Time Born Prologue In the eighth year of my monotonous career as a prison guard, I encountered a man trapped in a time loop. He claimed to be my old friend, having met me in countless past lives, and said he was imprisoned today to persuade me to resign... Yet, according to the official records, he was merely a delusional mental patient. Many years later, I recalled our encounter and wrote it down, resulting in this story. However, upon closer reflection, I sensed that many things didn’t quite add up... What, after all, is real? "We are eternally bound by shackles" — Epigraph 1 It's around three in the afternoon. Gray-white walls surround me, and scorching sunlight filters through a small window with iron bars, casting patterns on the floor. The old, worn clock on the wall ticks away with a steady "tick-tock," and there is no other sound. It seems someone is coming. I quickly place my half-finished writing in the right corner of the desk and rub my eyes. With a "click," the door opens. Two prison guards enter, escorting a man. I know this is the next inmate I need to document. The man sat down, and two colleagues handed me a file folder, exchanged a glance with me, nodded, and then left. "Name?" I didn’t look at him, keeping my head down as I quickly wrote the number on the paper. To be honest, this repetitive, dull work exhausted me: over the years, I felt like an old, clumsy clock just ticking away, quietly existing until a prisoner walked in, and only then did I start to make a sound, like now. "Lin Shisheng." His voice was magnetic, and I couldn’t help but look up at him for a moment. He had a very ordinary face, with short, straight black hair and unremarkable features. A bit of stubble lingered at the corners of his mouth. This kind of appearance belongs to someone who would be unrecognizable in a crowd—a true "face in the crowd." "Gender?" I asked mechanically, looking down. "Of course, it's male, Officer Ni. Can't you tell?" Although he didn't look up, I could almost hear him chuckle. I raised my head and stared at him for three seconds, giving him a look that signaled him to be quiet, but he remained unfazed, as if he hadn't laughed at all. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Nothing." Is it just my delusion? Am I being too sensitive? When I first started working, I could always treat every prisoner with calmness and composure. Every day, as I came here for shift change, I would smile while walking through that long, gloomy corridor with a hint of rust in the air. I would greet my colleagues finishing their shifts along the way, but their faces always appeared lifeless. They would simply nod at me and then look straight ahead, passing by with the sound of their footsteps fading away. Reflecting on this, I lowered my head. Maybe I'm just too tired. "Age?" I continued to ask in a flat, emotionless voice. "Twenty-five," he replied, "the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time." "Hm?" I looked at him and studied him carefully for a moment. He certainly looked like a twenty-five-year-old, but his eyes—how should I put it? Should I say they were as deep and worn as tattered paper fluttering in the wind by the street, or that they were too complex for someone in the prime of youth? "Nine hundred?" I asked. "It's nothing, Officer Ni. Don't worry about it." He smiled at me, responding in a tone as if he were chatting casually with an old friend. Having spent too long in this lifeless prison, I've encountered many strange individuals: some who are overly attentive, some who glare at me, some who refuse to cooperate, and others who play dumb. Naturally, there are plenty who try to ingratiate themselves, but Lin Shisheng… hmm, is that his name? I glanced at the record sheet in front of me, and yes, that’s the name. The way this person spoke made it feel as though he truly knew me. “Have we met before?” I asked. He looked at me, not shying away from my gaze, and I held his stare until I heard the second hand tick fifteen times, at which point he broke the silence. "Yes, Officer Ni." He smiled. "Oh, when?" I stared into his eyes, trying to gauge whether he was lying. "Today, right now," he replied. I had brought this awkward situation upon myself, mentally scolding myself for talking to a prisoner. "What did you do?" I asked. "Robbed a bank." His tone was completely flat, as if he were just telling me what he had for lunch. Rob a bank? In this day and age, someone actually still does that? Afraid he might be trying to trick me, I pulled out the file folder and glanced at his information, slightly surprised. "You're alone?" "Yes," he shrugged. "It's the 600th time." "What do you mean by 600?" I asked again. "It's nothing," he replied. "The file says you didn't hurt anyone; you just took the money and sat there waiting to get caught. Is that some kind of provocation?" He piqued my curiosity, just a little. "It's weariness," he said. "Weary of what? What did you do before?" I asked, continuing to look at his file. "I've done a lot, Officer Ni." I glanced at his file, which noted that he had recently graduated from university and was self-employed—essentially a resident musician at a bar. "You have a lovely voice," I said, "but lying to me won't get you anywhere." I tapped the file folder. "I've got all your information right here." "Alright, I know you don't believe me, but that's just how you are," he replied. "You've been saying some strange things since you walked in," I said, feeling a bit impatient. "Let me tell you, no matter how smooth you are with your words—even if we assume for a moment that you convinced me—there's no way I could help you get a reduced sentence or be released. I don’t have that authority, so just save your breath." "I'm not looking for a reduced sentence, Officer Ni. Why would someone who came here on purpose want to get out?" he replied. "I was just about to ask, how do you know my surname? That's supposed to be top secret, right? Or are you just testing me?" I was a bit confused, so I told myself it was okay. Even if he used to be a cult leader and is brainwashing me now, I don’t have the authority to let him go. Still, I need to figure out what kind of trick this bastard is playing on me. "You've told me a few times." "How many times?" I asked. "Eight times? Nine times? I can't remember," he said. "No, I mean, what do you mean? You, me—we haven't met before, right?" My thoughts were all jumbled by him, making it hard for me to speak clearly. "How can I explain this to you? Officer Ni, to be honest, I've explained it to you many times already, but you ask every time... well, not every time; there were two times you didn't ask." "Quit beating around the bush and just say it." I was getting really impatient. "Do you believe in time reversal? Have you ever felt like you've experienced the current situation before? Or do I look familiar to you, Officer Ni?" he asked. "If you're talking about time flowing backward, like reliving things, then I don't believe in that," I replied. "But..." I interrupted him before he could finish. "Are you really talking to me about the 'Mandela Effect'? Do you know I have a master's degree in psychology? Why would I believe such nonsense? Yes, you do look a bit familiar, but don’t take it personally; it’s just that you, sir, have such an ordinary face—just like names like 'Li Qiang' or 'Wang Gang'—so it’s natural for me to find you somewhat familiar." I felt a mix of wanting to laugh and being annoyed. I thought this man with the common face was mocking me, so I started tapping my fingers on the table to show my frustration. "I know, I know, of course I know, because you hardly ever believe me, and in the past, I’ve rarely succeeded in convincing you," he said again. "Come on, then tell me, what's my dad's name?" I began to provoke him. "You’ve never told me; maybe you can tell me now," he replied. "I don’t want to waste time with you, let’s move on," I glanced at the clock and realized that more than half an hour had already passed. "Why did you rob a bank? Rob a bank alone? Are you out of your mind?" I didn’t know why I was so irritated; perhaps his nonsense had gotten under my skin. "Everyone says it's because they're tired of it," he said again. "Sigh... never mind," I replied, not wanting to argue with him. I pulled out the case files and started copying them, even though I knew this was technically against the rules. "This is against regulations, Officer Ni, but it's not the first time you've done this." "..." I ignored him. "Listen!" he suddenly raised his voice a little. "Hm?" I quieted down, and then I heard the soft rustling of cicadas coming through that single barred window. "What's so strange about that? Those cicadas," I paused, "they always chirp at this time." "Yes, they always chirp at this time," he repeated, then added softly, "This moment!" "Huh." I chuckled, shaking my head, and went back to copying the files, my head down. "I envy them, being able to die this summer," he muttered to himself. "I'm really tired of this life. I can't die; I can only go through these days over and over again, because once I die, time will reset. All of this exists because of me, yet it's trapped in an endless loop." I couldn't help but laugh. This prisoner was going to great lengths to get my attention! Although I had no idea why he wanted to do this. "Born because of you? That's 'idealism,' right? It's similar to Descartes' 'I think, therefore I am.' Are you saying that this world exists because of you, and if you die, everything will return to nothingness? 'When the eyes open, flowers bloom; when the eyes close, flowers wither'?" Anyway, since I had some free time, I responded to him while copying some documents. "No, this is different; it doesn't necessarily relate to 'idealism,' Officer Ni. You haven't understood Descartes' statement. Simply put, everyone has an 'I,' but the world of that 'I' gets reset. On the road of time, 'you' or 'he' continues moving forward, but I will still encounter another 'you'... if I end up in prison again." He probably noticed that I finally responded, so he quickly added, "What a mess!" I couldn’t immediately understand what he meant; perhaps this is the result of not paying attention in my high school philosophy class… But I did quite well in Marxist philosophy during college. Oh well, why should I overthink it? This guy is probably just talking nonsense! “Are you saying that everyone is the protagonist of their own life?” I remarked, stating the obvious. “You could interpret it that way. It’s like countless movies—just alternating, overlapping improvisations without a script,” he replied. "Huh, I can't believe I'm having a philosophical discussion with a prisoner," I said disdainfully. "Are you saying you're stuck in today? Like in Liu Wenyang's 'One Day Prisoner'? Have you read it? The gist is… how should I put it… our movie ends when it's over, but you clicked 'replay this segment'?" "I haven't seen it, but... you've told me about it, I mean another version of you, several times—I've heard it countless times, all from you." He spoke more quickly, his face slightly flushed. According to neuropsychology, this indicates the secretion of dopamine and adrenaline—he was nervous; maybe he was lying, or perhaps he was just excited. "Those versions of me must have a lot of free time, but this version just wants to leave work early." I shrugged and continued writing. "I know you're really tired of this job; I get it," he said. "And how do you know that?" "Why don't you just quit your job? This isn't the life you want, is it?" What a shocking thing to say! Naturally, I was taken aback and then laughed, "I've met many prisoners, but you're the first one to suggest I quit. What would I do after that?" "Well, maybe you could be a science fiction writer—you've mentioned it sixteen times—or perhaps a musician. I've heard your songs three times. Sorry, but I can't really appreciate your music," he laughed as well. "That's interesting; I actually find what you're saying somewhat intriguing. But I've never written anything like that, and I certainly have no plans to release an album!" I studied him, wondering what exactly had given me away. I quickly glanced at the manuscript on the corner of the table to my right, then hurriedly returned my gaze to him. Could this prisoner have also studied psychology? “No, no, no, the sci-fi writer was mentioned by another version of you I met in a different timeline, and as for the musician, there were a few times when I wasn’t in prison, just wandering the streets…” He paused mid-sentence, leaving me in suspense. I must admit, this guy had piqued my curiosity a bit. I looked at his name on the paper once more: Lin Shisheng. "Did you see anyone handing out flyers for my concert?" "No, I saw you sitting on the ground with a cardboard box... and holding a guitar." Like a beggar? I imagined that scene, and it was oddly amusing. "Alright, fine, if I ever quit my job, I won't be a musician anymore," I replied casually. "Who can say for sure? But about that 'One Day Prisoner' you just mentioned, I'm actually a bit different from him. Every time I die, I come back to my current age. In fact, there was a time I lived to 82, but then I suddenly died of a heart attack, and when I woke up, I was 25 again." "Heart disease? It says here that you’re very healthy, except for having too many cavities..." I pointed to his file folder, looking him in the eye. "Yes, I ate too much sugar when I was a kid, Officer Ni." "Alright, so how old are you actually?" "I haven't counted, maybe a few hundred years? Over a thousand? I've run into you 999 times just coming here!" he said. "To be honest with you, over these thousand years, I've tried my hand at everything. Why do you think I mastered all instruments by the age of twenty-five? I might as well tell you that in my previous life—I mean, in a parallel world—I even went on countless world tours!" I laughed. The way he spoke really made him sound like a famous celebrity with a high opinion of himself. "Isn't it a coincidence that it's exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine times?" I asked. "No, it's because of the infinite cycles of time, combined with my repeated thoughts of coming here, that made this appearance inevitable. It's like when I met you for the 250th time and said 'two-fifty'; you thought I was insulting you and got angry," he laughed. "That makes sense," I nodded. "Are you like 'The Man from Earth'? It's a movie you should know, right?" "You've mentioned this to me before, but I don't see myself as being as great as him; in fact, I feel too ordinary. That man's greatness is beyond reason... No, in the context of long, endless time, his existence makes sense." His tone suddenly grew heavy again. "Moreover, that man possesses an endless lifespan, while I'm just like an ant on a Möbius strip—an ant that will always return to its starting point, no matter how far it wanders." His words carried a hint of loneliness, and his aged eyes seemed even older. "Since you've come here so many times, aren't you tired of it?" I asked. "What do you want to do? Why do you keep coming back?" "I want to persuade you," he said, suddenly showing a spark of enthusiasm. "You know, you've become an old friend of mine over this long stretch of time." "I'm truly honored. Were there no others before?" I replied. "Actually, there were, but because of this endless cycle, I don't enjoy being around people. Do you understand that feeling? It's like playing the same game level a thousand times. I always want to explore new quests and unlock new characters, but I inevitably end up getting bored..." he said. Games? I can't remember the last time I played. Back in my younger days, especially during middle school, I didn't have many friends. Instead, I really enjoyed playing single-player games. However, I would quickly become addicted and then grow tired of them just as fast. I would repeatedly grind the same level for better gear, then use that gear to tackle new levels, continuing this cycle over and over again... Until one day, I thought to myself, "What's the point of playing these games? Am I really happy?" I finally realized, or rather, finally admitted to myself: "I'm just afraid of being alone, afraid of not knowing what to do." After accepting my solitude, I rarely played games anymore... "During this time, there's one thing I haven't accomplished: convincing you," he interrupted my thoughts. "Here we go again, convincing me of what?" "To resign." I laughed and said, "But you mentioned that in some timelines, I wasn't a prison guard, so why bother convincing this version of me?" "Because I saw you, I met you, and you listened to me," he said. "The other versions of you aren't this you." "But for you, isn't there really no difference?" I replied. "From the moment you were willing to listen to me, there was a difference," he said. "That sounds like a player sweet-talking a girl," I laughed uncontrollably. Lin Shisheng at least brought a bit of joy to my otherwise dull life as a prison guard. "Why do you always seem to return to the age of twenty-five?" My curiosity was fully piqued, so I asked him. "I don't know; it wasn't like that at first. It was only after I first ran into you that it became this way. Maybe fate wanted me to guide you, which is why I keep encountering you. Honestly, there were a few times after I turned twenty-five when I didn't seek you out, even tried to avoid you, but I still ended up meeting you again. It's really unfortunate," he said. "The first time I met you, it was because I was tired of my life and thought, why not try going to jail? After all these long years, I've learned so much, but I've never tried being in prison..." "You are someone who can control time..." I suddenly said. "No, I am a person ruled by time," he said. "I am fundamentally a law-abiding citizen. Even though I know that, for me, the world can be reset infinitely, I still don't want to harm others... I don't want to hurt anyone because I understand more deeply than anyone else just how dull repetitive days can be. I am a prisoner of time, so being in jail feels no different to me, as I've always been in prison—repeating, repeating, endlessly..." "Hmm, I believe you." I nodded, uncertain if I truly believed him or was just placating him, but at least I no longer felt that he was merely toying with me as I had at first. Maybe it was his sincere tone and expression? Or perhaps he had touched on a sensitive spot in my heart? Or could it simply be an instinctive trust in an old friend? The room was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. In this tightly sealed chamber, I had witnessed many people break down in tears, confessing their past sins. Others screamed hysterically, pretending to be mad or perhaps genuinely losing their minds. They would shout, "Let me out! Let me out!" followed by a torrent of profanities. In moments like this, I would tell them not to waste their energy, as no one but me could hear them. Then they would begin to repent—those with faith would plead for God's forgiveness, while those without faith would wail in despair. There were also those who threatened me. I once met a prisoner who claimed he would escape from prison within three months and come back to kill us all. But those guys never managed to do it. They either served their full sentences and were released, or they’re still in prison, or after being released, they ended up back in prison again and again. How tedious those people are. I looked at Lin Shisheng. He was like many prisoners before him, yet different. He seemed to have accepted his fate—unlike the others who could at least still roar, he had no way to resist. Or rather, he had tried to resist, just like the others, but his cries were sealed within the prison called "time"—a dark and lonely chamber—time and again. No one could hear his wails. So, he finally fell silent, remaining so for a long, long time before he met me. "But why you?" At least in my view, the person before me right now—Lin Shisheng—doesn't seem like a bad person who deserves punishment; he certainly shouldn't face such a severe penalty. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe I've offended Chronos?" "Chronos?" I hesitated for a moment. "I'm sorry, I don't know much about theology." I'm an atheist; I've never believed in the so-called 'gods' of ordinary people. My understanding of philosophical systems outside of Marxism is superficial at best, and my knowledge of theology is even less. "It's all right, I know you 'once' said that," he seemed to take it for granted. "As for Chronos, he is the Greek god of time and the first deity of this universe. In Greek mythology, he is the source of everything, governing time and standing above all else; or rather, he is everything itself, the origin of all... As for the one you mentioned, that's the Titan king, the one who was deposed by Zeus. This isn't the first time you've mixed them up." "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I laughed awkwardly. "The essence of everything? So, is it similar to what scientists call a 'singularity'? Or perhaps like the 'Great Tao' in Taoism? But what does this have to do with him?" "'Singularity?' You could see it that way. As for the connection... In Greek mythology, there was a man named Sisyphus who, after deceiving Death, Thanatos, was punished to endlessly push a boulder up a mountain. Every time he reached the top, the boulder would roll back down to the bottom. You know that story, right?" "You are like him." I replied immediately, "That man, I know about him." "Yes, I'm starting to suspect that Sisyphus was my past life." He gave a wry smile. "After all, in this life, I truly believe I've never intentionally deceived anyone... especially not the gods. Could it be that I did something wrong in my previous life? I suppose that's the only way I can think about it..." "Ah." I sighed. His candid and sincere words made me, as an atheist, feel for the first time that the nebulous and elusive gods were so capricious. "No need to sigh; think positively. At least I don't have to endlessly push a boulder up a hill like Sisyphus," he chuckled again. "In fact, I'm much better off than he was. I've done all the things I enjoy, even if, to others, those experiences might seem like mere illusions. But I know they are all part of my true past." He paused for a moment, then continued: "It's exactly because I know I've accomplished it that there's nothing to regret. Just think about it: even though I've gone through thousands of painful experiences—like losing loved ones—from a different perspective, haven't I also experienced thousands of beautiful moments, like... being able to see my departed loved ones again?" "Being enlightened by my own prisoner, now that's a first," I said. "There's a first time for everything, Officer Ni. For me, this is already the several hundredth time," he replied. I laughed heartily. This person is quite interesting. "It turns out that 'truth' can be such a subjective thing," I said with a smile. "I always thought that 'truth' should be something objective." "Would you like to hear a story, Officer Ni?" he asked. "A story I've never told you before, never in any time or space." "I'm all ears," I replied. "About thirty years later, a device called a 'remote sensing device' emerged. Let me explain it simply: around ten to twenty years ago, humans made communication devices visual, as you know. Now, thirty years later, this 'remote sensing device' adds a sense of 'touch' to its sensing capabilities." "I get it; now gangs can have remote showdowns," I joked. "It's not that dramatic, but quite a few long-distance couples use it to... engage in that kind of activity," he said. "Sexual intercourse?" I realized. "Yes, sexual intercourse," he confirmed. "I thought you were going to tell a story. Why did you suddenly bring this up?" I was at a loss for words. "Because you mentioned 'real,' let me ask you: do you think remote sex is real?" He looked at me and said, "At first, this technology was a bit immature, but due to strong market demand, it quickly became highly refined, capable of simulating a 100% authentic experience." "You said it yourself. Since it's a 'simulation,' it can't possibly be real." "Listen to me, do you know how advanced this technology has become? You can even set up certain programs to prepare your frozen sperm or something at the other person's location, and even if you're in Beijing and she's in New York, you can make her pregnant from a distance." He laughed. "Remote pregnancy" has become more than just a joke; it's actually quite concerning. "Well, that's not really real, is it?" "What if someone cheats on their partner like this? Would that be considered real? For example, your... um..." He suddenly paused, then continued, "Anyway, no matter how you look at it, it's all the same, just a bit more complicated." "On this matter, I have my reservations." I wasn't quite sure how to refute him. His question was essentially a variation of the "Brain in a Vat" thought experiment: How can you be certain that your so-called "reality" isn't merely a "simulation"? When technology truly reaches that level, how can you distinguish between "simulation" and "reality"? "Officer Ni, I just feel that 'reality' can sometimes become less objective, so I believe my experiences, much like having intercourse with this kind of sensory device, are all 'real'." He laughed joyfully, like a child who had just won a game—probably because he realized I couldn't refute him. In fact, I think what he just said wasn't meant only for me; he was likely saying it to himself too, repeating it a thousand times, ten thousand times. Aside from this Ah Q spirit, what else could keep him from going mad in this long, repetitive cycle? I hesitate to look at the clock. Suddenly, I feel a twinge of fear about the passage of time. The ticking of the second hand, which I used to listen to and count when I was bored, now feels unbearably loud. I'm afraid this cheerful atmosphere will vanish in an instant. I wonder, what more should I say? I glance at the window with iron bars. It's already winter, yet in this big southern city, it’s surprisingly not cold at all. No, should I say that I’ve long since become accustomed to the cold? Eight years ago, I was still living in that small town in the north. It’s probably just like always there, with heavy snow falling like goose feathers—much colder than it is here. Every year, after the last snowfall at the end of winter, the townspeople would gather in the square to set off 88 or 99 rounds of fireworks together, to ward off the cold and drive away the bad luck accumulated over the year. Children would throw snowballs and run around the square. But why did I leave that place? For a better life? A higher income? I can’t quite remember anymore. "So, what style do you think I should go for? I mean, if I quit my job, maybe I could try something new." Not wanting to dwell on the past any longer, I forced a smile and shifted the topic back to myself. "Jazz? British rock? You could give both a try, but please, just don’t sing folk songs anymore. I’ve heard your folk songs three times, and they were all unbearable." He laughed as well. So we both started laughing, and at that moment, I suddenly had a strange feeling: Lin Shisheng wasn’t my prisoner, but an old friend I had known for many years. [Knock knock knock] A sudden knock at the door broke the silence. I glanced at the time; it was almost time. Lin Shisheng looked at me, and I met his gaze as we fell silent. "I’ll think it over carefully." After what felt like an eternity, I inexplicably said those words. "It's about time, Officer Ni. I should be going," he nodded. "Are you in a hurry?" I asked. "I’ve said everything I needed to say. For me, what does it matter whether it’s urgent or not? I’m just a prisoner, and I have plenty of days ahead of me," he replied. Yes, he still has to spend a long time in prison... I suddenly thought, no, if what he’s saying is true, then the prison he’s referring to isn’t this one with its cold, stark white walls around me. And this "long time" isn’t just a "fixed-term imprisonment" of over ten years anymore. "Can you tell me the lottery numbers for the next draw?" I suddenly asked. "I don’t know if telling you would cause any changes in time, but I might remember," he said thoughtfully. "Let me think about it." In fact, I had so many things I wanted to ask—about the future, about myself, about him—but what came out was this baffling question: do I really want to win the lottery? Maybe, but not at this moment. "I was just joking," I said. "How many times have I asked you for lottery numbers?" "First time." With that, the room fell silent again. "Should I press it?" I asked, pointing at the call button, unable to believe I was actually asking a prisoner's opinion. "Go ahead; I'm really sorry for taking up so much of your time," he replied. I initially wanted to say, "Nice to meet you," but then I felt it was a bit strange to say that to a prisoner. So I pressed the call button, signaling that my work was done, and a few colleagues came in to take Lin Shisheng away. My friend—Old Li, who was also a prison guard handling psychological matters—entered as well. He watched me as I saw Lin Shisheng off, seemingly noticing that I was lost in thought. Whether it was a matter of unspoken understanding or not, Lin Shisheng and I didn't exchange another word. "Hey, Old Ni, what's wrong? You seem a bit off," Old Li said, looking at me. "Don't you think Lin Shisheng is special?" I asked him. "What... who? Are you talking about that suspect from just now?" Old Li said, taken aback. "Special? Is he? He has a mental illness, you know. Didn’t you read the file properly? His delusions are severe, probably due to experiencing a lot of bullying in school and domestic violence during his childhood," Old Li sighed. "Mm." I replied, glancing at the corner of the table on my right. "He's also a pitiful person. When we arrested him, he was actually laughing," Old Li continued. "Speaking of which, is it because of a breakup? I heard from Old Chen that your recent psychological evaluation..." "I know." I interrupted Old Li with a slight smile. "I know, I know everything, but this has nothing to do with his uniqueness." "That kind of woman, you don't need to..." Yes, Lin Shisheng is a mentally ill person—at least that's what the records say. I realized it when I was halfway through copying his file. But does it really matter? Later, about a month later, I finished the handover and resigned from my job as a prison guard. My boss asked me why. Was it a pay issue? I said no, it was about "time." He didn’t understand and thought I was saying I didn’t have enough vacation time. He offered to arrange more time off for me. But I politely declined, saying, “I want to do something I love.” “What is it that you love?” he asked, looking puzzled. “Maybe... becoming a science fiction writer? Or a musician?” I was uncertain myself, or rather confused. I didn’t have a clear idea, but I wanted to try and experience a different kind of life. He nodded and said, “You know, many people would love to be in your position.” “It’s alright. Thank you for your support, sir.” Seeing that I was determined to leave, my boss stopped insisting that I stay. Later, I became a science fiction writer and occasionally sang on the streets. I ignored his advice and continued to write many folk songs—songs that, like my books, simply wouldn’t sell. So I could only stand beneath the starry sky, by the roadside filled with car exhaust, or sing in bars lost in hedonistic revelry. I sang about youthful ideals, lamented life’s trivialities in my songs, and reflected on wasted years. Sometimes, people would give me a little money, pausing briefly to listen to my singing. Other times, when I encountered city management officers, they would chase me away. After all, life can never be like poetry, as poetry is visible, romantic, and elegant, while life is bitter, exhausting, and uncertain. Yet, this is the essence of life. Though I may drift, I am not weary of it; human existence becomes meaningful through various opportunities. Even if I encounter setbacks and hardships, just thinking of Lin Shisheng gives me a surprising motivation—not to be defeated by the repetitive, long, and mundane days. I have always wanted to write down the story of my encounter with him, but I have yet to complete it. That story named after him—"Shi Sheng." Five years after I left my job, one day while having dinner with Old Li, I suddenly heard that "he" had died. Old Li told me that a prisoner had unexpectedly died of a heart attack, the kind that comes without any warning. "I remember that person; you and Old Liu interrogated him together, right?" Old Li looked at me. "I remember," I replied. Old Li probably couldn’t quite recall his name. But I knew it was Lin Shisheng; it had to be him. The restaurant's clock is electronic, hanging silently on the wall, but I know time continues to march on, second by second. I feel a weight on my chest. I open my mouth, wanting to say something, but the words won't come. The distant sunset, reflected in the restaurant's window, gradually fades from view, but I know that tomorrow, that red glow will rise again, just like it always has, just like every day. So I think, perhaps Lin Shisheng is the same. Perhaps he is having our thousandth meeting. No, perhaps he has finally been freed from the long, endless time. Epilogue. It's around three o'clock in the afternoon. The walls are grayish-white, and the scorching sunlight streams through the small window onto the floor. The wall clock ticks away with a "ta-ta-ta," and there is no other sound. I sit at the desk, pick up a pen, and write: We are always in "chains."