something like that. An important, precious something, like …
But the more she tries to recall these memories the fainter they become, and like the last rays of the setting sun, they disappear leaving just a trace of their warmth behind. The only thing left in her mind is that which has ruled her and surrounded her since the moment she opened her eyes: the darkness.
As she keeps silent, the thin voice apologizes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”
“Oh … it’s fine.”
She is beginning to feel like something is wrong.
“I just … I can’t remember … My mind is so dark—”
“Oh no. Are you hurt?” The thin voice sounds worried.
“But … I’m not sick at all.”
“Let me see.”
She can feel the fingers touch her forehead and scalp.
“Does this hurt?” asks the thin voice.
“No.”
The fingers tap her temples. “What about here?”
“It’s fine—”
“Oh no …” The voice sighs lightly. “We should get out of here quick and go to a hospital as soon as possible.”
She touches her own head and face. There doesn’t seem to be any wounds, and she doesn’t feel any bleeding. There is only the darkness that permeates her mind.
“Um … excuse me,” she says after touching her face and head for a bit. “Where … where are we? What happened to us?”
“Oh my, you don’t remember?” The voice seems surprised.
“Not a thing,” she answers listlessly.
“We went to Teacher Choi and her new husband’s housewarming party and got into an accident on the way back … You really don’t remember?”
“No.”
Nothing, she remembers nothing. She turns the inside of her head upside down, looking for something. All she finds is darkness and yet more darkness.
“Uh, Teacher …” The thin voice sounds uncertain. “Then you … you don’t remember who I am, do you?”
She hesitates. She wants to cry. “I don’t.”