1

Shen Yi—once a world-renowned, award-winning actor of the 1970s—vanished without a trace after a mysterious disappearance, erased from history as though he had never existed.

But one day, Rong Qian came across an old photograph. In it, she stood beside Shen Yi, the two captured in a moment of unmistakable intimacy.

Yet she was certain she had never met him.

How could such a photograph exist?

At two in the afternoon, in a quiet café, Rong Qian sat with her chin resting on her hand, staring absently out the window. Her spoon swirled aimlessly in a long-cold cup of coffee. She looked on the verge of yawning.

Across from her, a man spoke in an attempt to draw her attention. Every possible topic had been exhausted, but she remained unresponsive.

With a helpless smile, the man finally asked, "Miss Rong, do you have no desire to speak with me?"

Only then did Rong Qian turn to him. Her voice was calm and direct. "Mr. Xu, I told you when you invited me out that I have no intention of getting married right now, nor do I want to be set up with anyone. You said you didn't mind—otherwise I wouldn't have come."

A faint bitterness curved the corners of Xu Yang's mouth. He'd thought she was simply being polite. He hadn't expected such cold sincerity.

"Miss Rong, it seems I misread the situation. I like you—truly. And I thought, perhaps, you didn't find me unpleasant either."

Xu Yang, a gentleman returned from abroad, carried himself with elegance and spoke with poise. By all accounts, he was the kind of man few women could easily refuse.

Especially not someone like Rong Qian, who worked daily among rough men. She, of all people, should've been more susceptible to his charm.

But she wasn't.

She rejected him cleanly, leaving no room for ambiguity.

Xu Yang finally gave up, though curiosity got the better of him. "Miss Rong… is it because you already like someone else?"

"Nope. What made you think that?" Rong Qian scooped a large spoonful of strawberry mousse into her mouth, eating with abandon, unconcerned with appearances.

Xu Yang studied her for a long moment. "You seem… distracted. Especially when you're daydreaming. It looks like you're thinking of someone."

"Really?" Rong Qian frowned. It wasn't the first time she'd heard that.

People often assumed she was heartbroken when they saw her sitting alone, lost in thought. She always wanted to roll her eyes at that.

She'd never even been in a relationship. How could she be heartbroken?

At most, there were moments when her heart just… felt strangely hollow.

Xu Yang wanted to talk more, but Rong Qian's phone rang. There was a new case at the station. She left in a hurry.

Watching her leave, Xu Yang sighed, regret in his eyes.

—

Back at the precinct, Rong Qian was briefed on a particularly unusual case. A construction crew working for a real estate company had unearthed a buried vehicle while preparing to build a luxury villa district.

Inside the car, they found what appeared to be human remains.

They immediately called the police. With assistance, the crew carefully excavated the vehicle.

The car was identified as a "Shanghai" model sedan from over three decades ago. That meant the victim had likely been buried for more than thirty years.

At first, investigators suspected foul play, but after geological experts examined the area, a new theory emerged: the death might have been the result of a natural disaster.

Back then, the land had been at the base of a mountain. The loose soil, coupled with torrential rains, made it prone to landslides. If a car happened to be passing by during one of those storms, burial by debris wasn't impossible.

While experts continued exploring that angle, Rong Qian focused on the remains. The body had long since decomposed, leaving only a male skeleton. No signs of trauma were found, suggesting no obvious foul play.

Only a few personal items were recovered: a rotted wallet, a rusted keychain, an old pop music CD, and some photographs—most of which had decayed beyond recognition.

Eventually, the facts were confirmed: the man had died in a landslide more than thirty years ago. The media was informed in hopes of locating any surviving relatives.

When the article was published, Rong Qian glanced at her phone and frowned.

Somehow, the reporters had captured her in the background of a photo—mid-call, slightly blurred, but still recognizable.

It was too late to do anything about it, so she ignored it.

—

Several days later, just before her shift ended, the forensics department called her over with something "interesting."

A young officer handed her a faded photo sealed in a plastic sleeve. "This was tucked inside the CD case. We missed it earlier. Take a look—see anything odd?"

Rong Qian accepted the photo. It was clearly aged, the edges yellowed with time. The background showed a European-style interior typical of the last century.

A man in a white shirt sat on a vintage sofa, legs crossed, a white cat nestled in his arms. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, his expression gentle and refined—noble, almost aristocratic.

Behind him stood a woman.

Dressed in a sharp trench coat, arms crossed, a playful, confident smile on her lips. Her eyes gleamed with spirit.

Rong Qian blinked. A strange feeling came over her. The woman looked… familiar.

The officer grinned. "Don't you think she looks just like you, Officer Rong?"

"Huh? Wait—damn. She does!"

She stared, stunned. The resemblance was uncanny.

The officer nodded. "You should look into it. This photo might be the key to identifying the victim."

Rong Qian examined the photo again, her brow furrowed in thought.

She didn't seriously believe it was her in the picture—but how could someone look so exactly like her?

And if that woman were still alive… she'd be elderly by now.

She thanked the officer, took the photo, and drove home.

—

She still lived with her parents, who never tired of pestering her about marriage. Every other day, the same question: when would she finally settle down?

Sure, she was 27 and had never dated, but that didn't mean she was unlovable. She was perfectly fine. What was the rush?

Every time she argued that point, her parents would nod in agreement—then immediately ask, "So when do you want to get married? We just want to help!"

Rong Qian: "…"

She surrendered. Clearly, even silence wasn't an escape.

—

That night, fresh out of the shower, Rong Qian lay on her bed, staring at the photograph. The more she looked, the more convinced she became that the woman was her. The posture, the expression—it was too precise.

She even owned clothes similar to the woman's in the photo.

On impulse, she leapt out of bed and dug through her closet, pulling out an identical trench coat and jeans.

The similarity was startling.

Unable to shake the unease, she stared at the photo until she drifted off.

—

In the middle of the night, a sound woke her. The TV was on.

Groggy, she climbed out of bed and headed downstairs, only to find the living room empty—yet the television was playing.

It was already 2 a.m. Who would be watching TV at this hour?

She walked over, puzzled, ready to turn it off. But the moment she saw what was on the screen, she froze.

An old black-and-white war film. The year stamped at the bottom: 1975.

The camera was shaky, the visuals raw and unpolished, but the sense of realism was palpable.

She poured herself a glass of water, curiosity piqued, and settled onto the sofa to watch.

But as she took a sip, a single glance at the screen made her choke.

"Cough! Cough!"

Clutching her mouth, she rushed to the screen.

There, on the screen, a man in military uniform stood tall, a cape draped over his shoulders, commanding presence unmistakable.

But that wasn't what shocked her.

It was his face.

He was identical to the man in the photo.