Chapter 24

The evening breeze stirred up the sand and gravel on the ground, filling the air with a dusty smell. I gazed at the end of this road, which, like the other end, was deserted.

Not really. Small groups of people crossed the zebra crossing, and cycling groups came one after another. I say this only because no one was looking in our direction.

These old ruins are a common sight, and no one would think they are important to anyone.

I can't quite describe how I feel. This place is meaningful to Gu Xinglian, but not to me. And now, besides standing here and staring at it as if mourning a dead person, I can't find any other way to do anything.

I found a reasonably flat spot to sit down.

There were no construction crews nearby, only an old, dilapidated excavator. It was clearly visible that its front blade was tilted, about 70 degrees off its normal position. Its left tire was broken, lying listlessly in a ball on the ground beside it. It wasn't a tool anymore; now it sat there as part of the same rubble or debris.

A slightly cool breeze ruffled my hair. I saw a family of three strolling happily under a streetlamp in the distance; the mother held the child's hand, and the father held his too. I could almost feel the sweat on their palms, but even though their hands were as sweaty as those dripping under the scorching summer sun, no one wanted to let go. That awkward, yet tender, hand-holding—they seemed to both sense that tomorrow might not be a happy day. A slight tremor in their fingertips, soft fingers fidgeting nervously, palms pressed together as close as possible.

Dad was also walking a puppy. The puppy was the child's favorite friend; it was lively, clever, healthy, and full of energy. It came to the family when the child was three years old, at three months old, and now the child is seven. They spent a carefree life together, even sleeping on the same pillow. They would even lick each other's fur, though the child would quickly spit out what was in their mouth.

They disappeared quickly. It's always like that, they disappear quickly. As they disappeared, my memories began to return, and I recalled something from my childhood, even though I didn't know why this scene brought it up, since I had no recollection of it no matter what I tried.

Before recalling it, I turned my head to my left. I knew it was there, that guy named Ward. Did I need to talk to it to prove its existence?

I couldn't be bothered to prove it. It's either here or it isn't; it's Schrödinger's Ward, even though it's mine, in a way. Is it my cat? I laughed at myself, shaking with laughter. It was only 7:30 PM; the night felt so long.

That probably happened when I was seven. Maybe I don't remember it very clearly. As long as there are things that happen, it's enough to feel grateful; whether I remember my age or not doesn't matter.

My family also has a dog. My impression of it is like this, because I have a mental image of it: a cute little black guy with jet-black eyes, slightly yellowed ear edges, a round belly, and snow-white paws—a little mixed-breed dog. I can't tell if these are characteristics I've imposed on it or if it's just how clearly I remember it, but anyway, I like it very much.

It's such a cute little guy. Whenever it looks at me with those eyes, I can instantly understand what it wants to do. It makes eye contact with people purposefully; for example, in this case, it's bringing me something new—something it likes, or something it thinks I need, something it's worked hard to get that will make its glossy black fur dirty.

It was run over by a car while excitedly dragging its precious possession to me.

It was also in the afternoon. After all, it was the afternoon. The summer afternoon light was indescribably blinding; the stark white light and high temperature made the driver's vision fatigued, and dizziness could occur at any time.

The asphalt road is dark, and so is it.

The driver quickly got out of the car, apologized to the owner, and paid two hundred yuan in compensation. It was a dog, and he hadn't done it intentionally; besides, the family was respectable. The dog's body lay by the roadside, and I thought of burying it if no one else did. Then came a rather heartwarming scene: my family carefully buried it in the yard, and I quietly buried a flower seed for it in front of my window.

No one knows it died for me. Some only say how much it loved that broken thing, so much that it ran across the street, unwilling to stop until it brought it back to its cozy little home. No one knows its last wish; only I had looked into its eyes before it died, its moist eyes pure and brave. I took the thing it had been carrying home, not wanting to wash off the bloodstains, yet afraid of attracting flies and mosquitoes, so after a moment of stunned silence, I buried it with its little mound.

That's all I can recall. Besides it and me, all the other characters appeared as supporting roles; their eyes were indistinct, and the colors of their clothes blended together. I only remember the environment: a blinding world, a dimly lit room, and a red calendar behind me. I don't know if it was influenced by Gu Xinglian, but the words on it were from the same company. I tore off that piece of paper, marked its death date on it, and then carefully and meticulously pasted it on the wall.

The pristine white wall now bears an unsightly, jarring mark, yet every time I look at it, I can feel its soft fur. Its four legs move swiftly and steadily, its round body wobbling slightly, but this doesn't hinder its speed at all. Its ears sway left and right, their pale yellow edges like gold gilded by the sun itself, fluttering like tiny wings. Its bark is short and endearing, starting with a powerful build-up, reaching its loudest point in the middle, and ending with a series of coquettish "woof woof woof..."

It's a very touching memory, yet I still feel a barrier between myself and it. This reaction is common; all the so-called "déjà vu" experiences I've had bring about this feeling. It belongs to me, but I can't get close; no matter how far I go, I can't become one with it.

I muttered to myself, "This place actually conflicts with my previous memories... I only felt pain before, but I didn't expect it to be so warm."

I was sure Ward heard me, but it didn't speak. I didn't speak either. Fewer and fewer people were around; those taking a walk were preparing to go home to shower and rest, and the cyclists were going further and further away. I felt inexplicably thirsty, my throat was burning, and a metallic sweetness filled my mouth. I subconsciously wiped my hand in front of my eyes, but there was no blood.

I chuckled inwardly at myself for being so burdened by a hospital stay and developing a fear I'd never experienced before. I got up from the ground, dusted myself off, and a gust of wind nearby did the same, dusting itself off as well. I asked, "They haven't been around for a long time. Did you chase them away for me?"

Ward said, "Yes, I've always wanted to protect you."

I gave a short laugh and slowly walked towards home.