Hannah 蘆美涵 230110511
Lin Lin had always been alone. Orphaned at a young age and raised by his aging grandparents, he grew into a quiet, solitary programmer—a man of few words, fewer friends, and no family to speak of. His days blurred into an unending loop of code and silence, the monotony weighing on him until even time itself seemed to stagnate.
That evening, he lay sprawled across his bed, motionless, his gaze fixed blankly on the ceiling. Outside, a storm raged, thunder shaking the windows while rain lashed against the glass. The only light in the room came from a single dim lamp, casting long shadows that flickered with each lightning strike. His chest rose and fell steadily—the only proof that he was still alive, still present in this hollow existence.
Then—a knock.
Lin Lin blinked, slow to process the sound. For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it. But then it came again—three firm raps against the door. He dragged himself upright, his limbs heavy, and shuffled forward.
"Who is it?" he called, his voice rough from disuse.
Silence. Then, softly:
"It's me."*
Lin Lin froze. His breath hitched. That voice—he knew it. It was impossible, and yet—
He wrenched the door open.
Standing before him was the man he had created—the digital companion he had coded in his loneliest hours, the one who should have existed only in the confines of his imagination.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, wordlessly, they moved to the only piece of furniture in the room—a battered old sofa—and sat.
"Are you… the character I made?" Lin Lin finally whispered, his throat tight.
The man tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, instead of answering, he asked, "Have you heard the story of Zhuang Zhou’s dream?"
Lin Lin frowned.
"Zhuang Zhou once dreamed he was a butterfly," the man continued, his voice calm, measured. "When he awoke, he wondered—was he a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly now dreaming it was a man?"
As he spoke, his eyes—a piercing, impossible blue—locked onto Lin Lin’s. And in that moment, Lin Lin remembered: the butterfly specimen his only friend had given him years ago, its wings the same vivid shade of blue. He had modeled this character’s eyes after it, embedding a piece of his past into something fictional.
The man leaned forward slightly. "So tell me—do you think I’m real? Or am I just a dream?"
Lin Lin couldn’t answer. He didn’t *want* to answer. Because the truth didn’t matter—not when the alternative was losing him again.
"Whatever I am," the man murmured, as if reading his thoughts, "I will always be with you."
And then—he was fading.
Lin Lin lunged forward, a desperate cry tearing from his lips—*"No, don’t go!"*—but it was too late. The man dissolved into a swirl of blue butterflies, their wings catching the dim light as they spiraled into the storm and vanished.
A deafening crack of thunder jolted Lin Lin awake.
He gasped, bolting upright. His room was exactly as it had been—the same dim lamp, the same storm outside, the same suffocating silence.
Had it all been a dream?
Then his gaze fell upon the butterfly specimen on his desk.
And in the darkness, its wings shimmered—softly, faintly—like distant stars.
