The last time I ended up in Wui was in Secondary Four. For a while I was terrified of going to school and kept skipping. Even when I did sit through class, nothing got through to me. I couldn’t follow the topics my classmates talked about, and sometimes I’d end up being punished for things I hadn’t done. But someone had to be punished, and it happened to be me — I didn’t really mind. One day it was exactly like that: I was kept in detention for no reason I could understand, and I was actually glad of the chance to sit alone and read. I’d just finished the first chapter of a novel when I was allowed to leave, and somehow walked straight into Wui.

Maybe “walked into” isn’t quite right. Wui is a trap — it doesn’t happen by accident. But I wouldn’t realise this until the second time, years later. That first time, I shouldered my bag and left the classroom, came down the stairs as usual, and when I reached the next floor something about the layout felt familiar. I didn’t think much of it and kept going. But the next landing wasn’t the school office as expected — it was still Year Four’s floor. I was going nowhere.

I tried going further down: same result. I turned around and climbed up: same floor again. There were no exits except the stairwell. On each landing there was the same small window that required standing on tiptoe to see out. Whether I went up or down, the view outside was identical. In other words, I was trapped in a loop.

Strangely, I wasn’t particularly afraid — just a bit bored. I knew any effort to escape would be useless, so I just sat down on the stairs, took out the novel, and read on in the dim yellow light. I must have got through a few chapters before drifting off to sleep.

When I woke up I found myself propped against the wall, the novel open on my lap. I looked up: a boy was sitting a few steps above me on the stairs. Small and young-looking — probably Year One. I forgot I was trapped and stood up to leave. He just watched me walk down the stairs. When I got to the next floor and saw him there again, I snapped back to reality. He turned and said, in an unbroken child’s voice: “This is Wui. Don’t waste your energy. Sit down.” I knew he was right, and sat beside him. Though I’m not tall, he was even shorter.

“How long was I asleep?” I asked. He counted on his fingers and said: “About three or four minutes. Or you could say three or four days. Or three or four years.” I asked when he’d come in. He said he’d been here a long time. I asked: “How long?” And immediately realised the question was pointless. He just scratched his head and grinned. I looked out the window at the slanting afternoon light and said: “Time doesn’t seem to pass in Wui — no day or night. Being stuck here alone must be frightening, right?” He smiled and said: “Not really frightening. Just a little lonely.” I sighed and said: “I suppose you don’t know how to get out?” But to my surprise he said: “I do.” I stared at him. “You do? Then why are you still here?” He said: “I was waiting for you.” “For me?” He explained: “You need two people to open a gap. But only one can leave Wui. The other is destroyed.” I asked: “How do you know which one?” He shrugged. I pressed: “So what do you actually have to do?” He held out his hand and said: “Simple. Just touch. Well? Scared to die?” I shook my head and said: “No. I just don’t have a strong reason to go back”. He suddenly turned serious: “You have to go back.” I hesitated, reached out my hand, and he broke into a guileless smile.

When I came back, I looked everywhere for any trace of the boy — but no one had seen him, and there were no missing students in the lower years. Later, Dad helped me transfer schools, and school life went back to normal. Gradually I forgot the whole thing.

Until recently, when my mental health wasn’t great and I was scraping by on odd jobs — sometimes quitting, sometimes getting let go. After a café manager fired me, I hid in a mall’s back stairwell and cried. It was the place staff usually snuck off to smoke; the air was stale. I found myself walking down without thinking, floor after floor with no bottom in sight. Then I suddenly understood: I was in Wui again. I sat down on the stairs and gave up trying. Some time passed, and I heard footsteps coming up from below. A boy in a café uniform emerged from the shadows, his face lighting up.

“We’ve met in Wui again!” he said. Only then did I recognise him — the small boy from before. Now he was taller than me. I stared at him. “Weren’t you already —” He looked awkward and said: “I’m sorry. I lied to you.” I got angry: “Why did you lie? Wui is your doing, isn’t it? You pull people in and then say they need to touch you to get out. You little creep. How many girls have you pulled this on?”

He went scarlet and couldn’t speak. When I’d calmed down he said: “I told you that last time so you’d forget me. But it’s true that you need to make contact to leave Wui — I’ve done it with many people in here, all kinds. The truth is, there are countless loops of Wui running at once, trapping countless people. Over the years I’ve been finding them one by one and sending them back. The work never ends. It’s exhausting. The only thing that kept me going was hoping I’d meet you in Wui again someday. But at the same time I hoped you’d never fall into Wui again.”

I was speechless. I asked: “Then why do you stay inside? Can’t you leave?” He looked down. “Because I have no reason to go back.” When he said that, tears came without warning. I asked: “Really, can’t you go?” He said reluctantly: “Only if someone is willing to take over my work.” I asked how. He said: “I pass Wui to you — the same way I received it from someone else.” I barely thought about it before saying: “Let me stay. You go back.”

I leaned in, stood on my tiptoes, and before he could react, kissed him quickly on the lips. That’s a kind of touch too. In the briefest of moments I watched his expression move from surprise to joy, and felt his lips go from flinching to accepting.

And then I was back. He’d tricked me again. He had no intention of coming back. But at least I know he’s there — and the next time I fall into Wui, we’ll meet again.

SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:

Buy SF's Strange Ordinary (Chinese)

Translated from the Chinese original with Claude

Picture generated with Midjourney

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Just after the pandemic ended, I decided I couldn’t keep sitting at home and made up my mind to find work. A senior from my old department put me forward for a teaching assistant position. The school still required masks, so I was reminded to wear one.

When I arrived at the school office — during the gap between morning break and lunch — I was about to explain why I was there when I noticed that my mouth, under the mask, felt sealed shut. It wouldn’t open. To cover the awkwardness, I pretended to clear my throat and made a muffled sound. The receptionist asked if I was there for the interview; I nodded quickly. She picked up the intercom to call the department head. I panicked, gestured that I needed the bathroom, and fled the office.

The bathroom was empty, smelling of antiseptic. I took off my mask and looked in the mirror. The lower half of my face, where my mouth should have been, was smooth. Because I had no mouth, I couldn’t scream — my jaw just dropped slightly. I pressed my fingers around the empty space and found that the jawbone and teeth were still there, just sealed under the skin. I explored with my tongue; the inside of my mouth felt normal and I could see the tip of my tongue moving under the surface. The bell rang and I startled, quickly put my mask back on, and fled the school.

Out on the street I tried to stay calm and not attract attention. But actually, everyone was still wearing masks — nobody could see anything unusual underneath. I even started to wonder whether some of these people might be just like me. I had no way to check, but the thought was oddly comforting.

At a nearby mask shop I chose the thickest style available. The cashier muttered to herself: the pandemic’s been over for ages but more people are buying masks lately — strange. She gave me a suspicious look, and whatever reflex I had left in my lip tightened for a moment. Though I didn’t have a lip anymore — just the skin, tensing out of old habit.

I went to the basement bathroom in a shopping mall to change into the new mask, and found a woman standing at the sink. She wore a white tank top, loose army-green trousers, and had long silver-green hair. In the mirror I could see her cartoon-character mask and heavily made-up eyes above it. Our eyes met. She touched the area of her mask where a mouth would be and gave me a knowing look. I nodded. I could tell she knew what she was doing.

I followed her to a small boutique in the mall. The lights were off inside; a heavyset man in all black with a black mask opened the door. They led me behind a curtain and naturally removed their masks. As I’d expected, neither of them had a mouth either. The man still had two sparse rows of stubble above where his mouth used to be. I was scared, but it would have been rude not to follow their lead. The woman began speaking in a throat-voice — something like ventriloquism — which sounded a bit odd but was more understandable than I’d expected; maybe because Cantonese has nine tones and the sounds are easier to distinguish.

She said her name was Fung, and asked when I’d become Bai. (Both words were hard to produce without lips, so we switched to typing on phones and kept doing so throughout.) I said: “Just now.” She said: “Lucky you ran into me! We call this phenomenon Bai — it’s not an official name, just what we say among ourselves. This has never gone public, and probably never will, so outside of those of us who have it, no one knows about Bai or talks about it. That’s actually a good thing, because there’s nothing glorious about becoming Bai, and we don’t want the attention. So Bai has formed a little community — a few hundred people, though we think there are many more out there who are completely isolated: Bai within Bai, totally closed off and alone. They probably won’t last long. Why? How do you eat without a mouth? You can’t survive without eating. But don’t worry! We’ve been through it. Our experience can help you — though some suffering is unavoidable.”

Fung went on: “Don’t ask me what causes Bai. Some say it’s a kind of unconscious impulse, but people who become Bai aren’t necessarily introverted to begin with — take me and him, we were both blabbermouths. It’s not necessarily caused by external suppression either. The cause is unknown. One thing is certain: everyone became Bai after putting on a mask. Though saying that prolonged mask-wearing caused it — that’s probably too simple.”

At this point Fung let out a stifled laugh that sounded like a cough. Then the man said: “Hungry? That’s an even bigger problem than not being able to talk. Some people have tried nasal feeding tubes or nutrient injections, but the most direct method is to cut open the skin where your mouth used to be with a knife — eat while the blood pours, wolf it down as fast as possible. The wound heals over and seals up again, so next time you need to eat, you cut again. You have to eat as much as you can each time to reduce how often you need to do it. Most people can’t do it to themselves and need help. That’s how we survive. If you ever need us, we’re here.” The man reached into his pocket as if to produce something. I let out what should have been a scream but came out as a grunt, and bolted.

I went home, locked myself in my room, and texted my dad that my throat was sore and I didn’t want to talk or eat. But after a whole day without food I started feeling dizzy and weak. I thought: at this rate I’m going to die.

By the next morning I knew I couldn’t just wait it out, so I put my mask on and went back to the shop. There had to be another way besides a knife. Only Fung was there. When she saw me, she lit up, and said in her throat-voice: “Perfect timing! I just found out about a new method from the Bai group chat. It’s called the mouthless kiss. Come on, let’s try it — nothing to lose!”

I had no idea what she meant, but I stood there dumbly while she took off my mask, brought her mouth area up to where mine used to be, and pressed. I felt the light touch of skin, then pressure, then warmth and moisture — I even felt the tip of her tongue. I pulled back in shock, ran my own tongue over my lips, and found that my mouth had come back. I asked Fung why she didn’t go do this for her boyfriend. She wiped her mouth and told me firmly: “Remember — never let a man take advantage of you!”

SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:

Buy SF's Strange Ordinary (Chinese)

Translated from the Chinese original with Claude

Picture generated with Midjourney

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For a while I used to have lunch at a Japanese restaurant regularly. I’m not picky about food and I don’t eat much — I normally leave half a meal untouched, and it was no different there. The reason I became a regular wasn’t the food; it was Maan.

The first time I went in, the girl at the door greeting customers was completely ordinary-looking, totally unremarkable. I kept my head down as usual and followed her to a small table for two. While she explained how to order at the self-service terminal, she set the menu down on the table. The hand holding the menu suddenly gave me a shock. Maybe it was my obvious reaction, because she quickly moved her hand behind her back. As she turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of her left hand and arm — pinned behind her, mottled with what looked like something wrapped heavily around it.

Once I’d calmed down, I realised it was a tattoo. I don’t have anything against tattoos, but I can’t say I like them either — they actually make me a bit uneasy. Not because I associate them with bad people, but because the idea of marking something foreign permanently into skin disturbs me. I’m uncomfortable if a stranger even brushes against me in the street. I snuck a look at the girl — petite, neither thin nor heavy, fair skin, almond eyes above her mask with no makeup, natural black hair pulled back in a ponytail, a plain white T-shirt and loose khaki trousers under a brown apron — completely not the type you’d expect to have that kind of bold, large-coverage tattoo. I quickly looked away and pretended to check my phone. When she brought the food over I finally got a proper look: her left arm was covered in a vine pattern, coiling around and around from the back of her hand all the way up into the sleeve.

After paying, I said: “Sorry about earlier.” She looked puzzled. I added: “Your arm — it’s really something.” She lifted her left arm slightly, turned it in the air, and her eyes creased — she seemed to smile behind her mask.

After that I went back often. Sometimes Maan was working, sometimes not. On the days she wasn’t there, I’d feel oddly flat. We never really talked; we weren’t even close to friends — just a nod back and forth, the same as any customer and server. But that tattooed arm fascinated and unsettled me at once. She knew I was watching, but she deliberately acted unbothered — kept using her left arm to carry menus, serve food, wipe tables, or clasped it behind her back when she had nothing to do, turning her back to me. But most of the time the vine-covered arm was either moving or too far away; I only got a brief look when she brought food or collected payment, and even then shyness stopped me from staring.

Until one day — I’d just paid and was about to leave when Maan suddenly said: “Do you actually like it?” Before I could react, she took my right wrist in her left hand. The grip was light, just her fingers and palm testing the contact. My wrist felt a flash of burning heat, almost like pain; before I could pull away, Maan let go. I couldn’t see her expression behind the mask, just her eyes, lowered, a little unsteady.

That evening, I noticed a tiny blue-green dot between my right hand and wrist — it wouldn’t wash off no matter how much hand wash I used. The next morning it had grown into a thin line wrapping once around my wrist, like a watchband. I quickly put on a long-sleeved jacket to cover it and went to the restaurant for lunch as usual, but Maan wasn’t in. Over the following week, the vines kept growing up my right arm until they reached my armpit, but Maan was nowhere to be found. On the seventh day, I asked the other staff where the girl with the tattoos had gone. They said she’d quit. I pressed for her contact, but the manager said she couldn’t share it.

Soon the vines had spread tight across my right shoulder, right back, and right chest — but they were smooth to the touch, like nothing was there. I examined every detail, heart in my throat. The blue-green lines were dense in some places, flowing in others, and somehow made my usually pale skin and weak arms look fuller, more alive. But they also felt completely at odds with my own body — like something foreign grafted on. The vigorous vines seemed to want to cover me, consume me, replace me with something new. Looking in the mirror, I realised with a shock: I had become Maan.

I knew I couldn’t escape it. I went back to the restaurant and said to the manager: “Are you hiring? I’d like to work here.” The manager didn’t seem at all surprised, as if she’d been expecting me. She led me to the break room, handed me a brown apron, and I took off my long-sleeved jacket to reveal the right arm covered in vines under my short-sleeved T-shirt. Without a word, the manager unbuttoned her shirt and showed me a purple rose on her chest. Later, the other staff revealed a chrysanthemum on one woman’s back, a sunflower on another’s stomach, and lilies on a third’s thighs. Everyone had their own secret mark.

A month later, the vines had climbed up my neck and onto my right cheek, crossing my shoulder and curling down my left arm — a T-shirt could no longer hide the truth. The manager received complaint after complaint from customers: this kind of girl shouldn’t be hired; the tattoos scared children; the staff’s appearance put people off their food. When I heard things like that, I’d slip into the break room and cry quietly. I didn’t even know why I’d come here to take this kind of abuse. But I felt bound and drawn to it, completely unable to help myself.

Then Maan suddenly reappeared. At first I didn’t recognise her. She’d let her hair down, wasn’t wearing a mask, had bare arms, and looked like the most ordinary girl imaginable. When I brought food to her table, she gently took hold of my right wrist and said: “I’m so sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you. I hated the vines before and wanted to find someone else to carry them, but I really regret doing that. Will you give Maan back to me?” In that moment, all the hurt and fear and resentment I’d been carrying came out in tears.

Back home, I stood in front of the mirror with my clothes off. The reflection was that hollow, barely-there body, weak and colourless. I expected to feel relieved, but all I felt was a strange, formless sadness. Then I noticed something: on the left side of my chest, a tiny shoot had appeared.

This time, I’m not afraid.

SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:

Buy SF's Strange Ordinary (Chinese)

Translated from the Chinese original with Claude

Picture generated with Midjourney

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I met Pun in the second year of secondary school. That morning on the way to school, not far from the gate, a girl fell over right beside me — scraped her elbow and knee. I just stood there, not because I didn’t want to help, but because I’ve always been terrible with strangers, let alone touching someone I don’t know. In the end I forced myself to crouch down and ask, quietly, if she was okay. She lifted her head, and beneath her messy hair was a pale little face.

I helped her to the school sick bay. She gritted her teeth the whole way, and when I dabbed on the antiseptic she let out a small cry. I was a sweaty mess by the time it was done, gasping like I was the one who’d been hurt. When it was over and I finally relaxed, she said softly: “Thank you.” Then: “I’m Pun.” And I said: “I’m Sun-fei.”

I offered to walk her back to her classroom and asked which class she was in. She said 3C; I said I was 2B. When we got to the second floor she let go of my arm and said she could manage from here, no need for me to go up an extra floor. I actually felt relieved — but then I watched her slowly climbing the stairs one step at a time, and regretted it immediately. I was just about to go after her when she turned around, gave a little wave, and for the first time, smiled.

After that I kept running into Pun around school or nearby. At first it was just nods or waves; later we’d stop for a few words, or walk a stretch together. But Pun and I never actually sat down for a proper conversation, let alone made plans to do anything. It was just repeated chance encounters. So I could never really say whether we were friends. But compared to anyone in my own class, I talked to Pun more than anyone — which says a lot about how few friends I had. In that sense, Pun was probably the closest person I had at school.

I eventually noticed something about Pun: she fell over a lot. Every few days she’d show up with plasters on her hands or legs, or a swollen bruise on her forehead. I wondered whether she had some kind of coordination problem, but didn’t dare ask directly. Her walk looked perfectly normal, and yet she’d go down without warning. Once, while we were talking and walking, she suddenly pitched straight forward — I had no time to react at all and she was already flat on the ground. Luckily it was open space. When I tried to suggest she see a doctor, Pun said: “It won’t help. Doctors can’t fix it.”

The way I wrote her name — 瀕 — was entirely instinctive, by the way. From the first time she said it, I decided it was that character, and never checked with her. It didn’t seem necessary. Even if it wasn’t her real name, that was what she was to me, and that was enough. One particular incident felt like confirmation of my instinct. I’d failed a test and been kept in for detention, so I was late leaving school. It was already dusk on the walk home. Along the riverside stretch, I spotted Pun standing at the very bottom of the stone steps that led down to the water — one more step and she’d be in. I didn’t dare call out to her for fear of startling her, but I also couldn’t bring myself to step onto those narrow stairs. I just stood at the top, helplessly watching that slight figure at the bottom. She turned toward me, silhouetted against the glittering water, and reached out her hand — but the contrast of light made it impossible to see her face. Her mouth seemed to be moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. I was frozen. I stood there, unable to move, and watched her fall backwards into the river, face turned up to the sky. Only then did I hear my own voice: “Pun!”

I can’t remember what happened next. The river wasn’t deep or fast; she wouldn’t have drowned easily. Maybe she climbed out herself, or maybe someone passing by pulled her out. Either way, after that Pun started avoiding me. The more she avoided me, the more I wanted to find her, to explain — but explain what, exactly? Apologise? Confess? I wanted to tell her: “Pun, it doesn’t matter that you fell! I’m here! I’ll catch you! You can get back up!” But did I have the right to say any of that?

During break, I overcame my shyness and fear, went up to the third floor, and walked to 3C. Noisy third-years were pouring out of the classroom. I grabbed one of the girls and asked where Pun was. She looked like she didn’t understand. I clenched my fist, drenched in sweat, and asked again. She turned and said something loudly to the others, and a whole lot of people burst out laughing. The crowd swept out and knocked me to the floor. A boy who was last to leave kindly helped me up and said: “There’s no one called Pun in this class.”

Pun had lied to me. She wasn’t in 3C. Then which class was she in? I couldn’t go room to room. I waited at the school gate after school but didn’t see her, so I went back inside to search. After a long time, in the most secluded corner of the school, I saw Pun come out of the PE equipment storeroom. I was just about to go after her when P Sir — who taught PE and Maths — came out the same door behind her. I froze. I turned around, and caught a glimpse of Pun going up a stairwell on the other side.

I had a feeling she’d gone to the rooftop, and sure enough, that’s where I found her. Again, at a distance, I looked at Pun’s back — but this time she was sitting on the concrete parapet at the edge. Again, I couldn’t move. I dragged my trembling legs toward her. In a weak voice I said: “Pun, please don’t — don’t move — don’t fall. Pun, please turn around, look at me. Pun, please, take my hand.” But this time Pun didn’t turn around. Her figure suddenly vanished before my eyes. I lunged forward, stupidly thinking I could catch her in the air — and overbalanced, half my body going over the parapet. Before I went over, a pair of arms grabbed my waist and pulled me back. I found myself in someone’s arms; I looked up and saw it was P Sir. I screamed, broke free, and ran for the stairs. On the first step, I missed my footing and tumbled forward.

I spent a week in hospital, then recovered at home for the whole summer. In September, when school started again, I was now in Year Three. I walked into the 3C classroom, avoided everyone’s eyes, and sat in the corner. The new form teacher came in. It was P Sir. He called the register one by one, and at the very end, he looked at me, smiled warmly, and said: “Pun, welcome back.”

SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:

Buy SF's Strange Ordinary (Chinese)

Translated from the Chinese original with Claude

Picture generated with Midjourney

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Share 愛虛構 Fiction Passion

For a while, I wasn’t doing well mentally and was spending most of my time at home recovering. Every day my dad would nudge me to go for a walk in the nearby park, saying it would be good for me. At first I didn’t want to go — I’d wander around half-heartedly and come back feeling no better. It was always either too cold or too hot outside, and I’d rather stay home and read. That was until one day, in the children’s playground at the park, I came across Duk.

The first time I spotted Duk was probably a lot like how other people might spot a squirrel. A quick glimpse of something moving in the bushes, stopping to look — and then it’s gone. Then catching it again somewhere else, stopping to follow it, pulling out your phone to take a photo. Except I didn’t take out my phone to photograph Duk. The thought never even crossed my mind. And anyway, it wouldn’t have been possible. Why? Because anything that could be photographed wouldn’t be Duk.

The children’s playground was tucked in a corner of the park — small and a bit run-down, just two swings, a little slide, and a low climbing frame. Parents rarely brought their kids there. Duk was crouched beneath the slide, which had faded from its original bright yellow, completely still — almost camouflaged. If a gust of wind hadn’t suddenly made it shudder, I wouldn’t have known it was right there in front of me. I was genuinely startled in that moment. Not scared, just caught off guard — like discovering that something in a world I thought had nothing to do with me was actually looking back at me. Duk seemed just as shy as I was. It held still for a few seconds, then slipped behind the slide. I went around to the back — but Duk was already gone.

After that, I kept catching glimpses of Duk around the park. It didn’t stay in the playground; it moved around like it was playing hide-and-seek, ducking away in all directions. Most of the time I couldn’t find it, but I had a strong feeling it was secretly following me — because even when I couldn’t see Duk, I could sense it nearby. Sometimes I wouldn’t bother looking. That half-close, half-distant dynamic was just how things were between us. The most memorable time was a rainy day when I found Duk huddled inside a hollow in a tree. I didn’t disturb it, just nodded quietly in its direction. Apparently it hated rain just as much as I did.

By now you’ve probably guessed roughly how big Duk is. But please don’t picture a squirrel, or a kitten, or a puppy. Duk isn’t that kind of animal. If I had to say, Duk is closer to a small child in size. But I can’t describe what Duk looks like, because any description involves categorising it — and Duk is its own thing entirely, like nothing else in the world. Genuinely one of a kind. Sorry, I’m not great at philosophical definitions. The point is: Duk is just Duk. There’s nothing more to say.

At first I assumed Duk lived in the park, but then I started spotting it in other places too. Once, on the train into the city for a follow-up appointment, I saw Duk crouched in the connecting joint between two carriages, swaying gently among the shifting passengers. I noticed then that Duk was soft — flexible, almost elastic — not sharp-edged the way its name might suggest. But by the time I got off the train, it had vanished again.

The other times I ran into Duk outside the neighbourhood were on MTR escalators, in station corridors, and inside lifts — all crowded, busy places that didn’t suit Duk’s nature at all. Duk in those settings looked more withdrawn than Duk in the park, more isolated. I didn’t know whether it had followed me in from the suburbs, or whether it had always moved around to different places. Either way, it never interacted with its surroundings. So did that mean Duk and I actually interacted?

As I slowly got better, I started going out a little more — seeing friends, having meals, chatting. But it always felt like I was performing normality rather than actually living it. I noticed that Duk would show up nearby every time I had plans: sometimes just outside the restaurant, sometimes beside the table, but only for a moment before disappearing. It kept pulling my attention away so I couldn’t focus on the conversation. My friends were understanding about my situation and didn’t ask too much of me. I didn’t know whether Duk appearing was a coincidence or whether it meant something, but I couldn’t exactly ask it. And I knew I shouldn’t ask, because it was Duk.

One time I went to a birthday party for my university classmate Siu-meii, and only when I got there did I realise it was at a board game café. I was hopeless at games to begin with, and with my brain not working properly I lost at everything spectacularly. The guy sitting next to me was very patient and kept giving me hints. I didn’t recognise him — turned out he wasn’t from our department, just a friend of Siu-mei’s. Nobody brought up the fact that I hadn’t graduated yet; they just kept the conversation light and fun. The noise of everyone laughing was starting to make my head swim — and then I saw Duk hop up onto the table and knock over a wobbly tower of blocks. Everyone laughed and said: “Sun-fei, you lost again! You have to drink this whole bottle of beer!” The guy next to me immediately grabbed the bottle and poured it down his own throat.

The party ended late. The guy offered to walk me home, and I didn’t mind, so I let him take the train with me. On the way I asked if he’d ever seen Duk. He asked what Duk was. I thought about it, decided it was too hard to explain, and pointed at one of the hanging straps on the handrail instead. I said: “See for yourself — Duk is right there.” The strap was swinging, just like Duk playing on a climbing frame. The guy only walked me as far as the Fanling station gates before saying he had somewhere to be and heading off.

I walked home alone. Along the way I could hear Duk trailing behind me, sometimes close, sometimes further back. I turned around and spoke into the dark: “Why are you always following me? Why the sneaking around? You want to play, don’t you? Stop hiding! What do you want to play? Come on — I’ll play with you!”

Back home, I looked around for something to play with and found an old Go set. I remembered that before everything fell apart, Go was the one game I was actually good at. I asked Duk if it knew how to play Go. No answer. I asked whether it wanted black or white. No answer. I asked if it wanted to go first or second. No answer. So I picked up a black stone and placed it on the board with a sharp, clean click — duk — right on one of the intersections. I said: “Your turn.” Still no answer. I laughed and said: “You don’t need to think that long for your first move.”

After a long while, I picked up a white stone and placed it on another intersection. One black stone, one white stone, a space between them, facing each other. It was no longer Duk. Duk was gone.

SF’s Strange Ordinary was originally published in Chinese in ebook format in 2025. Following it’s serialization in English translation, an English ebook version will be published. If you want to buy the Chinese version (USD 7.99), please click the link below:

Buy SF's Strange Ordinary (Chinese)

Translated from the Chinese original with Claude

Picture generated with Midjourney

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