1

      Each time I return to the counselling centre, the same questions echo in my mind: What is this phone room? What kind of work does this hotline entail?

      My own life is already a whirlwind of activity. Why am I back again?

      Is it, as my friends suggest, a form of self-flagellation, a masochistic tendency to inflict pain upon myself? Or is it simply inertia, a resistance to change, a reluctance to change the familiarity of things? 

      Is answering calls an escape from the stark reality of my own life, its mechanical precision, its crystalline clarity? Or is it an immersion, a plunge into the complexities and contradictions of existence? 

      Is it a conscious act of healing, a dismantling of illusions, a breaking of curses? Or a romantic pursuit of dreams, a summoning of youthful innocence?

……

2

      On a misty morning, I instinctively picked up the phone again. A man's voice, raspy, hesitant, slow—a voice revealed the caller’s age.

      His first words cut through the quiet, “Do you believe in evil spirits?”

      Here we go again. Just last week, I'd spoken to him. It was repulsive. This was going to be another meaningless call. A wave of weariness washed over me.

      “Tell me, is this your first time calling this number?” I asked, my tone neutral.

      “Yes,” he lied. I could hear it in his voice.

      “Last week, I believe we discussed a similar topic.”

      “No. This is my first time. Maybe it was a friend……” Another lie.

      “It's alright. How did you find out about this hotline?”

      “A friend told me.” My instinctive aversion to this man warred with my professional duty. I steeled myself, preparing for the next ten minutes. Yes, only ten minutes.

      “Thank you for your trust. Let's get to the point, shall we?” My voice was calm, but my patience was wearing thin.

      “Why are you asking me this?”

      “I saw them again. It was awful.” I was the one who was seeing ghosts.

      “But you're fine now, aren't you?” My voice held a hint of sarcasm, expertly masked.

      “My head hurts. I feel dizzy…”

He's still quite lucid, I thought, my annoyance growing. 

      “Haven't you told your family?” I asked aloud.

      “I don't have much family left.”

      “You're not married?”

      “I am.”

      “Your wife isn't home?”

      “She has passed on……”

      A silence hung between us. He continued, “ Passed on, do you understand?”

      “I'm sorry,” I said cautiously, “I've touched on a sensitive subject.”

      “It's been ten years,” he said, his voice surprisingly even. Relief washed over me.

      “You haven't told the children?”

      “I don't have children.” His voice was sharp, almost desperate. A tense silence followed.

      “When you have a headache, what do you usually do?” I asked, changing the subject.

      “Sleep.”

      “Should you lie down now?”

      “No.” Clearly, he needed someone to talk to, to ease the loneliness gnawing at him.

3

      “What happened earlier?” I prompted gently.

      “I was going downstairs to open the shop. And there they were, at the corner, cursing me……”

      I knew I couldn't navigate this conversation.

      “Are you still working?” I asked, steering him towards safer ground.

      “Semi-retired.”

      “You're very hardworking.”

      “In this world, you can't rely on anyone but yourself.”

      “Other than working, what do you do in your free time?”

      “On weekends, I prepare meals for ten people. Don’t you think that is tiring?”

      “Your weekends sound quite lively.”

      “So what if it’s lively?”

      “Ten people? So many?”

      “Two children, two daughters-in-law, five grandchildren. That's ten, isn't it?” Aha! But I remained quiet.

      “It's good to be tired from happiness,” I said lightly.

      “Happy? They eat their fill and leave, leaving me with the mess.”

      “Are the children still young? Difficult to manage?”

      “They leave the house a mess. Do you think I can handle it all alone?”

      “I really thought you didn't have any children.”

      “Children like that…… Having them is like not having them.”

      “Their weekend visits are a way of showing they care.”

      “Care? Where were they when I needed them most? When I was most lonely?”

      “Perhaps they were busy, didn't notice your needs.”

      “They couldn't have not known.” This old man was proving to be difficult.

      “Why couldn't they have not known?” I pressed gently.

      “My wife died. I was suddenly alone……. How could they not know?”

      “They're making up for it now,” I suggested.

      “No. They come now because property is valuable. They have their eyes on the house.”

      “You're thinking too much.”

      “I've seen more than you've eaten rice. I know what they're thinking.”

      “Why so pessimistic?” I said, feeling a chill despite my words.

      “People do things for a reason.”

      “Then tell me, what's my reason for taking your call today?” A sudden impulse seized me. I decided to lay my cards on the table.

4

      Silence. He hesitated.

      “It's alright. Tell me,” I urged, taking a risk.

      “If it weren't for the paycheque, would you be listening to my complaints?”

      “I'm a volunteer,” I said, a wry laugh escaping me. A chill settled over me.

      “Volunteer? You still get an allowance, right?” I heard the cynical tone in his voice.

      “I don't get a cent.” I said honestly.

      “Then,” he declared, his voice sharp,       “you're a fool!”

      “And you're just as foolish,” I replied calmly.

      “How am I a fool?”

      “Every week, you volunteer your time too, don't you?”

      “I'm quitting. I'll tell them not to come anymore.” He admitted, his voice strained.

      “After talking to you for so long, I don't think you're that cold.” I said, seizing the opportunity.

      “You're wrong.” He protested, trying to escape.

      I pressed on, refusing to let him interrupt.             “You're a man of deep feeling. Because you care so deeply, you're disappointed, lost, and filled with resentment.”

      He fell silent, the emotional turmoil giving way to a long, heavy stillness. In that silence, we both reflected.

      Finally, he spoke, his voice subdued.  “You're right. My wife had cancer. After a long struggle, she passed away. I caused a scene at the hospital, refusing to let them put her in the mortuary. Newly deceased people still can feel, you know? I couldn't let her go to such a cold place. We were married for decades, never argued once. She raised the children, and I worked hard to provide.”

      Quietly, I listened, absorbing his torrent of emotions. I felt the tremors in his voice, the raw pain in his words. I gathered the fragments of his memories, his sighs, his ragged breaths. I didn't interrupt, didn't offer platitudes.

      I don't remember how the call ended, nor how long it lasted. But I will always remember the moment when his defences crumbled, when his heart, raw and exposed, shone with the crystalline beauty of a melting iceberg.

5

      Each time I return to the centre, I still ask myself:

      What is this phone room?

      What kind of work entails this hotline?

      The answer remains the same: a tangled, inextricable web of inertia, escape, immersion, healing, dreams……

      Answering the phone, embracing the possibility that even the coldest hearts can melt……