The canteen were empty of occupants when he look up from the table—Jongin didn’t know that two hours have passed since the man in white gown left. His nurse attends him again to walk back to his ward. As soon as he entered his room, he went to his bed and began listening to his player. There he have sat helpless (in spite of his heedless self-interest) ever since; possessing the little piece of memory of what he saw, as happened hours ago—namely, the folly of beginning a sake before he count a forethought, and before he judge rightly of his own reason to go through with it.

‘Why didn’t he notice me?’ . . .

‘Please to remember, you freely granted the man by despair.’ That was his thought says.

‘‘By despair?’’ He said.

‘If that isn’t desperation what is?’ He thought.

“I’m not desperate. I have met a heap of men in my time.” Jongin said. He sound so diplomatic like in his own way and though confined in ages, “I possess an active memory.”

That seemed nobody to negate.

Nobody.

‘I am not to take it. If I please.’ He thought.

‘I have seen him in—“ 

He paused, 

‘how long I’ve been here?’

Later that afternoon he went out and decided to speak to his nurse a line.

Is the short man, in white gown could ever been in any wards in the building, where he could’ve been wandered—confined. Is the man had not been made a present into Jongin’s sleepless night, and would never been in existence for Jongin to have the nightmare—incident, dream. Is Jongin had not been in his sickness who (with pain and travail) produced the short man-in-white-gown in the world? And if yes, what was the man’s purpose? Should Jongin have to trust that he won’t do harm on him. 

But he was confused—imprecisely confused and just stood unflinchingly at the nurse station. He went into the station and saw the old lord, the chief (thank God, he have got nothing to do with him, in this business of the Truth and False, the old doctor had the longest tongue and the shorter temper of any man, high or low, he ever met with)—so he went to the balcony for patients instead, as a client, in waiting on his honourable young nurse. There he waited until Mr. Wu, walked past him to the railings, an excellent old man who, only want somebody to manage him. Jongin thought of it once. What if he lived like Mr. Wu, like between themselves he will find somebody to do it; and what more, he will reckon on it, and grew fat on it, and live happy and die easy on it, dating from the day till he took that somebody to church to get married, to the day that that somebody relieved him of his last breath, and closed his eyes, forever.

One thing,

‘Have I met someone before?’ Jongin thought inwardly.

He went to the railings and stood alongside Mr. Wu.

“I can’t do it without Kim Junmyeon.” The old man said. His voice was filtered a symptom of emotional distress. Was it an emotion at all? When he closed his eyes and his lips disclosed a row of synthetic teeth.

Jongin listened.

“I can’t do without him. That was my way with him—and that was how I went to him. It was all one to me when I was there, so long as my husband and I were together.” Mr. Wu said.

Seeing that Mr. Wu took an interest in the out-of-ward-subject, and the nurses and drugs, and such like, he took an interest in them too—with all the more reason that he was right. He’s seen the white man himself.

“Have you eaten snake?” The old man said. “We ate some before and he liked it as much as I liked it. I bought flowers for him that day but he didn’t like tulips. I know he didn’t like it.” The old man said. So he listened.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk, I’m going to fill the silence with another excruciating story about Kim Junmyeon by Wu Yi Fan.” The old man laughed this time.

“I-I saw t-this man two times two nights…I-I—“ Jongin said in a somewhat shaky voice. Worse was when he’d been talking for abrupt conversation.

“Tell me everything son.” The old man said.

The man he fixed his eyes on was the man who kept each and every night for him to stay awake in his ward. His name was—

“I don’t know.” Jongin said.

“You don’t need names in here. They will be forgotten anyway. Names won’t live long in this kind of world we have, unless you’re a survival of a stage four cancer although I doubt it.” Mr. Wu snorted. “Well I wonder the use of his name if it won’t answer to your question.”

“No use to me.” Jongin said.

“But I think it will be cheaper to know his name than to keep him.” Mr. Wu said.

Jongin’s forehead draw dark lines, he didn’t know which to be shocked at—Mr. Wu’s language or his principles. No jokes have tickled him for years, not even before, unless he considered Mr. Wu’s words were counted as one. Nonetheless, he liked his words, they were words he can put considerations on, he suppose, of the sort that no one can’t take. . . 

. . .unless you are a person of quality.

“If I am you, it will bother me to lose his name, I suppose, aren’t I?”

“No. Indeed.”

“And yet you don’t know,” Mr. Wu said thru a grin, “only think how convenient it would be if you can manage to sleep without it.”

Mr. Wu and his words; understanding nothing himself, but that he was free to put it next to him. He went and put it accordingly. And what did Jongin say? God! How little you must know of Jongin, if you ask that. Of course he said…

“I don’t have to know his name.” Jongin said after a few seconds.

Wu Yi Fan heard more than enough of single man living alone miserably. No kids. No wife. But here, standing next to him was a young man setting himself as an example to the contrary.

Jongin hate having somebody to negate with.

Mr. Wu often leaving it to him alone, leaving Jongin’s deal to Jongin alone in spite of his abilities to connect with people, he was surprised at the brutality of Jongin’s statement which was he knew would bound to be against Jongin’s inner will if he may be allowed to say it in the young man’s face. Well he can, but knew that it’s a waste of time since Jongin already have his back turn on him and already on his trip to walk back to his ward.

As his feet drew nearer, and there got to be walking easy for the bed, his mind began to misgive him. Secretly, he had compared thoughts with Mr. Wu as to what he felt if the old man was in his interesting situation; and it seemed Mr. Wu have acknowledge that thru his stories, and about just a second before it materialize, Jongin privately wished himself out of it. ‘I don’t have to know his name.’

He went a trifle further than that himself; he actually rose up, as it were, and tried to get out of it, standing up as if taking himself away from the grip. Not for nothing! He thought he was just too man to expect he would let himself trust to be curious about the white man and accept it as true.

The question of how he is to start investigating properly he had tried to settle in two days. Two days in which the man in white gown strikes him with odd and uncanny influences. First, by scratching his head which led to nothing. Second, by consulting Mr. Wu which has resulted in an entirely new idea.

  As said, Mr. Wu’s notion is that he should have to know his name, which means