Su Wan's Secret

When the car stopped at the entrance of the A-Line Hydroelectric Station, there were still two hours until the passage opened. Su Wan from A-Line went to start up the equipment, while the two Lin Shens split up to inspect the perimeter. Lin Shen from the Original Line discovered an iron box with a label that read "Do Not Touch" in a storage cabinet in the corner of the control room. When he opened it, inside was the third letter left behind by the projection Su Wan—and her final secret.

The A-Line Hydroelectric Station was almost identical to the one on the Original Line.

When Lin Shen walked into the control room, he was disoriented for a second. The same layout. The same metal pipes. The same hexagonal floor tiles missing the one in the bottom right corner. The only difference was the clock on the wall: this one was seven minutes slow, and no one had ever adjusted it.

A-Line Su Wan was already busy at the main console. She connected her laptop to the equipment interface, and green streams of data began running across the screen. Her fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pausing now and then to tap a pen tip at some flickering parameter on the screen, frown, then continue typing.

"The energy output terminal is calibrated to sixty-seven percent," she said without turning around. "The rest needs fine-tuning manually. You two go check the periphery—see if there's any entry point Lu Yan could exploit."

The two Lin Shens exchanged a glance and stood up to head out. As they reached the door, A-Line Lin Shen paused.

"There's a storage cabinet in the back of the control room," he said, turning back to the Original Line Lin Shen. "I found it during a maintenance check last time. There's some old equipment inside—might be something left by your Su Wan. She once came here to run experiments."

Then he walked out.

Original Line Lin Shen stood still for a moment, then turned and headed deeper into the control room.

The storage cabinet was in a narrow corridor where half the lights were broken, patches of brightness alternating with stretches of darkness. The cabinet was an old iron one, its paint peeling and spotted, the door handle rusted. A yellowed sticky note was pasted on the cabinet door, the words written in blue ballpoint pen: "Do Not Touch. Personal Belongings.—Su"

The way that "Su" was written—he had seen it a thousand times.

Below the sticky note, a small sun was painted on the cabinet door in blue pigment, its edges already blurred. It was identical to the sun on the scrap of paper they had found wedged in a wall crevice back in the Original Line world.

Lin Shen's fingers stopped on the cabinet door handle. He took one deep breath. Then he pulled the door open.

Inside the cabinet was a single iron box, just big enough to hold a letter. There was no label on the outside, but the lid also bore a painted small sun. Beside the sun were two words written: "Lin Shen."

She had left something here. Hidden in the control room of the A-Line Hydroelectric Station for two whole years. No one had ever found it. Not even A-Line Su Wan—because that sticky note said "Personal Belongings." Even another version of herself had respected that marking.

Lin Shen took out the box, placed it on his knees, and opened it.

Inside was a letter. Folded in thirds, the paper yellowed and brittle, nearly splitting along the creases. He carefully unfolded it and found that the back of the paper also had writing—both sides were covered.

It was Su Wan's handwriting.

This time there were no neatly arranged paragraphs, no "Dear" opening, no signature. The handwriting was erratic—sometimes big, sometimes small. In some places, the pressure had been so hard it tore through the paper; in others, it was so light it seemed afraid of being seen. This wasn't a letter—it was the monologue of a person.

"Today is the third day since the correction activated.

I'm writing this sitting on the toilet lid. The lights at home are broken. Lin Shen hasn't come home from work yet. I went to the coffee shop this afternoon. Xiao You asked me if I was new—he doesn't remember me. Three days ago he was still telling me about next week's shift schedule.

On my way back to the neighborhood, I counted the paving bricks along the road. One hundred and ninety-two. I've walked that road for two years. Today was the first time I counted them.

When Lin Shen came home, he was carrying a bag of groceries. He said he'd make tomato scrambled eggs tonight and asked if I wanted rice. I said yes. He went into the kitchen to start cooking, and I sat in the living room holding back my tears. I couldn't cry out loud—he would notice. That man can spot a millimeter error on a blueprint; how could I hide anything from him?

But I had to hide it.

Today is the seventh day since the correction.

There's one less yogurt in the fridge. It wasn't erased by the correction—I secretly drank it. But I lied to Lin Shen and said it might have been the correction. He believed me. He has never once doubted anything I said.

Day seventeen.

A painting disappeared. Not one of mine—it was a shopping bag the supermarket cashier gave me when I first came to this world. It had the supermarket's logo printed on it. Lin Shen said it was ugly, and I kept it around to tease him. Today the bag was gone.

The correction erases 'things that don't belong to this world.' Even a shopping bag counts.

Then what about me?

Day twenty-one.

I almost got caught today.

Lin Shen's phone rang while he was in the shower. I answered it for him. It was a colleague from his firm, asking for blueprints. I said okay, I'll have him call you back when he's out. Only after I hung up did I realize—the colleague called me 'sister-in-law.' He really did know me. He hadn't been corrected yet.

But his voice was a little hesitant. When he asked what my name was, his voice was very soft. As if he wasn't quite sure himself, either.

It's coming soon.

Day thirty-two.

Lin Shen bought me white roses today. He said the anniversary was coming up in two days and he wanted to celebrate early. He set the flowers on the dining table. I lowered my head to drink my soup and didn't dare look up. What's the meaning of white roses again? Pure love.

Pure.

I'm not even a person. I am a quantum projection. An approximation. A rounding-off.

Today is the forty-fourth day since the correction activated.

I don't know if I should write this. Maybe this letter will never be seen by anyone. Maybe tomorrow, the moment I disappear, this whole box will be erased along with me.

But I have to write it down. Because if I don't say it, no one in this world will ever know—I didn't accidentally fall in here.

I stayed here on purpose."

The writing broke off there. Below that, the handwriting changed—no longer the scribbled private murmur, but neat, line by line. As if Su Wan had counted each word as she wrote these next few lines.

"Here is the truth.

I was a senior researcher on the Mirror Project, in charge of the forward quantum projection testing. On the day of the accident, I was standing directly in front of the transport pod. When the pod accidentally activated, the system issued two commands—

One: Execute projection.

Two: Terminate the experiment.

I could have chosen the second one. My hand was hovering over that very button.

But I didn't press it.

Because through the crack in the transport pod, I saw the world on the other side. I saw a person working overtime. He was alone in his office drawing blueprints, tapping his pencil on the desk three times, then looking up at the window. He didn't know there was a pair of eyes watching him.

I let go of my hand.

The transport activated.

It wasn't an accident. It was my choice.

I knew from the very beginning that the correction mechanism would trigger. I was a researcher. I understood the correction mechanism even better than Lu Yan. I knew the Law of Two-Way Conservation. I knew that in at most two years, my traces would begin to disappear. I knew it all, crystal clear.

But that person in the office drawing blueprints—he didn't know. He was just an ordinary architectural designer. Squeezing toothpaste for me every morning. Carrying an extra umbrella on rainy days. Buying white roses on anniversaries. He didn't need to know the laws of the universe. He didn't need to know how thick the membrane between parallel worlds was. He only needed to know one thing—that someone loved him.

So I never told him.

I watched him squeeze toothpaste for me every morning. I watched him tiptoe around my easel when he came home late from work, afraid the paint would touch his blueprints. I watched him always say goodnight before turning off the lights, because he thought I was afraid of the dark—I'm actually not afraid of the dark. But I didn't dare say so. If I did, he'd have one less reason to care for me.

Two years. I stole two years.

Now the correction is here. The world is slowly erasing me, piece by piece. First Xiao You at the coffee shop, then the cashier at the supermarket, then the security guard at the neighborhood. The sequence is precise, like dominoes falling.

I know whose turn it will be next.

So I hid little suns in every place he might find them. The scrap of paper in the wall crevice. The sticky notes tucked inside books. Even the corner of a piece of scrap paper I tore from an old draft and slipped into the inner compartment of his wallet—he doesn't even know it's there. Each one is a message: I am here. I was here.

If you've found this iron box, Lin Shen—

Then you must already know the truth.

Then let me tell you one more thing you don't know.

The storage cabinet behind the lab—right where you're standing right now—this is the coordinate I chose.

I chose here because, if the correction proceeds as planned, when you discover my traces are disappearing, when you follow the clues to find the passage coordinates, when you cross through the transport and arrive at A-Line, when you finally meet A-Line's Lin Shen and A-Line's Su Wan—you will definitely come to the hydroelectric station. Because this is the only starting point for the passage.

I calculated every step.

I knew you would come.

So I put the box here. Two years. Waiting for you."

There were no more words. At the end of the paper was painted a small sun—bigger, rounder, more carefully drawn than any of the others. Beside the sun was written one character: "Wait."

Lin Shen pressed the letter against his chest.

The control room was filled only with the low hum of machinery. From a distance came the sound of A-Line Su Wan typing on her keyboard, and the footsteps of A-Line Lin Shen checking the doors and windows outside. The cold of the iron cabinet seeped through his clothes, but the letter against his chest was warm—no, it was his own body heat, seeping through cotton and paper, merging with her handwriting.

He didn't cry.

Suddenly, a detail came back to him. The night before the anniversary, what Su Wan had said: "I'll tell you tomorrow."

Back then, he thought she was going to say something—a diagnosis? A business trip? Or maybe she wanted to break up?

Now he knew.

She had wanted to tell him the truth on their anniversary. Tell him that she wasn't from this world. Tell him that for two years she had been stealing time, every single day. Tell him she was sorry—the correction was coming.

But she didn't make it to tomorrow.

The correction came twelve hours sooner than she had estimated.

Lin Shen carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the iron box. The box wasn't big—it fit perfectly into the inner layer of his wallet. He took out his wallet, which already held three things: that half-scrap of paper, the projection Su Wan's first letter, and the set of keys he always carried with him.

He tucked the iron box into the inner pocket of his coat, right over his heart.

When he stood up, his legs were numb. He had been crouched in front of that storage cabinet for a long time.

"Found it?"

The voice came from the entrance of the corridor. A-Line Lin Shen was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, his light gray trench coat almost blending into the shadows.

"Found it."

"What is it?"

Original Line Lin Shen didn't speak. He just patted the front of his coat where the inner pocket was.

A-Line Lin Shen nodded. He didn't press further. He probably knew in his own heart what it was. If he had found an iron box with the words "Lin Shen" on it in Original Line Su Wan's storage cabinet, he wouldn't tell anyone either—even if that person were another version of himself.

"The perimeter is clear," A-Line Lin Shen said. "Lu Yan's team hasn't arrived yet. A-Line Su Wan says the channel energy calibration is at the last ten percent. It should be ready to activate in about forty minutes."

"What about Jiang Fei?"

"The passage signal is already connected. Someone's receiving on the B end—it's her. She's still alive. The signal is weak, but she's there. She's waiting for our signal in the Original Line hydroelectric station control room."

Original Line Lin Shen let out a deep breath. Jiang Fei was still alive. That woman with the ashy-blue short hair—she had been holding on ever since she was shot in the arm. She said, "You need her more than I do," and gave him the chance to go through the transport. Was she really the same person who had once only cared about herself, the one who had crossed over for her own reasons?

Could people really be changed by someone else's story in a single moment?

"How much time do we have left?" Original Line Lin Shen asked.

"The countdown to the channel opening is forty minutes. Lu Yan will probably arrive in less than half an hour. Conflict is unavoidable." A-Line Lin Shen looked at him. "After you find Su Wan in the gap, take her out through the B end. I'll stabilize the A end from here."

"If the channel collapses—"

"Jiang Fei is on that side. I'm on this side." A-Line Lin Shen leaned against the wall, staring at the crack in the ceiling. "Two lives for one passage. Not a bad deal."

Original Line Lin Shen didn't say, "You can't die." He knew those words would be useless. If he were standing where A-Line Lin Shen stood—if someone told him to stay in the control room and maintain the energy until the very last second—he would do the same thing. Because they were the same person.

"Come on." A-Line Lin Shen pulled a cigarette from his pocket, didn't light it, just held it between his lips. "Forty minutes left. Let's go outside and look at the sunset. The sunset here is one and a half degrees off from the one on your side—I measured it.""What are you testing this for?"

Lin Shen on Line A thought for a moment, then smiled: "Before—it was to confirm that this isn't home. But now—" He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and put it back in his pocket. "Now I want you to see it too."

The two walked out of the control room. On the rooftop terrace of the hydropower station, the sunset was slowly sinking. Orange-red light spread across the river like a closing passage.

Forty minutes.

Lu Yan would arrive in less than half an hour.

Jiang Fei was waiting for the signal in the control room at the other end.

And in the inner pocket of Lin Shen's coat, the iron box was pressed against his heartbeat. One, two, three—exactly the same three taps of a pencil as the overtime night she had described.