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They came for me again last night.

As before, they quietly surrounded my bed, not saying a word. As before, I lay frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at their scorched and headless bodies. And as before, he leaned in close and whispered into my ear: "Actually, you and I are the same."

By then I was used to meeting them in the night. And yet, I was still dripping with sweat.

At last they left without a word, and I could once more hear the sound of Du Yu breathing peacefully on the bed across the room.

A cold shaft of moonlight streamed through the window. The flames had disappeared. The air was a little cool.

I heaved myself onto my stomach and reached for the military dagger hidden beneath my pillow. As I grasped its scarred handle, my breathing grew calm.

Soon I was once more fast asleep.

Occasionally I still visit the old teacher's college. I sit amid the flowerbeds on a bench that faces the door to Men's Dormitory 2. An ancient scholar tree once stood there, but now there are flowers of all colors and sizes, their names unknown to me. They wave coquettishly in the faint breeze without a care in the world. Often I will stare at the building before me, a modern, seven-story student apartment block, and do my best to remember how it used to look: faded red brick, tottering wooden window frames, paint peeling from the iron outer door.

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