What a joke! Coming second in debate promises at least a raise of 100 words a day! How dare they tell my granddaughter’s friend that his participation is forfeited because they found his letters? It’s not against the law to write letters! There’s no word count on things you write. What does it matter that he wrote on paper? Paper could be bought everywhere back in my days. Drawing paper, watercolor paper, printing paper, notebook paper. Colored, perfumed, shiny, rough, printed, recycled, squared, plain, dotted, ruled. Types that were specifically designed for folding geometrical figures. Types that clumsily absorbed ink and allowed the color to spread across the surface like the bronchioles in our lungs. Types that rejected gel pens but welcomed markers. Even if Nolan hadn’t found the paper under his father’s mattress, he would have looked for an alternative. He could have written down his feelings on napkins, for goodness’ sake!

In my generation, people didn’t use to worry about the device around their neck that counts the amount of words they say to each other everyday. What we wore around our necks were only chokers or necklaces and scarves. We would have laughed if anyone had said to us, in forty years, you will wear collars that, when you exceed your word limit, send electric shocks to your nerves. We would have made fun of anyone suggesting such a stupid idea.

But wasn’t it also my generation that voted for self-centered, power-hungry psychopaths?

What happened to the Rebellion? How did we make tyrants out of our comrades?

Where did we leave our nosy, peaceful days, the buzz of hip cafes, the small-talks, the lame jokes, the pointless conversations, our word traffic?

If you were born in my generation, you’d think silence is peaceful and calm. You’d think, after a busy day at work, at school, after being yelled at by your boss, after being boomed with questions from pushy reporters, coming home to find silence waiting at your bed is a blessing from the good deeds you’ve done in your previous life. You’d choose silence over noise any day. You’d agree it’s a relief from the shallow and forced interactions with your acquaintances. But then they cut superfluous words from the dictionary, give you a word allowance depending on your profession, your academic achievements, your age, and you suddenly find yourself gasping for air, tugging at the collar, the electric shocks surging through your nerves like water through a well-functioning pipe, and you try to learn sign language, train yourself to look at the number on your collar before it decreases to zero, accept all the restrictions that appear as people become more and more creative with their tricks. And that’s when you finally realize silence isn’t silence anymore.

What I’ve only started understanding after the Age of Collars was, there was meaning to small-talks and empty words and wasting your breath. You don’t really get it when you haven’t lived in my generation. You don’t have anything to compare the collars with. They are just there, they’ve always just existed. Cold against your skin, made of hard metal, weather-resistant. You wear them everywhere. To sleep. To work. To eat. Sometimes they mistakingly register sounds as words. Or they pick up conversations from other people and decrease your word count. They are an extension of your voice. Which is probably the saddest part of all.

Myungsoo is crying next to me, and I stop to his back, and tell him that everything will be okay. The Noise Police would say I’ve just wasted four words from my allowance, but sometimes that’s what people need. Empty words that mean nothing to the General Word Account, but everything to the person they are directed to. Especially when you realize you’ve purposely wasted four words to make someone feel better. That’s how noise becomes meaningful. But no one really understands that. Until you see them on the ground, wriggling in pain, in tears, enduring embarrassment, shame, anger, falling into unconsciousness, because they love you.

It’s all my fault, says Myungsoo shaky. I leave his side to cradle my granddaughter in my arms, checking her pulse. Her skin is as cold as the collar that blinks with a red zero. She will be okay. I know because I’ve seen it all.

What do I do, asks Myungsoo as I put Joohyun to bed. He comes to place a blanket over her body.

You stop, I say. You only have four words left.

He looks at me, hesitation in his eyes. I feel responsible for Joohyun’s breakdown. Not only as her grandmother. But because I unintentionally put rebellious ideas into her head since when she was a little girl. I told her a lot about paper and letters, the age before collars, and Myungsoo, the neighbors’ kid, would always come to the house and listen to my stories. They didn’t live in my generation, but little by little they caught glimpses of what it used to be like back then, how noisy the world was, and slowly, maybe gradually there was light in their eyes, a fire burning, as if they were reincarnations of the comrades I lost to the chaos of the Rebellion.

Myungsoo stares at Joohyun’s sleeping face. She loves you, I say. She doesn’t get as flared up when it doesn’t come to you. He nods, still looking at her because the sole sight of her being alive, breathing, holds him together.

Back in my days, you would try to find meaning in the world to explain why you exist. Be it the appearance of your significant other, your career, helping out strangers, books, music, art, your relationships… All the little things that make up a community. Myungsoo finds meaning in Joohyun. I find meaning in my knowledge of the world before.

The counter on Joohyun’s collar flashes green with her daily word allowance. It’s the next morning. The clock just hit midnight. She stirs a little, her eyes blinking open. Are you okay, do you need water, how can I help you? Myungsoo’s number, too, has been refreshed. It’s 458 now.

I’m sorry, says Joohyun.

I’m just glad you’re okay, says Myungsoo, his voice breaking.

They stare at each other, without a word, and the emotions silently pass through their eyes.

If there’s still true silence in the world, I know it’s this.

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A draft-like homework. I miss you all!