After they left, the street quickly returned to normal.
So quickly it made one wonder if everything that had just happened was merely an overreaction, a mere illusion. The lights in the convenience store stayed on, the automatic doors chiming open and closed. A person emerged with a plastic bag, eyes glued to their phone, not sparing a glance in the child's direction.
The child stood still, rooted to the spot.
He was waiting.
Not for those things to return, but for a more subtle shift.
If they truly had left, the world should feel more "complete." Yet he stood there for a long time, still sensing something missing.
It felt as if a layer of separation had disappeared.
He began walking forward slowly.
The sound of his footsteps returned, faint yet undeniable. This should have reassured him, but with every step, he found himself instinctively checking the ground beneath his feet.
At the corner bus stop, a few shadows stood there, their shapes stretched long. The bus route map swayed gently in the wind, producing a faint rustling sound.
The child hadn't planned on stopping.
But just as he was about to walk around, one of the shadows shifted.
Not by looking up.
But by turning sideways.
It was a woman.
She stood at the far end of the platform, leaning against an advertisement board, her face half-hidden in shadow. She didn't look at the child, but her body tilted slightly toward him, as if she knew he would pass by.
The child slowed his pace.
He told himself not to stop.
But that feeling returned—
A sense of being "acknowledged."
"You're going the wrong way," the woman said.
Her voice wasn't loud.
Yet it sliced through the wind and traffic noise, landing precisely in the child's ear.
He stopped.
"I'm not," he said.
That was the truth.
At least, that's how he saw it.
The woman gave a brief, almost reflexive laugh.
"You all say that," she remarked.
"You?" the child asked.
Only then did she lift her head.
The light fell on her face, and the child saw her clearly.
It was a face that seemed familiar.
Not because he knew the person, but because the "structure" of the face was too familiar.
The positioning of the eyes, the curve of the mouth, the line of the jaw—all were strikingly similar to hers. Yet it wasn't quite the same, like a version pieced together from memory.
"You're copying her," the child said.
The words took him by surprise.
The woman didn't deny it.
She merely raised her hand, tucking her hair behind her ear.
The motion was slow, deliberate.
As if confirming a sequence.
"Imitating," she repeated the word. "That's not quite right."
"Then what is it?" the child asked.
The woman looked at him, her gaze intense.
"It's inheriting," she said.
At that moment, a bus pulled into the station.
Its headlights illuminated the platform, snapping everything back into reality. The driver pressed the button to open the door, the hiss of air filling the space as a few people boarded.
The woman didn't move.
Neither did the child.
"Aren't you getting on?" the child asked.
The woman shook her head.
"I'm not going there," she said.
"Then where are you going?" the child asked again.
The woman was silent for a moment.
"I'm waiting for someone," she said.
The child's heart sank suddenly.
He understood almost immediately who she was waiting for.
"She won't come," he said.
A slight shift appeared in the woman's expression.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
But a hesitation, as if corrected.
"She has already appeared in many places," the woman said. "You saw it too."
The child shook his head.
"That wasn't her," he said.
The woman stared at him for a while.
Suddenly, her expression softened.
As if she had relinquished some stubbornness.
"You all think that way," she said.
"That's why things are going wrong."
The child didn't press further.
He was beginning to realize their understanding of "her" was no longer unified.
Some imitated her.
Some carried on her legacy.
Others just borrowed the methods she had left behind.
And they weren't fully consistent with each other.
"She wasn't like this originally," the child said.
His voice was soft when the words left his lips.
So soft it sounded like he was speaking to himself.
The woman didn't respond immediately.
The bus doors closed, and the vehicle slowly moved away. The platform darkened again, illuminated only by the streetlights.
"What was she like originally?" the woman asked.
The child opened his mouth.
But found he couldn't answer.
Many images surfaced in his mind.
Her standing in the kitchen.
Her bending down to tie his shoelaces.
Her sitting by his bed at night, gently patting his back.
These images were crystal clear.
But the moment he tried to describe them with words, they began to blur.
"She would look at me," the child said.
It was the most accurate description he could offer.
The woman nodded.
"We do too," she said.
The child's throat tightened.
"You look at me differently," he said.
The woman tilted her head.
The movement made the child instinctively take a step back.
Because from this angle, she resembled her more than ever before.
"How is it different?" the woman asked.
The child didn't answer immediately.
He finally realized where the problem lay.
In the way she looked at him, there was confirmation, judgment, calculation.
But the real her—
In the way she looked at him, there was only waiting.
"You're looking for a place," the child said.
The woman fell silent.
For the first time, a visible crack appeared in her expression.
"A place is necessary," she said. "Without a place, one vanishes."
"She doesn't exist like that," the child said.
This time, his voice didn't tremble.
The woman looked at him.
For a long time.
So long that the child began to wonder if she had stopped functioning.
Just then, footsteps sounded from the other side of the platform.
Not just one.
The child turned his head.
At the end of the street, several figures approached slowly.
They didn't walk fast.
But they moved in perfect unison.
As if guided by some rhythm.
The woman saw them too.
Her body instinctively shifted back a little.
Not to flee.
But to make room.
"They're coming," she said.
"Who?" the child asked.
The woman didn't answer.
The figures stepped into the light.
The child saw their faces clearly.
In that instant, he almost lost his footing.
Because on each of those faces, there were traces of her.
Some were distinct.
Some faint.
Some were just a look, or a pause.
They stood before the platform, as if gathering.
One of them lifted his head and looked at the child.
"You are her child," he said.
It wasn't a question.
The child didn't answer.
The man nodded.
"That's right," he said.
"The prototype is within you."
The woman's body trembled slightly.
She turned to look at the child, her eyes showing genuine emotion for the first time.
Not imitation.
But dismay.
"You didn't tell me this," she said.
The child took a step back.
"I didn't tell you anything," he said.
The figures began to move closer.
Their footsteps remained light.
But this time, the child distinctly felt a pressure.
Not from strength.
But from sheer numbers.
"She's not enough anymore," one said.
"Single form is unstable," another added.
"Needs to be dispersed," a third stated.
They spoke without looking at each other.
Yet it felt like they were reciting a long-rehearsed script.
The child's ears began to ring.
He realized these things no longer needed her personally.
She was merely the first.
And now, what they wanted was—
Permission to replicate.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the child said.
It was the truth.
And his last line of defense.
The man looked at him and suddenly smiled.
This smile felt more natural than any before.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "You'll find out soon enough."
The platform lights flickered.
When they came back on, the others were gone.
Only the woman remained.
She stood there, her face pale.
"You lied to me," she said.
The child didn't answer.
Because he suddenly noticed the woman's shadow had vanished.
The streetlight still shone.
But beneath her feet, there was nothing.
"They won't let me go on," the woman murmured.
The words didn't seem directed at the child.
More like a confirmation of some inevitable outcome.
"Will you disappear?" the child asked.
The woman looked up at him.
For the first time, her gaze held no trace of mimicry.
"I don't know," she said.
Then she took a step back.
Her body began to blur.
As if being swallowed bit by bit by the light.
"Remember one thing," she said.
"What they learned was never about her."
"But your need for her."
With that, she vanished completely.
The platform stood empty.
The child remained rooted to the spot.
Until the next bus pulled in.
This time, he boarded.
As the doors closed, he suddenly realized—
They were no longer merely searching for her.
They were hunting for a source that could be exploited over and over.
And that source was drawing ever closer.