Chapter 57: "My Condolences" |
December 12th, 2020.
The ferry sliced through the iron-gray surface of the lake.
Its destination was an island called Yanlong Island, the largest inland island in northern China, with a total area of about 9 square kilometers... and the only way onto the island was by boat. The ferry didn't even have a cabin, just an enormous deck painted green, though the paint had already grown mottled.
The departure schedule was every 20 minutes, from 8 AM to 6 PM. A single journey took just over twenty minutes, and standing-room tickets for pedestrians cost three yuan each... He could easily recall all this information, not just because he'd spent four years attending school on this small island, but more importantly because just a moment ago he'd spent four days on the island.
That was December 8th, 2012, a Saturday—his junior high days from eight years ago.
And now...
He'd come back again.
He was currently standing by the railing at the front of the deck. The floor beneath his feet vibrated faintly from the engine's humming. A fishy smell drifted through the cold, damp air. He opened his mouth soundlessly, as if he'd lost all the strength in his body.
He still remembered four days ago—no, now he should call it eight years and four days ago—that afternoon when he'd returned to his junior high classroom. That day he'd been able to see the snow covering the rubber field, classmates bent over their studies, workbooks on desks, the building-block castle on the bookshelf... They were like an old photograph from deep in his memory. He'd looked around at everything in disbelief, and then that photograph had gradually turned to color. He'd become part of the photograph, and so a normal life, the possibility of starting over—that thought he'd buried in his heart for so many years but never dared hope for—had become real in that moment.
Heh.
Today there was no wind and no waves. The lake surface was an almost frozen iron-gray. Only when the ferry slowly moved forward and broke through the surface did the water churn on both sides of the hull, turning into foam that would burst at the slightest touch.
Zhang Shutong silently watched the surging, dissipating foam. Right now he really wanted to sit down and rest for a bit. No reason, no explanation—just trying to find a place to sit for a while. Just a little while would be good.
But the ferry had no cabin, much less any seats. It was the dead of winter, not tourist season. He was the only person on the entire boat, wearing a black windbreaker. He examined his hands, slowly clenching them, then relaxing them again.
Zhang Shutong wasn't foolish enough to think those four days of junior high were just a dream. He could confirm that in the previous moment—Saturday late at night—Regression had definitely triggered.
But what he never expected was that after the incident was resolved, he'd return again to the origin point of the timeline.
In the past, this ability had tormented him beyond measure, but it had only made him loop endlessly through certain fixed time periods.
The trigger mechanism for Regression was:
If something bad happened around him, he would return to a critical juncture before the incident occurred.
Usually a few minutes, or a few days prior.
If you compared time to cassette tape in a recorder, it had always been this ability pressing the "rewind button" for him. But this time? Why was it the "fast-forward button"?
Zhang Shutong had no answer.
He only knew that he'd definitely come back.
But why did it have to be now—just when he'd prepared himself to welcome a brand new life?
He opened his mouth again, not knowing what to say. He was the only person on the entire boat. Countless fragments of memories flashed through his mind—Qingyi, Ruoping, Du Kang... The three of them chattering around him noisily. Everyone going night fishing together, riding bicycles to Commercial Street to eat, wandering around the supermarket on weekends pushing carts, talking and laughing—those scenes seemed right before his eyes... No, not "seemed"—they truly were right before his eyes.
He leaned against the railing somewhat numbly, looking up at the sky.
Until the whistle sounded.
Zhang Shutong slowly descended from the boat.
The boat had reached shore.
There was only one bus route on the island. He came to the stop almost on instinct. Soon the bus arrived—a yellow electric coach marked Route 121. He got on and found a seat.
It was a bit warmer inside the bus, but he pushed the window open a crack, letting the cold wind outside sting his face. His own twenty-four-year-old face was reflected in the window—the lines of his features had grown a bit harder, though not much different from eight years ago.
The person in the window was also looking at him coldly, unsmiling, eyes dim.
This was the real "Zhang Shutong."
He looked away, no longer watching. After just four days, he'd almost forgotten what he was supposed to be like.
Zhang Shutong silently watched the scenery outside the window—still a bleak picture. The bus traveled along the newly built lakeside highway, so he could see the reed beds along the shore.
Behind the reed beds was a hidden, abandoned drainage pipe. The concrete pipe body was covered with cracks. Zhang Shutong knew that inside was a broken safe containing fishing rods, a helmet, and compressed biscuits. Not long ago he'd ridden his bike here with a girl, and the two of them had spent an afternoon by the shore. If he could, he really wanted to go down and see if the safe was still there.
However, "Base" was only his base. The bus route wouldn't set up a stop next to a drainage pipe.
Finally, Zhang Shutong sighed and closed the window.
It was about time to accept reality.
If the price of "saving" others is "sacrificing" yourself, what should you do?
His head was a bit muddled now. He was just giving a random example—he meant, if... if Gu Qiumian's life hadn't been changed, would he still have returned from eight years ago?
Forget it.
There was no point dwelling on these things anymore.
It was better than not solving anything at all.
He thought fate really was fair as hell. You save one person, and it turns out the reward isn't just two bags of snacks—it comes with a bonus four-day childhood experience card. Now the experience card had expired, and you couldn't buy this thing with money. He should return to his original life trajectory.
People always have to learn to make peace with reality. Anyway, he'd long since gotten used to this.
...That's right, used to it.
But what could he do if he wasn't used to it? He felt that sometimes thinking deeply about these questions was just asking for trouble. He might as well close his eyes and stop thinking. The bus bounced along, and he didn't know how much time had passed until a dignified female voice came through the speakers:
"Next stop, funeral parlor. Passengers getting off, please prepare in advance and take your belongings with you..."
Zhang Shutong wearily opened his eyes and stood up.
Time to get off.
He didn't need to prepare in advance, and he hadn't brought any belongings. He remembered leaving home in a rush, forgetting to put on extra layers for warmth. At the time he'd been freezing while standing outside, and Du Kang had said he was trying to look cool.
Zhang Shutong held onto the railing. The moment the bus's rear door opened, he stepped out with one foot.
Then suddenly froze.
Wait, why the funeral parlor?
Or to put it more bluntly—
Why had his eight-years-later self returned to the small island?
...
Only now did Zhang Shutong belatedly realize something:
If in the original timeline he hadn't returned to the small island in eight years—not until he received news of Lu Qinglian's death and came back to attend her funeral—then why was he here today?
He immediately checked the time. It was December 12th, 2020. That couldn't be wrong. His former self had also come to the island on this day.
"You getting off or not?"
The bus driver turned around and shouted at him. Zhang Shutong jumped off the bus, no time for further thoughts. Then he took out his phone and opened his call log, searching for that missed call from Lu Qinglian.
He had a good memory and still remembered it had happened around 11 PM on December 10th. At the time he'd silenced his phone, so he'd missed her call... But what about now?
Zhang Shutong didn't have many call records. He quickly got his answer. And the answer was: nothing.
Nothing.
He inexplicably felt relieved. That's how it should be. It meant history really had been changed. If an identical missed call remained on his phone, that would be the strange thing—it would mean those four days back in junior high really had been a hallucination.
So why had he come here today?
He scrolled to his most recent call record. He remembered the last time he'd made a call was about work, to an editor at a publishing house. He'd been doing translation work from home these past few years, and because attending the funeral would delay him for a few days, he'd briefly exchanged a few words. Sure enough, it was still that editor.
But this discovery didn't put him at ease—instead, it was deeply unsettling upon reflection.
Why was he still doing freelance translation from home?
Wait, wait, wait. He'd been wrong about something all along. After coming back, he'd subconsciously assumed he'd be returning to that life trapped by Regression, stretching endlessly with no end in sight. But only now did he realize that since history had changed, logically his own life should have changed too.
But it seemed not much had changed?
Did Regression still exist?
Zhang Shutong had naively believed that as long as he didn't run up to that mountain again, he'd completely change his life. But now he'd been sent back, which meant the ability still existed.
But the mechanism of "when something bad happens around you, you'll return to a critical juncture before it occurred"—that was definitely gone.
Like when Gu Qiumian's building blocks were smashed—if it had followed past experience, he would have returned to before Li Yipeng made his move, rather than going to investigate the case afterward.
Since that was gone, why was he still doing freelance translation from home, avoiding communication with strangers?
He simply opened his food delivery app to check his order history. One look nearly made Zhang Shutong choke with frustration. Why was he still ordering takeout every day?
His head was starting to hurt.
If a person wanted to confirm their past, what was the best method?
Zhang Shutong rarely took photos and didn't keep a diary. He looked at his call log again and discovered he'd called an unfamiliar name last night.
"Su Yunzhi."
Who was this?
It seemed vaguely familiar. He thought carefully, and the memory gradually merged with that senior from high school.
But he should have lost contact with her long ago. Yet this time... He confirmed the call time—it was last night, and they'd talked for a full ten minutes.
He kept scrolling, wanting to see about Qingyi, Du Kang, and Ruoping. He remembered that in the original timeline, although everyone had exchanged contact information in junior high, they'd all later changed numbers and phones, so he didn't have any of the three people's numbers.
Among those three, contact with Ruoping was completely severed. But he still had Qingyi and Du Kang on WeChat. He didn't communicate much with the former, merely liking posts on Moments, yet that had lasted the longest. With the latter, he occasionally chatted a bit. Du Kang had been the one to notify him of Lu Qinglian's death, and was also the first old classmate he'd seen after returning to the island, still as warm as ever.
So what about this time?
He searched by pinyin initials. This time they were all there—Feng Ruoping, Meng Qingyi, Du Kang... He'd even found Gu Qiumian and Lu Qinglian. Going through each person's call records, he discovered only Ruoping's still showed up, just a few days ago.
What had happened in between?
The WeChat chat record of Du Kang notifying him of the death was also gone.
He was now standing at the bus stop. Coming back to his senses, he realized how cold it was. Zhang Shutong pulled his windbreaker tighter, then noticed something else. Why was he still wearing the same clothes as before?
Zhang Shutong wasn't someone who liked to overthink things. After a moment's thought, he first called Ruoping back. He waited patiently for a moment, but it showed the other party was on another call.
He unconsciously put his hand in his pocket and felt a hard paper box. Taking it out, he saw it was actually a pack of cigarettes... He'd smoked for a while after graduating from university, then quit. Logically he shouldn't be carrying cigarettes with him. He made a simple judgment, sniffing his fingers, and discovered that his current self hadn't quit.
He was really getting confused now. When he'd returned to eight years ago, although many memories were fuzzy and unclear, that was just re-experiencing the past—there were traces to follow. But now he'd gone to the future in a sense, and the future's appearance had also changed. It was both familiar and strange.
Returning to the original question: what had he come back to do?
A class reunion?
He was starting to regret getting off the bus. Maybe riding around the small island on the bus could have given him some clues. Even just thinking would be better than standing in the cold wind.
But there were very few bus runs on the island. He stopped standing around stupidly waiting. Instead, he looked for a place to get out of the wind. If there was a convenience store, that would be good—he could buy a hot drink. Plus he was a bit tired now. Regression had triggered during his sleep on Saturday late at night. He hadn't expected the mental exhaustion to follow him here. But this area was desolate. It wasn't a city—where would there be any convenience store?
The closest place... Zhang Shutong thought about it. It was actually the funeral parlor. The funeral parlor should still be there, otherwise the stop name wouldn't appear on the bus. Following his memory, he began walking. His hands were frozen stiff, but he couldn't help continuing to scroll through his phone records.
He opened QQ. This software was what he'd used most often eight years ago. But after entering university, everyone around him had switched to WeChat. He didn't have high hopes, and indeed that proved correct. There were no chat records with anyone. The latest messages were "friend birthday reminders," "channel messages," and other miscellaneous things. He'd only found the group chat with the four of them by searching through group chats, and as before, it was completely blank.
Zhang Shutong breathed into his palm. He found Autumn Rain Lingering. As expected, she really loved sheep. After all these years, her avatar was still that pattern that looked like both a sheep and a cloud.
Thinking of this, Zhang Shutong couldn't help but look up. He could already see the funeral parlor's outline in the distance. But that big chimney was gone—on Saturday morning when he and Gu Qiumian had ridden in the homeroom teacher's car to the shopping center, his gaze had followed the chimney's smoke for a long time.
What surprised Zhang Shutong next was that he actually saw some people standing in front of the funeral parlor.
There usually couldn't be anyone at this kind of place. If there were, it could only mean someone had passed away. Theoretically there was nothing noteworthy about it. The island's population was at least eight thousand or more. People he had connections with didn't exceed ten... But he involuntarily quickened his pace. Through the gate he could hear funeral music coming from inside.
Zhang Shutong's heart inexplicably sank. He pushed open the funeral parlor gate, passed through flower wreaths on both sides, and rushed into the mourning hall in a few steps. His gaze instantly locked onto the subject of this funeral:
It was a black and white portrait photograph.
In the photo was a beautiful woman. She had long hair. The woman's brows were slightly furrowed, but her eyes were calm as an ancient well.
At that moment, someone suddenly patted Zhang Shutong on the shoulder. He said:
"My condolences."