Other people see only words. I can see the rules. A sheet of A4 paper on the supermarket door reads: No living creatures allowed inside. Enter at your own risk. A man carrying a cat walks in, and three seconds later, a leather jacket with a body temperature appears on the shelves.
Rules are alive: they get hungry, they get scared, they hold grudges, and they can fall in love.
Other people force their way in, fight back, and run for their lives. Not me. I sign contracts with the rules, and they make way for me. My first contract is with a rule that’s nearly starving to death.
Then, at the mouth of the alley, a man in gray opens his ledger: Jiang Wan, collected.
Jiang Wan is my mother. I was five when she disappeared. All that was left was half a sheet of paper: The rules are not...
Starting tomorrow, I’ll be seen too.
