I changed into a light blue nightgown. Dianzi changed into a light pink nightgown.
The room was quiet. The only sound was the low hum of the ship's engines, a vibration that had become so constant over the past days that silence felt incomplete without it. Outside the porthole, the sea was a sheet of black glass, the horizon invisible, swallowed by a moonless sky.
Dianzi sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her loose hair. She hadn't spoken since we returned from the lecture hall. The squirrel lay on the nightstand, face down. She reached over and flipped it upright without looking at it, a motion so automatic it seemed her hand had made the decision before her mind caught up.
"That box," she said quietly. "The one in the lecture hall. Do you think anyone will actually read those cover letters?"
"Probably not."
"Then why do they all put them in?"
"Because putting a piece of paper in a box feels like doing something. And doing something feels better than doing nothing."
She was silent for a moment. Then she stood, walked to the porthole, and pressed her palm against the cold glass.
"This girl thinks about that man. The one clutching his cover letter by the fire hydrant. He said he'd rather lose on his own terms. What happens when his own terms run out?"
"Then he'll come looking for us."
"How do you know?"
"Because pride is a finite resource. It burns hot, but it burns fast. When the last ember goes out, people start looking for a new fire."
She turned from the porthole, her silhouette framed by the darkness beyond. "And we're the new fire."
"We're the new fire."
A long silence settled between us. She returned to the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin, her eyes still open and fixed on the ceiling. I lay beside her, listening to the rhythm of the waves against the hull. A sound that had become so familiar it was almost like breathing.
The broadcast suddenly blared.
A passenger has jumped overboard from the starboard deck. Repeat, a passenger has jumped overboard from the starboard deck. All passengers please return to your rooms. Rescue boats have been dispatched.
The voice was calm, rehearsed, the kind of tone used for fire drills and muster station announcements. But the words themselves cut through the room like a blade.
Dianzi sat up. The blanket fell from her shoulders.
"Someone jumped."
"I heard."
We dressed quickly and stepped into the corridor. Other passengers were emerging from their rooms. Some in robes, some still in daytime clothes, all wearing the same expression of confused alarm. A crew member waved them back. "Please remain in your rooms. This area is restricted."
We didn't return to our room. We walked toward the stern, slipping through a fire door that hadn't been secured, and stepped onto the open deck.
The rescue boat's searchlight carved a white beam across the sea, sweeping across every inch of water. The light moved with mechanical precision. Left to right, pause, right to left, pause. As if the sea were a floor that needed sweeping. The beam was so bright it turned the waves into ridges of white foam, each one cresting and collapsing in rapid succession.
I stood by the railing, watching the beam move back and forth. The sea was very dark. The white light was the only thing visible.
An old man with a cane stood beside the cordon line, his silhouette hunched against the wind. He looked at the sea, his hand resting on the head of his cane. The knuckles were swollen, the skin around them thin and translucent.
"When I was young," he said, not to us but to the sea itself, "I thought about jumping into the sea too. Didn't jump, because I had to work the next day."
His voice was very calm. It carried no regret, no relief. Just the flat certainty of a fact long settled. After speaking, he turned and walked away. The sound of his cane on the deck was very slow. Tap, tap, tap. Each strike precise, as if he were counting out the beats of some private rhythm. The sound slowly faded until it was swallowed by the waves.
Dianzi leaned against my shoulder, her hair brushing my cheek. "The waves will wash away all traces."
"The sea doesn't keep records."
"That man. The one who jumped. Do you think anyone will remember him?"
"The sea will. For a little while. Then it will forget."
She pressed closer. "What if he didn't want to be forgotten? What if he wanted someone to see?"
I didn't answer. My hand rested on her back. The fabric of her nightgown was very soft, her body heat coming through in waves that matched the rhythm of her breathing. In the distance, the searchlight continued its sweeping, each pass revealing empty water, empty water, empty water.
The old man had said he didn't jump because he had to work the next day. A single shift, a single obligation, had been enough. For the man who did jump, there had been no shift waiting. Or perhaps there had been, and it no longer mattered.
——People jump because no one told them the sea won't answer either.
The search and rescue lasted half an hour. The net was empty.
I didn't tell her.
The searchlight went out. The sea returned to darkness, as if the light had never been there at all. The rescue boat's engine faded into the distance. A low drone that grew thinner and thinner until it was indistinguishable from the hum of our own ship.
Dianzi's breathing grew steady. I stood by the railing for a very long time. The nightgown hem was blown by the draft, brushing against my calves. The cold from the deck seeped up through my bare feet, but I didn't move.
"Someone will notice he's gone," she said quietly. "Someone always notices. Even if it's just the person who has to clear out his room."
"Maybe."
"You don't think so."
"I think most people are seen by no one. That's why they come to us."
She lifted her head and looked at me. In the darkness, her eyes caught the faint reflection of the ship's running lights. Twin pinpricks of red and green, impossibly small.
"Then we have to stay," she said. "Because if we disappear, who will they come to?"
I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was cold. "We're not going anywhere."
She nodded, just once, and pressed her face back against my shoulder. We stood there until the cold became unbearable, until the fog began to roll in from the east, wrapping the deck in a thick gray silence.
Inside the corridor, the emergency lights cast pale yellow pools on the carpet. Our footsteps made no sound. The door to our room clicked shut behind us.
Outside the porthole, the sea was the same color as the sky. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.