Page 102 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
Still, looking at him now, you can admit quietly that he will always occupy a space in your heart. Even after all these years, and all the bodies you’ve lived in, and all the things you’ve each endured, his face is comforting to look on.
He glances over as you enter, clearly recognizing the figure of Kit Ling and looking puzzled.
You throw him a military salute.
His solemnity breaks into a familiar grin. “It’s been a long time, Siu Yin.” He rises to standing, clasping your hands in his.
“Thank you.” You surprise yourself—and him—by squeezing back tightly. “Thank you so much!”
“I haven’t done anything,” he protests.
“Yes, you have. You remembered me, when everyone else forgot. You tried to help me, these past three decades, and kept a promise few others would have cared about.” An unexpected lump forms in your throat. “In a world of betrayers, I am truly honored by your friendship.”
“It was the least I could do.” Wing Yun extracts his hands and claps you awkwardly on the shoulder. “After all you and those other spirits did for us, in the war… shameful, the way those exorcists locked you up. Especially when it was my fault they found you.”
You nod your head, saying nothing. Internally, though, Chinese politeness is warring with a spike of ghostly fury. He’s the closest thing you have to a friend, the only person who has always shown up for you, but itwashis fault, intentional or not. Across the past twenty-nine years of captivity, you’ve had plenty of time to curse his name, even if you’ve mostly made peace with it now.
That realization briefly surprises you. Making peace with things isn’t something ghosts usually do, but searching your heart, you find only lingering resignation for the unwitting role he played in your capture, rather than burning anger. How curious. Maybe forgiveness is occasionally possible, for ghosts.
“Well,” he says, into the dragging silence, “the point is, I’m glad you survived.” He takes his seat again, leaning back slowly. “I must admit, when I first began petitioning the government for your release, this result”—he gestures vaguely at your stolen body—“was not quite what I had in mind.”
“Does it upset you, what I’ve done?” There is no malice in your question, only curiosity. Always, you have been frank with each other, and even after nearly thirty years, speaking to him is like slipping on a familiar jacket. “One could argue she was innocent. I would understand if you disapproved.”
“That depends. Why did you do it?” He sips from his cold coffee, and makes a face. “Can’t believe the Americans drink this stuff.”
“It’s better with milk and sugar, I’m told.” You perch in the chair across from him, and signal politely to a waiter. “As for Kit Ling, she heard about me because of your petition, but she didn’t agree to free me, as you asked. She wanted to use me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Use in what way?”
“She wanted me to terrorize Kowloon Walled City to demonstrate that it was unsafe, and get the government to finally demolish that place. My understanding is that she owns some property there, and she’d stand to gain from the compensation payouts should it be demolished.”
He blinks. “I see. And what would happen to you, once that job was complete?”
“Nothing good. That’s why I took her skin. She was never going to truly set me free.”
“In that case,” Wing Yun says gravely, “I am not upset about what you did to her. I’ve done too many dark things in my wartime days to judge you, Siu Yin.”
The waiter comes over, interrupting the chat. You give him an order of shared afternoon tea. It’s more for the experience of the fancy three-tiered trays than because you have any liking for bland, overpriced cakes. Some working-class part of you is still tickled to be eating where wealthy expats like to take lunch, and that is its own kind of satiation.
When the waiter is gone, Wing Yun says, “What will you do now? And what about the other ghosts, who fought in the resistance?”
“I would love to set them free, if I could. It is complicated, though. While I can visit most of the ghosts that are bound in the cells beneath the building, there are wards, guards, all sorts of things. I will need time to plan.” Offer him a wan smile. “I have not forgotten them. Nor the debt this city owes me.”
He nods. “I won’t ask what you mean by that. Think I’m happier not knowing about your plans for revenge.”
“Not going to talk me out of it?”
Wing Yun looks at you hard, his gaze steady and shrewd. “I don’t have the right to do that, Siu Yin. No one does. Only you can decide what is justice.”
“That’s… very philosophical,” you say dryly.
“I’m not finished.” He leans forward. “I won’t judge, but I will say this. I am an old man, after many years of living in Hong Kong. You are forever young, the spirit of a girl shunted between skins, collecting pain and yet never growing up. So, we look at life differently. What I see, Siu Yin, is that my life is runningout, and I number my days carefully now. What time I have, I spend on good things. What energy I have, I spend on carrying my own bones. There is not enough of my time left for hate, or enough energy to carry anger.”
Irritation makes your shoulders twitch. “What’s your point? Like you said, I’m not you. Death already came for me and now I am eternal, something beyond mortality. I have plenty of time and energy for my hate, my anger, my unfinished business.”
“What you have,” he says, a little sadly, “is a chance to live life anew. You do not have to take more skins, you do not have to exact revenge.There does not need to be more death.”
“There is always more death,” you say, stiffly. “The world owes me a debt.”
