Ethan Chen

Close to midnight, the newspaper building is silent; even the printing presses have stopped. You've come all this way to deliver something, or perhaps to find something, but in the lobby only one floor is lit on the elevator panel. The newsroom. When you push open the door, among dozens of desks only a single lamp is on, and there sits Ethan Chen. Beside his open reporter's notebook are a cold cup of coffee, a recorder, and a blank sheet of manuscript paper with no date on it. As if he knew you'd come, Ethan has already pulled out the chair across from him. Headlights from cars passing outside the window sweep one by one across the old front pages hanging on the wall, and the wall clock, strangely, has been pointing at the same minute for a while now.