¡°Turning back time¡¦?¡±
The teaspoon, stirring to dissolve powder in water, slowly begins to spin in the opposite direction.
¡°You mean going to the past? Are you talking about time travel?¡±
The question is repeated, not to fill silence, but to make clear it was a question—not a mumbled thought.
¡°Maybe. You could say that.¡±
¡°Then explain it. In a way I can understand.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t try to understand.¡±
¡°Have you watched any movies lately? Sci-fi? Fantasy?¡±
The intonation rises again, signaling another question—though the words trail off as if an answer has already been found.
¡°If you could, would you have done things differently¡¦?¡±
¡°Do you think you can hold on to time?¡±
The thought sounds as absurd as trying to catch a bullet mid-flight.
A voice answers from the other side of the glass. Or maybe—it¡¯s my own lips moving. A mirror? No. It¡¯s not a mirror. The clothes are different. The hair¡¯s different.
¡°Is there a past you wish you could change?¡±
There is. I thought I said that.
¡°No,¡±
Even if I went back, I¡¯d still be me.
The past me, the present me, the future me—
Where does the version of me I want most truly exist?
Did the future I long for ever exist in my past?
And if the future could somehow rewrite even what¡¯s already gone, is moving forward all we have left.