"Father just told me that every moment, I die. His words have always puzzled me. He says, you are no moment what you were the previous. What do you think Huang ZiTao? I'm telling you, I feel the same as ever before. But according to father, I have already died a million times."

Sung Haneul was three years younger. She was only eight. Her shoulders were narrow, her hair oiled and pulled apart in two thick braids. Huang Zitao was five years older. He was now eleven; still a boy. His shoulders were broader than most his age and hours of Wushu each day had caused the muscles on his calves to thicken beyond his age. She had softer features, a round face, circle eyes, skin the color of wheat. His eyes were deeply set, he had a sharp, peircing gaze. His jawline was prominent, his chin jutting out; he looked like an ancient emporer in his days of boyhood. 

"Stop calling me Huang Zitao, you little girl."

"But.... it's your name, is it not?"

"Yes, but it's weird to call people by their full names, especially people who are older to you. LIKE ME. Don't forget, little girl, I am older to you so I am smarter and you must respect me. Call me Ge Ge."

"Ge Ge. HUANG ZI TAO GE GE." 

"DON'T CALL ME BY MY FULL NAME YOU STUPID LITTLE GIRL."

"Okay okay Huang Zitao. But tell me, do you feel any different? Do you feel like you've died?"

They were sitting beneath a maple tree in Huang Zitao's house. Sung Dongsik and his daughter, Sung Haneul, had come to visit that autumn. Huang Zitao had dreaded her visit. She was a tiny little thing, who always spoke too much. Asked too many questions. Huang Zitao was a quiet boy, with goals in life. He was eleven years old and he knew that one day he was to become an old wushu master- that was his dream. 

"No. How can you die? Do you know what death means, silly girl? It's when you sleep and don't wake up. You're awake right now, that means you aren't dead."

"But father says, your.... atoms... brush off of you. Like... you shed yourself..."

"Stop talking rubbish. What is atoms? You're making things up." 

"I AM NOT! Father says so!" 

The sun had begun to set. The sky was painted in deep orange. It got colder, so they huddled closer together, their shoulders touching. Huang Zitao, eleven. Sung Haneul, eight. Atoms brushing off their bodies and on to each other as they sat, skin to skin. Her words were still playing in his mind. How stupid. How can you die while you live. In that moment, it was his silence that echoed inside her, it was the silence that let her breathe. His shoulders were growing wider, her hips were beginning to swell. In days to come, they would die. Their innocence fading away like the leaves of maple trees, and then they would be reborn. Her lips fuller, the questions in her mind multiplied exponentialy. His voice deeper, the dreams in his mind multiplied exponentially. 

Silly girl. She speaks such silly things.