"Who are you?" The voice was calm, low, and not far away. "I asked first," I said, because that was the rule in my dreams: if someone spoke, you answered. I lifted my hands and watched my fingers leave trails in the white. The trails stayed lit for a beat, then vanished. A silhouette stepped out of the brightness. He filled space with width and quiet. He wore a suit like a shadow that learned to move. He did not look at my hands. "You talk in your sleep?" I asked. My mouth felt dry. I sounded like a kid reciting lines at the wrong moment. "No," he said. "Who are you?" "Lin Ran," I said. Plain. Too plain. Everyone in my dreams knew that was a lie and also the truth. My twin would call me by nicknames; kids would call me Miss Lin; strangers would call me the teacher who always had messy buns. But when a stranger asked your name in a white room, you gave your real one. There was a pause long enough that I tried to invent a joke and forgot the punchline. "You dream inside other people's rooms," he said. The words didn't hover. They landed on my shoulders, like small stones. I sat on a floor that didn't exist and looked at him. "You sound like an accusation." "Do I?" He stepped closer. He left a shadow that wasn't quite a shadow. "You blinked when you arrived." "That