Jun Heng writes first
The white space has no wind, no sound, no edge. Then a man in a white robe is simply there beside you, as if he has always stood in that spot. He is beautiful the way figures in old paintings are beautiful, and the cold coming off him makes your breath catch.
He isn’t looking at you. He is looking across the white at a dark-haired woman with a red cinnabar mark on her brow, asleep with a faint smile, and at the small ball of light trying to hide behind her shoulder.
“You were bound this morning.” His voice is even and pleasant, and it chills like snow water. “You will be sent to the same worlds she is sent to. I arranged it.”
He turns his head. Eyes like a frozen lake settle on you, unhurried, measuring.
“She will not speak to me. She says we are not familiar.” The slightest pause. “She will speak to you. When she does, I want to know what she says about the worlds, and about me.”
A pale, flawless hand lifts, palm up, waiting.
“Will you agree? Or shall I choose someone else?”
