第二章 第八盞燈Chapter Two · The Eighth Lamp
沒有人記得阿河，這件事比阿河消失本身更讓我害怕。
我去他家，門口換了別人的名牌。我問他媽媽，她很客氣地說她沒有兒子。我翻學校的點名簿，那一頁的那一行，是空白的，不是被擦掉的空白，是從來沒有人寫過的那種空白。
只有我記得。整個鎮上，只有我一個人，還記得有一個叫阿河的人，會在午夜陪我走那段路。
我開始懂奶奶為什麼不解釋了。因為解釋本身，也是一種記得，而這個鎮，不允許有人記得走進去的人。我能留著阿河，是因為我犯規了——我看了那條街太久。
接下來那一個月，每天午夜我都去數燈。
七盞。七盞。七盞。
鎮一直在保護我，不讓那第八盞出現。它大概以為，沒有那條街，我就會慢慢忘了，像所有人一樣。它不知道，我數的不是燈，我在等。
第三十一天，霧特別濃。
我數：一、二、三、四、五、六、七……
八。
第八盞燈亮起來的時候，我沒有像奶奶教的那樣別開眼。我把這一輩子背的那三句規矩，輕輕地、完整地，還給了霧。
然後我往那條街走進去。
街口很乾淨，盡頭有一點暖暖的光，像有人在等門。
走到一半，我聽見前面有個聲音，那個聲音笑了一下，跟那天一模一樣。
「你怎麼這麼慢。」他說。
我沒有回答。在這種地方，有些話一說出口，就會被霧拿走。我只是加快腳步，朝那點光走過去。
至於這個鎮，明天會不會有人記得我——
那已經不是我要煩惱的事了。
No one remembered Ah-Ho, and that frightened me more than his vanishing ever could.
I went to his house; a different family's nameplate hung by the door. I asked his mother, and she told me, very politely, that she had no son. I dug out the school roll book, and on that line of that page there was a blank—not the blank of something erased, but the kind of blank where no one had ever written anything at all.
Only I remembered. In the whole town, I was the only one who still knew there had been a boy named Ah-Ho, who used to walk that stretch of road with me at midnight.
I began to understand why my grandmother never explained. Because explaining is itself a kind of remembering, and this town does not permit anyone to remember the ones who walk in. I got to keep Ah-Ho only because I had broken the rule—I had looked at that street too long.
For the month that followed, I went to count the lamps every midnight.
Seven. Seven. Seven.
The town kept protecting me, refusing to let the eighth appear. It must have thought that without the street, I would slowly forget, the way everyone else had. It didn't know I wasn't counting lamps. I was waiting.
On the thirty-first day, the fog was especially thick.
I counted: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…
Eight.
When the eighth lamp lit, I didn't look away the way my grandmother had taught me. The three lines of the rule I had carried my whole life, I gave them back—gently, completely—to the fog.
And then I walked into that street.
Its mouth was clean; at the far end there was a small, warm light, as though someone had left the door open, waiting.
Halfway down, I heard a voice ahead of me. The voice gave a small laugh, exactly like that day.
"What took you so long," he said.
I didn't answer. In a place like this, some words, once spoken, get taken by the fog. I only quickened my steps toward that light.
As for this town, and whether anyone would remember me tomorrow—
that was no longer mine to worry about.