10 years later, k knocked on my door, still looking just as soaking wet. To be precise, as I was entering my apartment, k rushed up from the darkness in the corridor and held the door open with his foot. He said: Hello there, it’s been 10 years.
I didn’t react, just went on taking off my shoes in the entryway. I could hear k dripping away at the door, wetting my rug. The apartment’s flooring was all solid wood, which would swell when wet.
k came in anyway, without even taking off his shoes. 10 years ago, I had pushed him into a reservoir, where he drowned. His floating corpse drifted for days before washing ashore. When k’s family came to identify the body, they stared intently for more than 10 minutes before finally breaking into loud sobs. k was thinking then: 20 years spent with me, and it took only a few days for them not to recognize me.
Water ghosts suffer not only as they drown.
For the next two years, k contacted me often. He talked about how things were in life, how things were in death; I neither agreed nor disagreed. This tiresome small talk was a minor matter. I was long used to it; the trouble was the other questions he tried to lead into. Reappearing after 8 years away, k had not changed at all, except that he looked even more like a water ghost—he must have regretted the long hair he’d had when he died. For a while, k had visited often, and I’d specifically kept a dry mop ready to prevent the floor from swelling. Whenever k saw the mop, he would make fun of his own hair: If I’d known, I wouldn’t have grown this mop.
k spoke again, interrupting my recollections and my silence. I was like a hard-coded program: whatever he said, I would ask him the same question in return: Do you remember your promise? That was why he had disappeared for 8 years. After 8 years, he seemed to think I would have forgotten, and had come back to bother me. k was like a program too. After my question, it was as though he activated the personality he’d had in life, then decayed over time back to his normal state. I waited patiently for his reaction to end, then said: k, you’ve forgotten—my solid wood floor isn’t waterproof. k left. He said: Next time I’ll wear a spacesuit to your place. The distinctive humor of water ghosts is on a par with the pain they endure.
The coffee was steaming, yet it still reflected my face. Back then, I had made him die 57 years early. In 47 years, he will die without illness. It’s been 10 years. He should have finished watching his original life by now, I suppose.
I leaned back in my chair, waited for the coffee to cool a little, then began my midnight work. Only when I remembered the water stains k had left behind did I reluctantly get up to clean them. People all call me the Grim Reaper. Who would have thought all I do is wipe other people’s asses like this: help k die or mop up the water k has spilled.
One more thing: k’s promise was to forget the girl who had caused his death. It’s been 10 years, and he still hasn’t forgotten. Water ghosts have their own difficulties, and he keeps coming to me with questions; he must have seen that he would originally have spent his life with her, I suppose.