Elvia fell silent.
She sat on Jiang Ming’s shoulder, the light of her Spirit Body no longer flowing as vibrantly as before, turning quiet instead.
The noise of the mansion — the exaggerated laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the off-key music — seemed to be shut out. She just looked down, staring at her own translucent hands that could easily pass through any physical object.
After a long time, she finally spoke softly, with a cautious longing:
“If… if there really was only one day left…”
She took a breath. Though the action was meaningless for a Spirit Body, it seemed to help her gather her courage.
“I want… to go to an amusement park again.”
Jiang Ming did not interrupt, simply listening quietly. He could feel something slowly taking root within that weightless presence on his shoulder.
“Not the kind where my sister takes me to watch,” Elvia continued, her voice gradually taking on a blurry yet stubborn tone, “but to actually go. I want to wait in line myself, standing in a long queue, listening to the noise of the children in front and the adults’ nagging. I want to feel the slight heat of the sun on my neck and the soreness in my feet from waiting impatiently.”
Her speaking pace quickened slightly as if those images were pouring out uncontrollably:
“I want to ride that bright yellow, slightly old roller coaster and hear the safety bar click as it presses against my thighs. Then, when the car rushes to the highest point, I want to scream along with everyone else.”
“And…” She paused, the outline of her Spirit Body trembling slightly. “I want to eat cake. Not just sensing the flavor, but actually eating it. I want the largest piece of strawberry cream cake. I want to cut into it with a heavy metal fork and feel the soft sponge and dense cream separate between my teeth. The sweet and sour of the strawberries, the oily smoothness of the cream, and the weight of the frosting on my tongue… I want them to truly fill my mouth, my stomach, even if it ends up being so sweet it’s sickening or if I’m too full to walk.”
Her voice lowered, becoming almost a whisper, yet carrying a longing that bordered on pain:
“I want… I want to feel the itch of my hair brushing against my cheeks when the wind blows. I want to trip because I’m running too fast, scrape my knee, and feel the warmth of blood. I want to have a stomachache from eating too much ice cream and curl up in a warm bed, listening to my sister scold me while she rubs my belly…”
She looked up. Even though Jiang Ming could not see her face, he could sense the direction of her gaze — toward the void, the sky hidden by the mansion’s roof.
“I want… to become a person again. Someone with weight, with warmth, someone who can get hurt, and someone who can be incredibly happy over the simplest little things, or perhaps be annoyed all day over something trivial. Even if it’s only for one day, even if it’s before all this ends.”
After she finished, the light of her Spirit Body seemed to dim for a moment, as if that outpouring of words had exhausted some kind of strength. She returned to being that small ghost sitting on Jiang Ming’s shoulder, but there was something heavier in the silence.
Jiang Ming continued to look ahead, remaining silent as well.
“What about you, Brother?”
A ghostly voice came from right beside his ear. Elvia changed her posture, leaning hollowly against Jiang Ming’s shoulder.
At some point, the longing and melancholy from when she spoke of her own wishes had faded from her voice, replaced once again by curiosity.
The man before her was not simple; this was a fact both she and her sister agreed upon. Therefore, a person like him — his wish… surely it wouldn’t be boring.
Jiang Ming was silent for a moment.
His gaze seemed to pass through the swirling smoke inside the mansion, the swaying figures, and the gaudy crystal chandeliers. A hint of self-deprecation crossed his lips, yet it also looked like a certain kind of nostalgia.
Then, in the same tone one would use to state that the weather was nice today, he said flatly:
“I want to be an author.”
The light of Elvia’s Spirit Body faltered slightly.
An author?
“Why?” Elvia pressed. The Glimmer of her Spirit Body swayed gently with her curiosity. This answer seemed to open up even more mysteries.
Jiang Ming did not answer immediately. His gaze swept over the social masks worn by everyone in the hall — the carefully rehearsed smiles and the genuine calculations hidden deep in their eyes.
Suddenly, he changed the subject and threw out a seemingly unrelated question:
“Do you know… what kind of people are the greatest liars in this world?”
“I don’t know,” Elvia shook her head honestly.
A barely perceptible curve touched the corner of Jiang Ming’s mouth, as if he were smiling at her innocence or perhaps mocking himself.
“It’s authors,” he revealed the answer calmly.
“They use words as threads to weave worlds that don’t exist, create characters who have never breathed, and fabricate joys and sorrows that never actually happened. They build elaborate cages but call them stories; they lay down predetermined tracks but grace them with the name of fate.”
“And the readers — the ones being tricked — often step into these woven illusions of their own free will. They shed tears for fictional characters, hold their breath for preset twists, and treat the ink on the page as an epic that truly occurred. They know it’s fake, yet they voluntarily hand over their trust, time, and emotions, immersing themselves and finding joy in it.”
He paused before continuing.
“Thus, the greater the author, the more brilliant the liar they usually are. The lies they construct are so complete and so moving that reality sometimes seems pale and dull in comparison.”
Elvia listened intently, the light of her Spirit Body practically freezing. She had never considered it from this angle, yet it felt strangely logical.
“And my wish,” Jiang Ming continued, “is to become such a liar.”
He looked up slightly.
“I want to use this deception to bring some beautiful stories to this world… a world that isn’t always good and is often even cruel.”
“Stories that make people willing to temporarily believe that hope exists. Corners where exhausted souls can find rest. Lies about courage, tenderness, or redemption that can glow faintly in the long night.”
“Then…” Elvia finally spoke in a small voice, her tone carrying an unprecedented seriousness, “will the stories you write ever have an ending?”
“No,” Jiang Ming shook his head.
“Not even in death?”
Jiang Ming did not answer immediately.
After a long time, he said only one thing.
“Poetry has no end.”