The Dust Settles

On the third day after Lu Yan died, the Correction Mechanism stopped.

No announcement, no news, no one noticed that one of the world's underlying rules had changed. Just like when it first activated—silent, yet rewriting everyone's memories.

Jiang Fei had surgery in the hospital—a fractured right humerus, torn tendons, three steel pins inserted, a sling for three months—and on the day she was discharged, she entered the password into the Corrector Master Control System via USB drive. She sat in front of that interface for seven full hours, checking every single Correction Directive line by line, making sure there were no lingering timing programs, no auto-restart logic, no overlooked proxy nodes.

At the end of the seventh hour, she pressed "Confirm Termination."

A line of text appeared on the screen: Correction Mechanism terminated. All corrected records are unrecoverable. Uncorrected records will be recorded normally from today onward.

Unrecoverable.

Lin Shen saw the message in the hospital corridor. He didn't say anything, just put his phone away and kept walking toward the ward. Su Wan (A-line projection version) had been hospitalized for three days—her body had recovered, and her mind was basically stable. But she never asked Lin Shen any questions about "after coming back." When she woke up, she saw the note—he hadn't hidden it, just folded it and kept it in his wallet. She saw it, but didn't ask, and he didn't explain.

A-line Lin Shen had returned to Mirror A two days earlier. The passage had stabilized after the Correction Mechanism stopped and wouldn't close on its own. Before leaving, he stood with Lin Shen outside the hydropower station for ten minutes.

"If she wants to go back," A-line Lin Shen said, not specifying who "she" was, but they both knew, "the passage is available anytime. It's stable."

Lin Shen nodded.

"You can come too," A-line Lin Shen added.

"I'm not going," Lin Shen said. He looked at the rain-soaked weeds outside the hydropower station, droplets still clinging to the leaves. "She has you on her side. Two Lin Shens in the same world—there'd be problems."

A-line Lin Shen stared at the face identical to his own for a long moment. Then he reached out, patted Lin Shen on the shoulder, turned around, and walked into the hydropower station.

The blue light of the teleportation flashed once, then went out.

---

Lin Shen returned to his original city a week later.

He didn't go straight back to the apartment. The landlord had already rented it to someone else—when the Correction Mechanism was active, the landlord firmly believed he had never rented to two people and conveniently changed the contract to a single-occupancy agreement. By the time Lin Shen came back, a young couple had moved in—the girl had planted succulents on the balcony, and the boy had installed a projector in the living room.

Lin Shen stood downstairs and looked up. The window glowed with warm yellow light, exactly the same as the light he remembered coming home to every night. Not the couple's light—it was the IKEA desk lamp that Su Wan used to place on the windowsill when she painted at night.

He stood there for five minutes.

Then he turned and went to a real estate agency.

He rented a new apartment in the old district. Not the same one—that one was already occupied—but on the seventh floor of the same building, with the exact same layout, just mirrored. The original apartment's windows faced south; this one faced north. He spent three full days moving everything in—the furniture was old, the books were old, only the blank wall was new.

He stood in the living room, looking at the north-facing wall.

In the original apartment, Su Wan's painting had hung on the south-facing wall. A hand-painted starry sky—she used acrylics, the paint applied thickly. The stars weren't dotted on; they were scraped out with her fingernails as faint textures. During the day it just looked like a blue canvas, but at night, when the light hit it at an angle, those textures would emerge. Like a real starry sky—visible only when it was dark enough.

That painting still existed. Just not on his wall.

A-line Su Wan had transmitted the painting's data from the research institute and asked if he wanted to reproduce a printed version. He said no. She asked why. He said a printed starry sky has no textured marks. She was silent for a moment, then said, I'll keep the data. Tell me whenever you want it.

He never replied.

---

The next day, Monday, he went to work at the firm as usual.

Gu Yang ran into him in the break room, standing there with a cup of American coffee, opening his mouth three times without knowing what to say first. His last update was that Lin Shen had taken extended leave—over a month without showing up, not answering calls, not replying to messages. The entire office was buzzing with rumors: he'd had a breakdown, he was hospitalized, he'd gone back to his hometown, or he was on the run from loan sharks.

"You're back?" Gu Yang finally settled on the safest line.

"Yeah." Lin Shen took a cup of hot water from the coffee machine without adding anything else.

Gu Yang studied his face for a few seconds. He'd lost a lot of weight—there were deep hollows below his cheekbones, his jawline sharper than before. His eyes were still dark brown, but there were heavy bluish-purple shadows beneath them, as if he hadn't slept properly in a long time. He almost said "you've lost weight," but then thought better of it—asking that would be admitting he'd never really believed Lin Shen's story about his girlfriend disappearing. Feeling guilty, he swallowed the words.

"Lunch together today?" Gu Yang changed the subject.

"Sure."

At noon they sat across from each other in a noodle shop downstairs. Gu Yang ordered braised beef noodles, and Lin Shen ordered the same. They both ate in silence, the steam rising from their bowls, blurring each other's faces.

Halfway through, Gu Yang put down his chopsticks. "Bro, that girl you mentioned before—"

"Su Wan." Lin Shen didn't look up. "Her name is Su Wan."

"Right, Su Wan." Gu Yang rested his chopsticks on the bowl's edge. "You still remember her?"

Lin Shen looked up. He still had half a mouthful of noodles, his cheek bulging. Gu Yang's question made him pause—not because it offended him, but because he suddenly realized that Gu Yang's expression was serious. Not dismissive, not skeptical—a sincere question.

"You mean... you don't remember either?"

"No." Gu Yang shook his head. "But ever since you mentioned her, I keep feeling like I've heard that name somewhere. Like there's a blurry outline there, but I can't make it out. Last time I went to that café, the owner also said there seemed to be a girl—he couldn't remember either, but we both felt like if we really tried, we might recall a little."

"The Correction Mechanism stopped," Lin Shen said.

"The what Correc—"

"Never mind." Lin Shen lowered his head and continued eating. He didn't know how to explain the whole thing to Gu Yang, or whether Gu Yang would understand even if he did. But one thing he knew—the Correction Mechanism hadn't erased just his memories. The traces of Su Wan's existence had lingered in many people's hearts: Xiao You remembered she had sung, Gu Yang vaguely felt there was a girl, and even strangers who had brushed past her on the street might have been illuminated by her in some moment, only to have it all washed clean by the correction.

Those lights had been wiped out. But where they had shone, warmth still lingered.

---

In the three months that followed, Lin Shen's life returned to its old routine.

Wake up at seven every morning, arrive at the firm by eight-thirty, leave at six-thirty in the evening. Occasional overtime, but never too long—because no one was waiting for him, and he didn't need to rush home to cook. Before, he used to text Su Wan on his way home: What do you want to eat? She'd reply: Whatever. He'd ask again: What kind of whatever? She'd reply: Just whatever. And then he'd buy two different dishes, because he knew which one she'd want today, and the other would become tomorrow's lunch.

Now he still stopped by the supermarket on his way home. He'd stand in front of the shelves for two or three minutes, then buy only enough for one person.

Once, out of habit, he grabbed two packs of chicken breast. He only realized it at the checkout counter, so he walked back and put one back in the freezer. The cashier lady glanced at him but said nothing. He put the other pack in his shopping bag, pushed the door open, stood outside tying his scarf, and suddenly remembered the last time Su Wan went grocery shopping with him—she grabbed a box of frozen dumplings off the shelf, stared at the expiration date for three seconds, then tossed it into the cart, saying, "Just in case we're too lazy to cook someday."

Those dumplings were never eaten by either of them. When he packed up her things, he found them in the freezer, a thin layer of frost already forming on the packaging.

He cooked that box of dumplings and ate them alone in the kitchen. The dumplings had frozen a bit dry—the wrappers were too chewy, the filling bland. But he ate very slowly, chewing each bite like some kind of medicine.

Gu Yang tried to talk him into moving on.

"Try going on a blind date. Sister Lin's friend, that graphic designer—she's nice."

Lin Shen smiled. A faint smile; his nasolabial folds didn't move.

"We'll see," he said.

Gu Yang knew he wouldn't go. But he still brought it up every time they ate together. Not to pressure him—just because he didn't want Lin Shen to keep being alone. Gu Yang was married; he knew two people were better than one, and he also knew what it felt like to sit alone in an empty living room until late at night.

But Lin Shen wasn't alone. He had that north-facing wall.

---

A Saturday, three months later.

Lin Shen was doing a deep clean at home.

He mopped the floor, cleaned the kitchen, washed the windows. He set up a ladder and cleared out the dust that had accumulated in the ceiling corners for months. Then he wiped down the wall with a rag—this north-facing wall had been empty ever since he moved in. Nothing hung on it. Not because he couldn't afford art, but because he was still searching. Searching for a spot to hang a hook.

In his old apartment, Su Wan's Starry Night Painting had hung on the wall opposite the sofa. The back of the frame was fixed to the third brick below the ceiling with an expansion bolt and a metal hook. On moving day, he had taken the note with him—Su Wan's "Goodbye, my love"—but he couldn't take the hook mark. Because the Correction Mechanism had already erased the hook before he moved out, leaving only a shallow dent barely visible to the naked eye.

He couldn't find that spot on the new apartment's wall. It wasn't the same wall—no southern sun, no trace of her setting breakfast on the windowsill, no frame dimensions to align with. But as he wiped the wall, he kept wiping and wiping, until the rag turned from light gray to dark gray.

Then he felt something.

Not a dent. A tiny bump beneath the wall's surface.

He put down the rag and traced the bump with his fingertip. It wasn't a nail, not the remnant of an expansion bolt—it was something the Correction Mechanism had erased. The original hook had been physically eliminated by the correction, but its existence had once exerted pressure on the wall. Over time, the concrete had been compressed into a corresponding dent. The dent had been erased—but the wall's memory remained.

The correction made the hook disappear. But the fact that it had once held a painting—that couldn't be unmade.

Lin Shen pressed his palm against that spot. The gap between his fingertip and the wall was less than a millimeter—the exact thickness of the original hook.

He stood there, his palm against the wall, for a long time.

Rain began to fall outside. Saturday afternoon in the old district was very quiet. Someone in the distance was playing some old song, the sound scattered by the rain into a blurry melody. The老板娘 at the fruit shop downstairs was packing up, the sound of her cart traveling from the first floor all the way to the seventh, then gradually fading away.

Lin Shen came down from the ladder, walked to the middle of the living room, and looked back at the wall.

There was a hook mark there. Very shallow—if you didn't look carefully, you'd absolutely miss it. But it was there.

He decided not to hang anything. He would let this mark stay. It was the only thing he could bring back from that world. Not a painting, not handwriting, not a photograph—it was the last proof that this world acknowledged she had existed.

He pulled up a chair and placed it facing the wall.

He sat down.

The sofa was too comfortable; it would distract him too easily. He needed to sit in this chair, back straight, maintaining a ceremonial distance from this wall.

The hook mark on the wall was about fifteen centimeters above eye level. The spot where Su Wan had hung her Starry Night Painting—hung on the wall, the top edge of the frame at this exact height. Every day, when she stood in front of her easel to paint, her eyes were at this level. She often bit her lip while painting, getting paint on her fingers, then casually wiping them on her apron.

He remembered those things. He remembered every single thing.

The rain outside softened a little.

Lin Shen stared at the wall. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile—a very light facial movement, like someone had hung two extremely thin threads at the corners of his mouth.

He began to speak."The firm took on a new project today—the cultural center in the east of the city. The proposal passed the preliminary review. The client wants to change the functional layout, so I'll have to redraw the floor plan next week. The coffee machine broke down. Gu Yang spent ages trying to fix it but couldn't, and finally found out it was a socket problem."

He paused.

The sound of rain filled the silence.

"Su Wan, if you're listening—" He hesitated, his voice dropping a register. "Gu Yang got married. His wife's name is Xiao Qi. She's an auditor, and she smiles with the same dimples as you. Except hers are on the left."

Silence again.

He stood up, walked to the wall, and pressed his finger against that hook mark—gently, as if touching someone's forehead.

Then he returned to his chair.

The rain stopped. A song came to an end too. On a Saturday afternoon in the old town, all sounds ebbed away.

All that remained was an architect, sitting in a wooden chair, facing a white wall, talking about what he did today.