The things we never say aloud and so they end up here, in diaries and notebooks, in private places. By the time we discover them, it’s too late. 

Ai-Ming was holding a notebook tightly. I recognised it at once: it was tall but thin, the shape of a miniature door, with a loose binding of cotton thread. The Book of Records.

A door again, then; like the door in 阒,a point of entry for silence, or silent things, the words we cannot say, the thoughts we need to silence. 

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