“Sister-in-law… sister-in-law…” He began to shout with all his remaining strength, thinking he was making a loud sound, but in reality only hoarse, feeble cries for help came out. “They snatched… the voice recorder… hurry downstairs… Zhong Yi… there’s still time to intercept…”

“Sister-in-law…”

“Achan…”

Li Yunmo finally couldn’t hold on anymore and fainted on the ground, only his lips still moving unconsciously.

5, 4, 3…

Less than fifty meters from where Li Yunmo collapsed, Li Weiyi finally rushed to Zhang Jingchan’s hospital room door. She had just pushed the door halfway open when the person on the bed, whose hand was full of IV tubes and monitoring equipment, suddenly moved.

Li Weiyi froze.

…2, 1!

In her spinning vision, everything before Li Weiyi’s eyes began to distort: the room, the hospital bed, the person, lines, dust, light, time…

The person on the bed pressed one hand against their head and slowly sat up.

Less than three meters apart, Li Weiyi collapsed headfirst to the ground.

Zhong Yi, with his arm around Li Xiaoyi, walked back to the ward area. Wu Xinhui also accompanied Mother Li and Father Li, returning from the doctor’s office. Everyone was greatly shocked to see two teenagers lying unconscious on the floor, one after another in the corridor.

However, Li Weiyi was already unaware of all this.

In her world, in her instantly frozen time, it was as if an invisible heavy hammer struck down with a “thud” at her heart. It was also like an omnipresent, imposing ancient bell reverberating and ringing long in her mind.

This dark instant seemed to her as long as eight years.

She saw many things she had never seen before—time that was hidden in another person’s mind and didn’t belong to her.

Young Achan sat upright at his desk, twirling a pen between his slender, pale fingers, revealing a very faint smile. He picked up the pen and continued writing in that secret diary: “July 2, 2014, sunny…”

At the police station morgue, Wu Xinhui collapsed to the ground crying. The stubborn teenager stood motionless, his eyes blood-red. He turned and rushed out the door.

He stood at the main gate of the long-shut-down Fuming Group. This place was silent and desolate like ruins. He looked up at it all, as if looking at his faith, and also as if looking at a pile of garbage.

Gradually, people gathered behind him. Li Yunmo, Li Jinxiong, Wu Mingrui… and some workers who had received Zhang Moyun’s kindness in earlier years.

He worked tirelessly, sometimes unable to sleep through the night. Sometimes he would flip through that notebook, jot down a few sparse notes, then laugh self-mockingly and toss the notebook aside.

…

He was now a young man in a suit, sitting in the reception room accepting an interview from a female reporter, just as Li Weiyi had first seen him—distinguished bearing, reserved and stern. After the interview, the female reporter invited him to dinner with a flushed face, but he shook his head and left on his own.

That day, the day when fate’s rewriting was completed, he woke up in the early morning as usual, looked at the familiar yet strange surroundings, and then, as if remembering something, pressed the back of his hand against his forehead and laughed softly.

…

Li Weiyi felt like she had fallen into a strange and bizarre abyss. Those years he had experienced alone flashed before her eyes. She was clearly an observer, yet also seemed to be a participant, seeing clearly every secret he had kept hidden in his heart during those eight years but never spoken aloud.

Finally, all the images disappeared.

Everything around became completely silent. Li Weiyi felt as if she had been unconscious for a very, very long time, yet also as if she had only lost consciousness for an instant.

January 13, 2022. Achan, this time, can we still reach our destination?