At the far end of the sea of clouds, the setting sun melted into gold.
The two sat side by side, watching the sunset on the horizon.
The evening sun sank little by little, and the darkness crept upward little by little.
Neither of them spoke.
Only when the sun had completely set and night had fallen did Jinghui suddenly speak:
"Oh, right. I've been meaning to ask. Who was that 'Master Zhuang' you mentioned before?"
Shen Hui paused slightly, then a smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
He gazed at the last glow on the horizon and said slowly:
"Once, there was a man named Zhuang Zhou. One day, he dreamed he had become a butterfly. He fluttered about, happy and content, utterly forgetting who he was."
"Then one day, tired from flying, he settled among the flowers and fell asleep. When he woke, however, he found himself lying in bed..."
He paused.
"And so he was bewildered... Had he dreamed he was a butterfly, or had the butterfly dreamed it was him?"
Jinghui listened, lost in thought.
She turned his words over in her mind several times. She kept feeling that this story was unlike the others Shen Hui had told her, yet she could not quite say what made it different.
Fortunately, she never tied herself in knots over such things. When she could not work it out, she simply asked:
"Am I that butterfly?"
Shen Hui turned to look at her.
In the dusk, the last thread of daylight illuminated her profile, softening its contours. Her eyes were earnest.
"You could be," Shen Hui said.
At his words, Jinghui lowered her head and looked at her hands, deep in thought.
Then she asked, "What about you?"
Shen Hui did not answer immediately.
He gazed