6

That night, after her shower, Rong Qian lay sprawled on her bed like a lifeless corpse. The conversation with Shen Shuhuai still echoed vividly in her mind.

The woman in the photo is you.

How could that possibly be true?

But the events of the morning kept hammering the same conclusion into her skull. Every detail screamed that it was.

She turned her head and glanced at the photo album resting on her nightstand. Shen Shuhuai had insisted she take it, saying it might help her uncover the truth of his cousin's disappearance—perhaps even whether he had been harmed.

The weight of that responsibility felt heavy.

All she'd wanted was to investigate a decades-old case. How had it turned into this… bizarre, almost supernatural entanglement?

"Shen Yi… who the hell are you, really?"

She hugged her pillow, rolling restlessly on the bed. If she really could travel through time, how did it work?

She'd tried everything—touching the photo again, staring at it, whispering to it like a lunatic. Nothing happened.

She'd even nearly burned it, hoping the ashes would trigger whatever had happened last time—but she knew that wasn't how the photo had disintegrated. It hadn't been fire. It had turned to ash on its own.

Her eyes landed on the watch wrapped around her wrist—warm, solid, undeniably real. Shen Yi had placed it there with his own hand.

And the way he'd spoken… it was like she'd seen him many times before.

Something wasn't adding up. She was getting desperate.

Unable to sleep, she threw on slippers and headed downstairs.

When she'd left Shen Shuhuai's place, she had also taken with her a box full of Shen Yi's old film reels. He'd been generous, saying she could keep them all—maybe they'd help her get closer to the truth.

Sitting in front of the TV, Rong Qian started from his first film—chronologically.

At just fifteen, he'd played a deaf-mute teenager. Barely a supporting role, few lines—but his stunning looks and quiet magnetism had captured instant attention. It launched his career overnight.

He acted in several American productions early on, but soon returned to China, where he collaborated with some of the country's most celebrated directors.

The deeper she watched, the more stunned she became. How could a man who had once captured global attention disappear so completely? Not just from public memory, but from recorded history?

Someone had erased him.

If not for these DVDs, she never would've known that he'd been in many films she'd already seen—yet his scenes had been cut, or his role re-cast.

The more she watched, the more obsessed she became.

She stayed up again, all night. By the time she returned to the precinct the next morning, she looked half-dead.

Chen Jia and Zhang Hao immediately noticed.

"You okay?" they asked in unison.

Rong Qian waved them off. "Just tired." She didn't feel like explaining.

Instead, she asked, "Any update on that license plate I gave you yesterday?"

Chen Jia sighed. "Yeah, but it's bad news. The car was a rental, registered under a fake identity. It's already been returned. We're running the sketches you gave us of those two Black men to see if we can ID them."

Rong Qian nodded. She hated not having answers—but she also knew rushing wouldn't help.

Still, a gut feeling told her those two men were somehow connected to the thirty-year-old case. Why else would they come after her?

That night, sleep eluded her again.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt a warm hand gently brushing her cheek. A soft voice would whisper in her ear:

"A-Qian…"

"I'm waiting for you…"

Each time, she'd startle awake—only to find herself alone.

The dreams became a ritual. And they were driving her insane.

Unable to take it, she'd get up and watch his films. Not really watching—just waiting. As soon as his face appeared, she'd pause. Stare. Hope.

She couldn't go on like this.

She had to see him again.

That evening, after work, she stopped by a food stand and bought some oden. Sitting on a small stool near the sidewalk, she quietly ate, trying to keep her mind off things.

Next to her, a little girl sat licking a popsicle, grinning up at her.

Rong Qian couldn't help but pat her head. The little girl giggled, her smile warm and innocent.

Rong Qian's heart softened. She reached into her pocket and took out the old photo—the one she carried everywhere.

Staring at it always made her feel like she was looking at someone else. Maybe it was the heaviness of time, the faded gray hues. Maybe it was the lost expression on her own face.

Her chin resting on her palm, she murmured, "I wonder… what was I so worried about in that photo?"

CRACK—!

A low, mechanical groan above her head made her look up.

The sign above the food stand flickered twice—then snapped.

BOOM!

The massive billboard collapsed.

"Watch out!"

There was no time to run. Instinctively, Rong Qian threw herself over the little girl, shielding her with her body, arms tightly wrapped around the child's head.

Just before impact, she saw the photo in her hand crumble—again—into ash.

The last thing she heard was the thunderous crash—

And then…

A distant piano began to play.

Soft. Flowing. Familiar.

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

—

Rong Qian's eyes flew open, swallowed by darkness.

She was in a closed space. No light. No sound.

She pressed against the walls, feeling her way along.

Wood.

Her palms found what felt like a door.

She pushed—it gave way easily, swinging open.

Too easily.

She tumbled forward.

"Ah!"

She landed hard on her knees, wincing in pain.

The music stopped.

Rong Qian blinked, her eyes adjusting.

She'd fallen out of an enormous, old-fashioned European wardrobe.

Velvet-lined, brass handles, filled with vintage clothing.

Before she could process that—

A voice.

Clear. Youthful.

"You. Who are you?"

She turned toward the sound.

There, seated at a grand piano by the window, was a young boy.

Tiny hands hovered above the keys. His posture was perfect. His eyes bright and calm—not the slightest hint of fear.

He wore a miniature suit with suspenders and shiny leather shoes. Dressed like a little gentleman from another era.

His face was breathtaking.

Snow-pale skin. Fine features. His delicate brows and serene gaze were hauntingly familiar.

Rong Qian stared, breath catching in her throat.

She'd seen this face before.

No. She'd obsessed over it.

Shen Yi.

Or…

Could it really be… Shen Yi as a child?

She was too stunned to move.

Too stunned to even breathe.