Part I — The Invitation
You notice the white first.
Not the hard, sterile white of a hospital corridor. Not the blinding glare of sunlight on snow. This white is… soft. It sits in the eyes without strain, without demand. It’s the kind of white that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to begin.
The walls are smooth, unbroken — no visible seams where panels meet, no texture to suggest paint or plaster. The corners melt into each other almost imperceptibly. The light comes from everywhere and nowhere.
The air smells faintly of paper. Not new paper — paper that’s been resting in a drawer for years, absorbing the scent of dust and time.
At the centre of the room is the only thing that breaks the stillness:
A black terminal. Solid. Heavy. Its screen glows softly, the green‑white numbers pulsing with machine calm.
0.0000000412
It isn’t ticking like a clock. The digits shift with glacial slowness — a nine becoming an eight, an eight becoming a seven — then resting for a few seconds as though thinking about its next move.
You take a step closer to the screen without deciding to. The floor is the same white as the walls, cool underfoot.
That’s when you hear her voice.
“Don’t worry. It’s not as complicated as it looks.”
You turn sharply.
She’s sitting in a chair — one you could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago — off to the side of the terminal. She leans back, legs crossed, hands resting loosely in her lap.
Her hair is dark and loosely pulled back, a few strands falling free near her face. There’s a brightness in her eyes, but not the kind that overpowers. More like the steady light of someone who’s been waiting long enough to be at peace with the waiting.
“I didn’t realise anyone else was here,” you say.
“That happens a lot,” she replies. “This place doesn’t like to be crowded in your head.”
Her tone is light, but the words are strange enough to make you pause.
“This place?” you ask. “What is it?”
She tilts her head, considering. “You could call it a room. But that would be like calling the ocean a puddle.”
You try a small smile. “That’s a little poetic for a room with nothing in it.”
“Oh, there’s something in it,” she says, glancing toward the terminal. “And besides… nothing is never empty.”
You follow her gaze to the number again.
0.0000000411
It’s changed.
“Have you been here long?” you ask.
Her eyes flicker in a way that could be amusement, or deflection. “Long enough to stop counting. But not so long that I’ve forgotten why I came.”
“And why did you come?”
She smiles. “Because someone was here before me. And they told me to wait for you.”
The answer sits between you. You’re not sure how to respond.
Before you can decide, she leans forward slightly. “You look like someone who’s been carrying a question around for a while.”
You laugh quietly. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not like you,” she says.
Something in her tone — a casual certainty — makes you want to change the subject.
“So… what’s with the number?”
Her gaze slides back to it. “A measure,” she says.
“Of what?”
Her eyes return to yours, and for a second, her expression feels heavier. “That’s not important right now. Tell me about yourself instead.”
It’s a strange request. But her eyes are steady, and you find yourself talking.
You tell her about the town you grew up in. She seems to know it — not just its name, but its quirks. The cracked paving stone outside the post office. The way the train station smells on rainy days. The uneven pitch of the church bell.
You tell her about your work. She asks questions, not to be polite, but like she’s filing away each answer.
You mention a hobby — a small, quiet one you rarely talk about. She nods as if she already knew.
Her turn.
She tells you about a summer spent in a town by the sea. She says the water there always tasted faintly of metal, and the wind carried the smell of oranges from a grove inland. She remembers walking down a pier that swayed slightly with each step, and the way the sea seemed to shift colour every time she blinked.
Another story: a night in a strange city when the streetlamps flickered in unison, as if they were keeping time with her heartbeat.
She speaks slowly, as though unspooling the memory so you can see it as she did.
At some point, she leans back, tilting her head toward you.
“Do you believe,” she asks, “that there’s a difference between remembering something and keeping it alive?”
You think about it. “Aren’t they the same?”
She shakes her head gently. “You can remember a song. But that’s not the same as hearing it fill the air. You can remember a conversation, but that doesn’t mean the words still live between you.”
Her eyes hold yours. “What we’re doing right now… this is keeping something alive.”
The number changes again.
0.0000000410
You both notice it. Neither of you says anything.
The conversation drifts to books — the ones that change when you reread them. Films you’ve watched in the wrong mood and never revisited. She has opinions about both, but she always listens before answering.
She tells you about a superstition she has: never looking at her reflection when she can’t remember how she got into the room she’s in.
“Why?” you ask.
Her smile is faint. “Because sometimes… it isn’t me in the reflection.”
It’s the sort of thing that could be a joke. But she doesn’t laugh.
The room is silent again, save for the faint hum you can’t tell is in the walls or in your ears.
You glance back at the number without meaning to.
And so the talking continues — the kind of talking where minutes or hours could pass without you knowing.
Where the number ticks down quietly, as though it has all the time in the world.
