The Witness

Night in Lucheng had a particular kind of silence.

It wasn't peaceful—it was restrained. As if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break. Outside Lin Xun's apartment, the sodium streetlights buzzed faintly, casting orange pools over cracked sidewalks and shuttered storefronts. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before slipping down the alleyways, careful not to disturb whatever might be listening.

Inside, Lin sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the reflection in the darkened window.

He saw himself.

Or something pretending to be him.

The man in the glass had the same tousled black hair, the same tired eyes, the faint scar above his brow. But there was something else now—something coiled just beneath the surface. A hesitation that hadn't been there before. A weight behind the stare.

He was changing.

And the worst part?

He wasn't sure if it was the Ledger doing it, or if the app had simply uncovered what was already there.

⸻

[The Sin Ledger] Task #004 issued. Subject: Chen Anqi. Status: Witness. Classification: Trauma Memory – Sealed. Time to Access: 4 hours.

A witness.

Not a criminal. Not a whistleblower. Not even someone who had acted.

Just someone who had seen.

Lin's finger hovered over the screen, breath caught in his throat.

The app had never used the word "sealed" before.

He tapped to expand the profile. It remained grayed out, pulsing softly like a dormant heartbeat.

"Memory locked until presence is confirmed."

Presence?

The task required him to go in person.

This wasn't just about information anymore.

It was about intrusion.

⸻

Chen Anqi lived alone in an old apartment block near the edge of the Old Quarter—one of the few neighborhoods that hadn't yet been bulldozed to make room for high-rises. The building looked like it had grown weary of standing and was considering surrender.

Fifth floor. Apartment 502.

Lin knocked three times.

No answer.

He waited, then knocked again, softer.

A shuffle. A deadbolt turning.

The door creaked open just enough for a pale eye to appear through the crack.

"…Who are you?"

"My name is Lin Xun," he said. "I'm a journalist. I think you may have witnessed something years ago… something you weren't meant to."

Silence.

The door didn't open, but it didn't close either.

"You think I don't see things now?" Her voice was low, hoarse from disuse. "They never left me, Mr. Lin. They follow me. The blood on the floor. The handprint on the glass. I still smell it in the walls."

"I believe you," he said.

And he meant it.

Because in her voice, he heard a familiar note—the kind of tremor that came from knowing too much.

⸻

Inside, the apartment was dark, the curtains sealed tight with heavy duct tape. The walls were lined with books—mostly psychology, trauma theory, esoteric philosophy. On the far table, a row of framed photographs faced backward, their faces hidden.

Lin didn't ask why.

Chen sat across from him in a threadbare chair, fingers curled around a chipped porcelain teacup. She didn't drink from it. Just held it, like an anchor.

"What did the app show you?" she asked suddenly.

Lin froze.

She smiled faintly. "You're not the first."

He leaned forward. "You've seen The Ledger?"

"No. I lived it."

And with that, the room seemed to tilt—just slightly—like something unspeakable had shifted under the floorboards.

⸻

"The girl," she said, staring at the wall. "She was sixteen. I don't remember her name anymore. That's part of the price. I can recall every detail of that night—her coat, her shoes, the way her hair stuck to her face—but her name? Gone."

Lin listened in silence.

"I saw her go into the train yard. The gate was supposed to be locked, but it wasn't. She looked like she was waiting for someone."

Chen's voice dropped, as if afraid the memory would hear her.

"She was crying. Not loudly. Just… leaking. Like her body didn't know how else to function. And then the man came. I recognized him. You would, too. Government."

Lin felt his pulse tick upward.

"I didn't intervene," Chen said. "I told myself it wasn't my place. That if I got involved, I'd only make things worse."

Her hands trembled slightly on the cup. Tea rippled.

"She died that night. They covered it up. Said she overdosed in an alley three kilometers away."

A long pause.

"I saw everything. And I said nothing."

⸻

Lin's phone buzzed.

The app's screen shimmered—data loading.

Witness file unlocked. Trauma verified. Emotional Impact Index: 91%

Render Task: Do you wish to relieve her burden or expose the truth?

He felt his throat close.

Was that what this was?

Not a question of guilt.

But of weight.

The burden of memory. Of seeing and surviving. Of choosing silence, and then being punished for living with it.

"I wanted to forget," Chen said, voice breaking. "But the memory sealed itself into me like rot. Every night I hear her. Not blaming. Not forgiving. Just… being there."

Lin looked at the app.

Two options:

[ ] Relieve Burden – Memory Extraction (Witness Forgets)

[ ] Preserve Truth – Archive with Exposure (Memory Remains, Public Record Created)

He turned toward Chen.

"If you had the chance," he asked, "would you choose to forget?"

She looked at him with eyes hollowed by decades of guilt.

"No," she whispered. "Because if I forget, she disappears."

⸻

Lin made his decision.

Preserve Truth – Archive with Exposure

The app blinked.

Memory Sequence Initiated

Uploading Witness Event… ETA: 14 minutes

Public Drop Point: Pending Authority Trigger

He set the phone down and watched Chen exhale, long and trembling, as if the words she had never spoken were finally leaving her body, molecule by molecule.

"I'll never know her name again," she murmured. "But maybe now… someone else will."

Outside, the streetlight flickered.

And for the first time in a long while, Lin felt cold not from fear—but from knowing he'd preserved something real.

Not justice.

But truth.

And truth, in this world, was a kind of rebellion.