Silkworms by Huina Zheng

Silkworms by Huina Zheng

She first remembered the sunlight streaming through the blinds, not the room itself. That beam, where dust danced with quiet grace, belonged to her. Someone was calling a name. For a moment, she believed it was hers. She tried to recall the man with gray hair, every crease that deepened when he smiled. No, those were cracks opening across a dried riverbed. She stepped on them; they snapped with a sharp click, like breaking a piece of hot flatbread. What would they do with those cracks? Fog spread through her mind. Would they patch them with shredded rice stalks, as if with bandages? The dark soil suddenly stirred inside her head.

If every memory had remained intact, they would crawl through the gullies of her brain like ants. Yet her empty room, with nothing but a bed and a wardrobe, was filled with whispers. The walls were covered with ears, all listening. She closed her eyes; they seemed to prick up. She held her breath and heard their breathing.

The man took her hand. She opened her eyes. His eyebrows moved like two caterpillars, overlapping the shadow in her memory. Sun-darkened skin. Dirt beneath his nails. She wanted to ask who he was, but an apple appeared on the table instead, its color different each time she remembered it: red, orange, green, brown. Wait, could there be a brown apple?

No matter how she searched, the fog remained, gauze-like, wrapping around her until she could no longer tell who she was. Why bother knowing who he was, when even she no longer recognized herself? She lay back, watching the dust in the beam of light. They swirled as if searching for a rhythm. Or a name. The eyes on the ceiling opened, one by one, gazing down at her. Countless silkworms writhed on the leaves of memory, chewing through them, leaving tiny black marks in the labyrinth of her mind.

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Copyright Huina Zheng 2026

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