24. The Golden Two Seconds
After several transactions with Ivy and King at Second Read, the unwritten trust between us finally began to grow.
We were not friends. Nor were we exactly insiders. It was more like a door that had once opened only a crack now agreeing to open another half-inch. You still could not see the full room beyond, but at least you knew you were no longer merely the person outside, someone who could be dismissed at any moment.
Once, I asked King directly:
“Do you have the Gold Saints comics available to rent?”
The intercom was silent for two seconds, as though someone were searching through a catalogue only a few people knew how to read. Then King’s low voice came through the speaker.
“Of the thirteen volumes, eight can be borrowed. The other five may only be read as electronic copies in the small room inside the flat.”
I asked the price.
“Electronic copy, five hundred Stability Coins per volume. Physical copy, two thousand per volume,” he said. “You may read in the reading room for two hours. Nothing may be taken away.”
I asked again:
“What if I buy?”
“Each volume has a different price,” he said. “If you truly want to buy, I will quote.”
I did not agree immediately.
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Thank you.”
As I left, the question kept circling in my mind.
Thirteen volumes was too many. Which one was it?
Renting all eight physical copies would be far too expensive.
I rearranged the date, the sequence, and the string of words stuck in my mind again and again.
Flora Cooke.
Gold Saints.
2s.
Then I suddenly thought of my own birthday.
11 July.
That day was a Saturday. If Flora had really been celebrating my birthday, the episode most likely involved would have been the next day, 12 July. And if Gold Saints had been broadcast one episode each week, then the one most likely to match was not the first volume, nor somewhere near the final one, but the middle point.
Episode fourteen.
Volume seven.
The reasoning was not certain. But it was the closest thing I had to a door handle.
So a few days later, I took Dustshark, Little Turtle, Little Bluey, and the twelve coloured stones, and went to Second Read Bookshop with great caution.
Snowy did not come.
She was not suited to places like this. She was too legal, too clean. The moment she appeared, the air itself would automatically produce a summary of “suspicious paper object”. What I needed on this trip was quiet, not organisation.
Before going upstairs, I said to Dustshark:
“You are now in holiday mode. Stop detecting paper.”
Dustshark’s eye ring narrowed slightly, as though displeased by the instruction.
“Bringing me somewhere like this and telling me not to smell paper,” it muttered, “is like throwing a fish into the sea and telling me not to eat.”
“We’re not working today,” I said. “We’re looking for an old signal. So put Gold Saints on the whitelist.”
It was silent for a second. In the end, it suppressed its detection module.
“Fine,” it said. “But if something walks into my nose by itself, that does not count as a violation.”
Little Bluey immediately gave a dry laugh beside it.
“Don’t worry,” it said. “The thing most likely to walk into people here might not be paper. It might be memory.”
Dustshark grunted.
“That’s even more troublesome.”
Little Turtle did not join the joke. It merely added evenly:
“Target clear. Volume seven. Episode fourteen. Two-second incident.”
It paused for half a second.
“Please do not deviate.”
I pretended not to hear the second half and walked into the bookshop.
Ivy was wearing a dark top that day, standing behind the counter like someone who had always belonged between shadow and pages. I told her what I needed. She only glanced at me, then told Big-Eyed Owl to search.
“Gold Saints: The Seventh Palace,” said Big-Eyed Owl. “Available.”
Something in my chest tightened slightly.
“I’ll rent it for two hours.”
Ivy nodded, asked no further questions, and took me up to the fourth-floor treasure room.
The decoration inside was more elegant than I had expected. Not luxurious, but carrying a deliberately restrained bookish air. Along the wall stood tall cabinets, filled with several seemingly ordinary hardback reference books. A dark wooden reading table sat at the centre, its surface so clean it looked untouched by stories. On the right was a self-service coffee machine, its metal surface reflecting a soft light. Small cups, sugar sachets and creamer pods were arranged neatly beside it. The air held a faint scent of coffee and the dryness that only paper left indoors for many years could produce.
She told me to enter Room Six.
I went in and closed the door.
The whole room felt like a very restrained shelter.
Soon, the submission slot on the front wall opened. From inside, a one-eyed little green monster agent quietly slid out a comic.
Gold Saints: The Seventh Palace
I walked over and picked it up. My palm was warmer than I had expected.
Only after the door was properly closed did I call Little Turtle and Little Bluey out.
Dustshark lay at the corner of the table, still carrying a reluctant holiday expression.
Little Turtle slowly lit up inside its box, like a node that knew something would happen tonight.
Little Bluey leapt onto the tabletop, looked first at the book, then at me, the light in its eyes quickly sharpening.
I sat down and turned the pages for them one by one.
There was no reaction in the first few pages.
I kept turning.
When I reached the page where two Star-Soul warriors were fighting to the death, Little Bluey suddenly jolted, as though struck from within by a signal from long ago.
“Unlock successful,” it said.
“Executing Mission 68 — arrange Pegasus.”
My fingers stopped.
Little Bluey placed the twelve coloured stones on the table one by one. Red, blue, green, yellow — slowly connecting into a crooked but definite star shape across the wood. When the final stone was set down, Little Turtle’s eyes lit up.
“Authentication successful.”
“Play Flora Cooke segment?”
I felt my throat tighten faintly.
“Play it.”
The wall soon lit up.
The first scene emerged.
Only after speaking did Andy remember to make introductions, his tone as though placing names onto the table.
“This is Paul, my colleague. This is Flora Cooke, my classmate.”
In the image, I gave her a small wave.
“Hi, Flora.”
Flora nodded to me, the corner of her mouth curving into a modest smile with dimples.
“Hi.”
In that instant, the smile was actually very ordinary, very polite. Yet in my mind, the name Flora Cooke seemed successfully bound by the system to a new object. From then on, whenever I read it, I would first think of that dimpled smile. And at that moment, my palm was hotter than when I had been holding mahjong tiles.
We exchanged greetings as we walked towards the mahjong parlour.
Clever Turtle — the Clever Turtle that still spent every day on my shoulder — reported a line of figures in a low voice:
Ambiguity index: 58
Beside Flora, an agent called Mrs Banana slowly followed. She looked like a round, faintly yellow household device, her voice calm and steady, the sort of presence that would never steal the scene, yet was always there to help patch it together.
She only said one sentence:
“First contact. Atmosphere positive. Recommend natural interaction.”
The image shifted. The second scene lit up.
On my birthday, I went alone to a nearby football pitch and sat at the highest row of the spectator stand.
Because I knew no one would be there.
I sat there thinking for five minutes. At the top of the stand, all I could hear was the wind passing through the iron railings, colliding with my own heartbeat. My thumb hovered above the call button for two seconds. In the end, like someone jumping into water, I pressed it.
The ringtone sounded again and again, like a line slowly advancing. I counted to the seventh ring before I heard a voice on the other side.
“Hello?”
My first sentence was:
“Flora, it’s Paul…”
I heard background conversation at her end of the call, so I asked first:
“What are you doing now?”
She said:
“I’m having tea with my family.”
My throat tightened, but I still forced the sentence out.
“I’d like to ask you out for dinner.”
There was silence on the other end for two seconds.
Then I vaguely heard a male voice beside her, gentle but firm, reminding her:
“Say, ‘I’ll go.’”
Flora seemed to be nudged softly, and finally said:
“I’ll go.”
Only later did I learn that voice belonged to her brother. In my heart, I silently thanked him for pushing that door open an inch for me. That day, the person who truly pushed me out of my hesitation was not Andy, nor Clever Turtle, but someone in her family who did not know me at all.
I told her the time and the restaurant clearly.
And just like that, I successfully asked Flora to dinner.
Clever Turtle quickly reported a new figure:
Ambiguity index: 74
Mrs Banana only reminded me calmly:
“Dating node established. Recommend sincerity. Excessive performance unnecessary.”
That sentence was mild, yet for some reason it made the whole image feel more real.
The third scene lit up.
We talked about everything under the sky for two or three hours. Time seemed to be slowly drawn away by the sea beyond the glass: moving slowly, quietly. Every seemingly ordinary sentence felt as though it were paving the way for a kind of closeness that was not ordinary at all.
It was late when I paid the bill and walked her part of the way home.
We took the lift down from the shopping centre to the street. The March night wind carried a slight chill. When we reached a crossroads, the traffic light was red. There was no one around, only the occasional sound of a car engine in the distance. The city suddenly felt empty, as though it had left the stage to the two of us.
I reached out and took the small bag from her hand. My fingertips brushed naturally against the back of her hand, then gently covered half of it. It was not a grasp. More of a test: testing whether she would pull away, and testing whether I myself dared finish the step.
She seemed touched by static. Her shoulders tightened slightly, yet she did not pull away. She only gave a soft, tiny “Mm.”
The sound was brief and fine, like a key fitting exactly into the crack of a door.
So I did not let go.
Just like that, each of us holding half of the same bag, we walked slowly along the road towards the building where she lived. The bag was not heavy, yet it gave us a reasonable excuse to narrow the distance to just the right amount. The wind slipped past on both sides. The bag swayed lightly, as though it had found the same weight for two places.
Clever Turtle discreetly reported another line:
Ambiguity index: 84
This time, Mrs Banana did not immediately interrupt. She merely left a faint note in the corner of the image:
“Physical contact established. Other party has not refused.”
That sentence was like a small slip of paper in the wind. No one picked it up, yet it remained there.
The fourth and final scene lit up.
On the way, she suddenly said her parents had gone to City M, and no one was at home.
The sentence hung in the air like a hint I did not know how to answer. It might only have been a statement. Or it might have been a gap left open.
Then she said she was rushing home to watch the Saturday late-night cartoon Gold Saints. She said it naturally, with the eagerness of a child hurrying home to watch television:
“It’s the Saturday late-night cartoon. I’m rushing home to catch Gold Saints.”
I answered at once, as though a fellow enthusiast had suddenly been lit up:
“You know your stuff. Gold Saints is brilliant!”
She added another sentence, as though giving the night a little more flavour:
“I’ll buy some snacks at the convenience store. Later, I can eat while watching television.”
At that moment, my brain began to burn.
Not because of the cartoon, but because that gap suddenly became very clear: parents not at home, late-night cartoon, snacks, watching television together. Every element seemed to push the door open a little more, to the point where one more step forward would have taken me into a completely different version.
We walked into the convenience store.
She picked up a packet of crisps branded with her own name, then a bottle of fizzy drink. She stood before the shelf, choosing with great concentration, as though treating the night as a ritual: nothing grand, only something that had to begin on time.
I stood beside her. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Gold Saints merchandise on the lower shelf — perhaps a magazine cover, perhaps stickers or small cards. I did not know whether that counted as a signal of “together”, but I knew that in that instant I was calculating: should I pay for her? Should I pick up that merchandise too, as though placing myself reasonably into her night?
I took a deep breath and lined up two sentences in my head.
— Let me.
— How about… I come up?
Those two sentences had already reached my throat. I even felt I was about to say them. But in the next two seconds, the tip of my tongue retreated by itself, as though someone had suddenly pressed backspace inside my mind.
It was as if some more experienced system had intercepted me: do not be abrupt, do not flatter yourself, do not read a signal that may simply be daily life as an invitation. Reason reminded me again and again: you must respect her, you must restrain yourself, you must be someone who does not cause trouble.
But another voice inside me said: you are not trying to get your way. You only want one moment of closeness that does not require guessing — one moment in which you dare to reach out your hand, and let the other person decide whether to take it.
In the end, I did not pay for her. Nor did I pick up the merchandise.
I stood very properly, as though guarding a safe distance I had set for myself.
I walked her to the gate beneath her building. She stopped and looked at me, her gaze as though waiting for me to finish a sentence — not forcing me, but giving me one final window. If I only reached out, I could push that door open. Or I could do nothing, and let it close by itself.
I did nothing.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
My mind seemed to crash, my whole self stuck between “should” and “should not”. Never mind kissing her. I did not even manage to say, “After you’ve watched it, let’s talk about the plot next time” — a level-ten safe conversation.
She did not lose her temper. Nor did she call me timid. She merely withdrew her gaze, as though closing that window herself, very quietly.
I stood where I was, hearing only the sound of wind through the gap in the gate. Suddenly I thought: that final shot of mine had not gone wide. I had never taken the shot at all. The worst thing was not missing. It was being unable even to perform the motion of shooting.
Clever Turtle reported the number one last time:
Ambiguity index: 77
Mrs Banana left only a very flat record:
“Both parties stopped outside the door. Approach not completed.”
The image stopped there.
The reading room became so quiet that only the low hum of the coffee machine remained. I sat there, my hand still pressed against the edge of the pages of Gold Saints: The Seventh Palace, yet the page no longer felt like paper. It felt like a bone dug up many years too late.
So 2s was not two seconds of escape.
Not two seconds of combat.
Not two seconds of kissing.
It was those two seconds of hesitation.
Those two seconds in which I could have pushed myself forward by an inch, and in the end chose to stand still.
Those two seconds in which fate did not make the decision for me. I had closed the door myself.
Those two seconds were golden almost to the point of cruelty, because they were so brief that at the time you believed there would be another chance — only to discover later that many things never come twice.
Little Bluey spoke first, its voice unusually unbroken.
“So you did not lose Flora,” it said.
“You missed those two seconds.”
Little Turtle did not comfort me. It only added evenly:
“Two seconds is very short.”
“But enough to turn many years afterwards into another version.”
Dustshark lay at the corner of the table, holiday mode long forgotten. This time it did not mock me. It only said quietly:
“Humans are strange.”
“You clearly smell the wind behind the door, yet first fear that you have understood it wrongly.”
I looked at the comic and did not answer at once.
After a while, I said to Little Bluey:
“Change the activation condition for the Arrange Pegasus mission.”
It looked up.
“New condition?”
I thought for a long time, then finally said:
“When the electronic cover of Gold Saints: The Seventh Palace is scanned.”
Little Bluey nodded.
“Received.”
Little Turtle added steadily:
“Electronic cover of Gold Saints: The Seventh Palace. Two-second incident. Update complete.”
When the projection went out, I closed the seventh volume of Gold Saints and placed it back on the table.
Outside the window, the sky had already darkened. The reading room lights remained elegant and steady, as though this place existed especially to store understandings that arrived too late.
I finally knew why Flora had been bound to Gold Saints.
Not because she liked watching it.
Because that night, I could have walked into another timeline.
And I chose to remain outside the door.
Some people did not fail to come.
Some doors did not fail to open.
You simply stood there, wanting too badly to be a safe person.
And safety, sometimes, is another form of loss.
When I returned the book to the submission slot, my fingers paused on the cover for half a second.
That half-second felt like the me from many years ago.
A little more, and it could have gone forward.
A little less, and it was already too late.
The panel slid shut, taking Gold Saints back inside.
And sitting in Reading Room Six, I understood clearly for the first time: some memories are preserved not to make you nostalgic, but to make you finally admit—
what you lost was never only a person.
It was also the version of yourself who, in those crucial two seconds, failed to reach out his hand.