Chapter 3

Jin Zhaoxuan was awakened by a strange sensation—his neck felt cool and heavy, as if he were being used as a pillow by a piece of breathing jelly.

He groggily opened his eyes and looked down.

Then he saw it.

A tiny, hand warmer-sized Yin Shaoqing was lying on his side in the hollow of his collarbone, eyes closed, his translucent body rising and falling slightly with some kind of rhythm—do ghosts need to breathe? What the hell is this supernatural sleep pattern?

Even more outrageous is that this miniature young man from the Republic of China era is sleeping quite peacefully, with a faint smile on his lips, as if he is having a sweet dream about a radiator.

"...Holy crap."

Jin Zhaoxuan froze, not daring to even move his eyes. A hundred possibilities flashed through his mind: Had Yin Shaoqing exhausted his energy and vanished? Had he sleepwalked and climbed on top of him in the middle of the night? Or had this old house finally started mass-producing ghost figurines?

He carefully, as if defusing a bomb, pulled out his phone from under his pillow, held his breath, and turned on the camera.

On the screen, the chibi version of Yin Shaoqing was indeed sleeping soundly on his neck, with his translucent little hand loosely gripping the corner of his pajamas collar.

"Hey," Jin Zhaoxuan said in a breathy voice, "Teacher Yin? Wake up, you've wandered onto the wrong set."

The younger version of Yin Shaoqing wrinkled his nose, but didn't wake up.

Jin Zhaoxuan took a deep breath and tried to poke it with his fingertip—his fingertip went right through, like inserting it into a jelly made of cold mist. But the sensation was still there, cool and refreshing.

This time, Yin Shaoqing woke up.

He opened his eyes in confusion, first looking at the ceiling, then looking down and seeing Jin Zhaoxuan's large face so close to his.

"..."

The next second, he sprang up with a "whoosh" and floated three meters away in mid-air, his body glowing with a faint pink aura from the shock—a ghostly blush.

"I'm so sorry!" He stammered. "I don't know how... I was clearly resting in the mirror last night, but in the latter half of the night I felt... extremely cold, and then I sensed warmth here, so..."

His voice grew softer and softer as he spoke, until it was almost a mosquito's hum.

Jin Zhaoxuan sat up and touched his neck—the skin there was still cool, like he'd just had a fever-reducing patch on. He realized that his 36.5-degree Celsius body temperature was probably a walking, breathing hand warmer plus for Yin Shaoqing.

"Never mind." He waved his hand. "But can you recover like this? Last night you were so bland you were practically a mosaic."

Yin Shaoqing floated to the dressing mirror and looked at himself: "It seems... better. But it's not completely healed yet."

How long will it take?

"I don't know." Yin Shaoqing's honesty was heartbreaking. "I've never been this...exhausted before."

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at him for a while, then suddenly jumped up from the bed and rushed to the box of AR devices in the corner that was printed with "Light of the Metaverse".

"What are you doing?" Yin Shaoqing asked curiously as he floated over.

"Try this." Jin Zhaoxuan dug out a palm-sized black disc from the bottom of the box. It had English words he couldn't understand printed on it: "Wireless charging dock, for charging your phone."

Yin Shaoqing tilted his head: "Charging?"

"It's for replenishing energy." Jin Zhaoxuan placed the disc on the table and plugged it in. The disc lit up with a "beep" and a ring of eerie blue light, giving it a high-tech feel.

He gestured with his chin toward Yin Shaoqing: "Try standing on it."

Yin Shaoqing floated above the disc with a mixture of belief and doubt, and slowly descended—

Buzz.

The disc emitted a brilliant blue light and even a slight buzzing sound.

Yin Shaoqing exclaimed "Ah!" and his body solidified at a visible speed, and the mosaic-like fragments at the edges disappeared.

"It works!" Jin Zhaoxuan's eyes lit up.

“Indeed…” Yin Shaoqing raised his hand, looking at his palm that had become clearer, an incredulous expression on his face, “There is a kind of… warmth. Although my body is still cold.”

"Then charge it a little longer." Jin Zhaoxuan pushed the disc in front of the dressing mirror. "From now on, this will be your personal power bank, with 24-hour power."

Yin Shaoqing stood on the glowing disc, looking down at his gradually recovering body, and suddenly smiled.

"What are you laughing at?" Jin Zhaoxuan was putting on his pants and almost got hit on the hand by the belt buckle.

“I just feel,” Yin Shaoqing said softly, “that eighty years from now, even ghosts will need to ‘recharge.’ This world… is truly mysterious.”

Jin Zhaoxuan fastened his belt and glanced at him: "Be content, at least you don't have to pay for electricity."

At nine o'clock in the morning, Jin Zhaoxuan had to go to the company for that inevitably awful meeting. Before leaving, he assigned Yin Shaoqing his "tasks for the day".

"No live stream today, you can focus on recovering your losses." He placed his phone next to the wireless charging pad and opened a video app. "But you can watch some TV dramas and learn some common sense about modern life—and by the way, no more watching the documentary 'Iron Smelting Process'!"

Yin Shaoqing obediently nodded while floating on the charging pad: "Okay."

“And this too.” Jin Zhaoxuan pointed to the bulging plastic bag on the kitchen counter. “It’s the pickled cabbage my mom brought. Please put it in the refrigerator for me.”

How to place it?

"Just..." Jin Zhaoxuan gestured, "Pick up the bag, open the refrigerator door, put it in, and close the door. You know how?"

Yin Shaoqing floated into the kitchen, stared at the bag of sauerkraut for three seconds, and solemnly extended his hand—

The hand went through it.

He tried again, and managed to get through. His translucent fingers tumbled around inside the plastic bag, as if stirring up a wisp of non-existent air.

Yin Shaoqing stood there, stunned, his whole being—and his ghost—felt somewhat dim.

Jin Zhaoxuan slapped his forehead: "I forgot you can't touch physical objects... Alright, I'll deal with it when I get back."

He walked to the door, then turned back as he changed his shoes: "By the way, if you're bored... you can send me a WeChat message."

How to send it?

“Use your phone.” Jin Zhaoxuan pointed to the phone next to the charging pad. “Can’t you squeeze in there? Open that green icon, find my profile picture, and type.”

Yin Shaoqing's eyes lit up instantly, like light bulbs being turned on: "Great!"

After Jin Zhaoxuan left, the old house fell into silence.

Yin Shaoqing "charged" on the charging pad for half an hour, feeling that the energy had been restored by more than half. He then excitedly floated to the phone, studied it for three minutes, and finally managed to "squeeze" into the screen—this time the action was much more skillful, like coming home.

He found Jin Zhaoxuan's profile picture in his WeChat contacts—a night view of Anshan Iron and Steel Group's blast furnace—and clicked on it.

Then he stared into deep thought at the blank input box.

What should I send?

He thought for a moment, then cautiously and deliberately typed:

[To Mr. Jin: I have safely entered this realm, and everything is going smoothly. Please do not worry.]

Click send.

Five seconds later, the phone vibrated.

Jin Zhaoxuan replied with a huge question mark: 【?】

Then another message followed: 【What kind of Republican-era official document tone is this? Are you sending a telegram?】

Yin Shaoqing was puzzled: [How should this be expressed?]

Jin Zhaoxuan: [Just say "I've arrived" or "I've accessed my phone."]

Yin Shaoqing: [Understood.]

Five minutes later, he posted again: "Mr. Jin, may I ask why the word 'ice' is used in the name of a 'refrigerator'? There is no ice inside."

Jin Zhaoxuan: [...because it cools.]

Yin Shaoqing: [How to refrigerate?]

Jin Zhaoxuan: [The principles are quite complex; I'll explain them to you when I get home tonight. Now, let's have a meeting.]

Yin Shaoqing: [Okay. I wish the meeting a complete success.]

Jin Zhaoxuan did not reply.

Yin Shaoqing waited for a while and then decided to take the advice and watch a TV series.

He opened the video app, and the homepage recommendation was "A Family in Northeast China".

After watching for ten minutes, Yin Shaoqing fell into a deep philosophical dilemma:

Why do these people always use words like "what," "how," and "well" in their speech?

Why did that old woman keep saying "Oh my god"? Is her mother still alive?

Why do they dip their dumplings in soy sauce? What about vinegar? Or minced garlic?

But he kept watching anyway. Because... it was inexplicably interesting.

Jin Zhaoxuan's company meeting went even worse than expected.

The investor representative was a young man with slicked-back hair. As he spoke, his fingers tapped incessantly on the table, like he was playing a sonata titled "Go Bankrupt Quickly": "Mr. Jin, we've seen the data. There's definitely buzz from the live stream, but what about conversions? Orders? We can't keep living off 'industrial sentiment,' can we?"

In the meeting room, five employees had their heads down, and two of them were already secretly browsing recruitment apps.

"Next month," the slick-haired man said, holding up one finger, "if there's still no substantial revenue, we'll have to withdraw our investment. I hope you understand that capital is profit-driven."

After the meeting, Jin Zhaoxuan smoked half a pack of cigarettes in a toilet stall.

When they came out, the technical supervisor, Xiao Chen, was waiting outside, his eyes unusually bright: "President Jin! There's a chance!"

"Transfer my ass." Jin Zhaoxuan rinsed his mouth. "All I want now is to sell the company."

"Really!" Xiao Chen shoved the tablet in front of him. "I contacted the Ansteel Museum! They watched the recording of Professor Yin's live stream and were very interested! They want to collaborate on developing an AR guided tour project called 'Old Workers Tell History'!"

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the plan, his heart skipped a beat.

The museum proposed using virtual character technology to restore the image and voice of the old workers, so that visitors could hear them tell the history of Ansteel "face to face"—isn't this the same as Yin Shaoqing's live streaming model?

"How much are they willing to pay?" This was Jin Zhaoxuan's biggest concern.

"Our initial budget is 300,000!" Xiao Chen exclaimed excitedly, "That should last us for three months!"

Jin Zhaoxuan took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down: "But... Yin Shaoqing is not a real person."

“We can do it!” Xiao Chen lowered his voice. “We can use Professor Yin’s live stream recordings as training material to create an AI model! We can use his virtual avatar for the appearance and the content he talked about for the knowledge base—after all, the audience won’t know if it’s real or fake!”

Jin Zhaoxuan remained silent.

Using Yin Shaoqing's image and voice, create an AI replica?

"Let me think about it some more," he said.

At noon, Jin Zhaoxuan's phone vibrated while he was eating his takeout lunch at his workstation.

Yin Shaoqing sent a message: "Mr. Jin, I understand."

Jin Zhaoxuan nearly choked on a mouthful of rice: [What have you realized?]

Yin Shaoqing: [“Aiya ma ya” is actually an exclamation, similar to the ancient “Waa aaa.” “Zheng” means “to do” or “to accomplish,” so “za zheng” means “how to do it.”]

Jin Zhaoxuan: "..."

He replied: 【What show are you watching?】

Yin Shaoqing: [“A Family in Northeast China”. It’s quite interesting. I even learned a few new phrases.]

Jin Zhaoxuan had a bad feeling: [What sentence?]

Three seconds later, Yin Shaoqing sent a voice message.

Jin Zhaoxuan clicked on it.

The receiver carried Yin Shaoqing's refined, Republican-era Mandarin, delivered in a clear and articulate tone, as if he were broadcasting the evening news:

"What are you looking at? What's it to you?"

Jin Zhaoxuan sprayed a mouthful of cola onto the keyboard.

He typed with trembling hands: "Don't say this sentence again."

Yin Shaoqing: [Why? The characters in the play often say this.]

Jin Zhaoxuan: [That's a provocation, and it could easily escalate into a physical altercation.]

Yin Shaoqing: [Oh. Then I'll say something else.]

Another voice message: "What are you doing? Stop spouting nonsense in that corner!"

Jin Zhaoxuan rubbed his forehead, realizing his Northeastern dialect teaching plan had seriously gone astray: [This sentence is even worse.]

Yin Shaoqing sent a sad emoticon: 【(。︿。) 】

—He's even learned how to use emojis.

Jin Zhaoxuan looked at the emoticon and couldn't help but laugh out loud in the empty office.

At 3 p.m., Jin Zhaoxuan slipped away early—he had to go back and deal with the bag of sauerkraut that was about to ferment into a biological weapon, and also check if Yin Shaoqing had crashed the phone system.

As soon as I got to the bottom of the old house, I heard a heated argument coming from inside.

It was Yin Shaoqing speaking, but his tone... was as impassioned as an academic debate.

"No! This method is utterly flawed! It goes against science!"

Jin Zhaoxuan's heart skipped a beat, and he pulled out his keys and rushed upstairs.

Open the door.

In the living room, a phone rested on a charging pad. On the screen, Yin Shaoqing sat upright, his expression serious as if facing a formidable enemy. And on the other side of the phone—

It's his mother.

Jin Zhaoxuan's mind went blank for a moment, and his CPU almost burned out.

"Mom? What's wrong...?"

"I'm here to deliver some pickles!" Mrs. Jin said, pointing at her phone screen as she carried another bulging plastic bag. "I was just checking in on you—and found you were video chatting with someone! Who's this young man? He's really handsome!"

Jin Zhaoxuan broke out in a cold sweat: "This, this is the historical consultant my company hired, Mr. Yin..."

"Hello, Teacher Yin!" Jin's mother enthusiastically leaned in front of the screen, her face almost touching the camera. "I was just telling Teacher Yin that sauerkraut can't be put in the refrigerator, it has to be pickled in a jar! He insisted that the refrigerator is more scientific!"

On the screen, Yin Shaoqing argued forcefully: "Auntie, refrigerators can precisely control the temperature and inhibit the growth of bacteria, making them more hygienic than traditional earthenware jars..."

"What do you know!" Mrs. Jin said, hands on her hips, her voice booming with authority. "Sauerkraut has to have that 'jar flavor'! What you pickle in the refrigerator, is that sauerkraut? That's just cold cabbage salad!"

"But……"

"No buts!" Mrs. Jin turned and glared at Jin Zhaoxuan. "Son, where did you find this consultant? He's very knowledgeable, but he's completely out of touch with reality!"

Jin Zhaoxuan: "..."

How can he explain that this "out-of-touch" consultant is a ghost from the Republic of China era who died more than eighty years ago and only recently learned to use WeChat?

“Mom,” he forced a smile, “Professor Yin studies history and is not very familiar with modern life…”

"I can tell!" Jin's mother turned to the screen again, her tone softening. "Teacher Yin, judging from your accent, you're not from around here?"

Yin Shaoqing hesitated for a moment: "I... grew up in Anshan when I was young."

"Then why don't you pickle sauerkraut?"

“When I was young… I didn’t need to do these chores at home.”

"Oh, from a scholarly family!" Mrs. Jin's eyes lit up. "Your family is well-off, aren't they? You seem to be!"

Yin Shaoqing forced a smile: "It's acceptable."

Mrs. Jin liked it more and more as she looked at it, and began to ask questions: "How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend? Where do you work?"

"Mom!" Jin Zhaoxuan quickly interrupted, "Teacher Yin is busy, please don't disturb her work!"

"What work? We're just chatting!" Jin's mother glared at him, then smiled and said to Yin Shaoqing, "Teacher Yin, come over for dinner this weekend! Auntie will make you sauerkraut, pork belly, and blood sausage, and teach you how to properly pickle sauerkraut!"

Yin Shaoqing looked at Jin Zhaoxuan, at a loss.

Jin Zhaoxuan grabbed his phone: "Mom, Teacher Yin has to go on a business trip this weekend! Next time, next time for sure!"

He practically shoved and pushed his mother out the door.

After closing the door, Jin Zhaoxuan leaned against it, letting out a long sigh; his back was soaked with sweat.

On the phone screen, Yin Shaoqing asked cautiously, "Did I... say something inappropriate?"

“No.” Jin Zhaoxuan walked over. “It’s just that… when you see my mother in the future, try to talk to her as little as possible.”

"Why? Your aunt is very kind."

“It’s precisely because she’s so kind that I’m afraid,” Jin Zhaoxuan sighed. “If she knew your true identity… do you believe she could arrange a ghost marriage for you on the spot?”

Yin Shaoqing fell silent, a faint blue halo of confusion emanating from his body.

After a while, he said softly, "I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"It's okay." Jin Zhaoxuan put his phone back on the charging pad. "You can continue watching your show. I'm going to prepare the sauerkraut—I'll put it in the jar to pickle, just like my mom said."

"But refrigerators are clearly more scientific..."

“In Northeast China,” Jin Zhaoxuan said earnestly, picking up the bag of sauerkraut, “Mom’s words are the highest form of science.”

7 PM, before the live stream.

Jin Zhaoxuan was debugging the equipment when his phone vibrated—two private messages.

One was a formal cooperation invitation from Ansteel Museum, inviting him to a meeting at 10 a.m. tomorrow, with a red seal on the cover.

The other one comes from "The Years Before the Steelmaking Furnace".

There was no text, only a photo attachment.

Jin Zhaoxuan clicked on it.

It's a reproduction of an old black-and-white photograph. The resolution isn't high, but it's still legible. In the photo, five or six young people dressed in navy blue school uniforms are standing in front of a Japanese-style building, smiling broadly. In the background, you can also see the old Anshan Middle School plaque.

There are handwritten annotations on the edge of the photo (taken along with the original photo), the handwriting is neat:

“Summer of 1937, Anshan Middle School graduation ceremony. First from the left: Yin Shaoqing.”

Jin Zhaoxuan's fingers froze on the screen.

He zoomed in on the photo. The circled "first from the left" was a handsome, slender boy. You could see his current features in his eyes and brows, but he looked even more youthful. His eyes were bright, as if they were filled with light, and the upward curve of his lips was full of anticipation for the future.

This is a completely different person from the ghost who is now trapped in the old house, soaking wet and unable to even touch a physical object.

Another private message came in:

[This is a photo left by my father. He said that Yin Shaoqing was his classmate, exceptionally intelligent, especially in science. He suddenly dropped out of school in 1938 and was never heard from again. May I ask what his relationship was with Teacher Yin?]

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the screen, feeling as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart.

How should he respond?

Is this really Teacher Yin himself? Is it true that he died eighty years ago and is now the permanent resident of the old house in Taichung, working part-time as your live-streaming influencer?

He took a deep breath, his fingers trembling as he typed:

[Professor Yin is a scholar who studies local history and is very interested in Mr. Yin Shaoqing's deeds. Did your father say anything else?]

The other party replied very quickly:

My father said that Yin Shaoqing was the adopted son of a Japanese engineer, a special status. He was usually taciturn but gentle. After dropping out of school, some said he went to Japan to study, while others said he contracted a serious illness. My father always regretted this.

Jin Zhaoxuan: [Did your father ever mention his adoptive father's name?]

All I know is that his surname was Takahashi, and he was the technical supervisor at the steelworks. My father couldn't remember his full name either.

Takahashi.

As Yin Shaoqing mentioned last night, the person in charge of the renovation of the Lishan boiler room in 1936 was "Japanese engineer Takahashi".

It matches up.

Jin Zhaoxuan's palms were sweating. He continued to ask:

Is your father still alive?

He passed away last year. This photo was given to me before he died, saying that if anyone asked about Yin Shaoqing in the future, I should show it to him.

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the words, a chill running down his spine.

It's as if that old man, whom I've never met, is stubbornly guarding a memory on the other side of time, waiting for an inquiry that may never come.

"Thank you," he replied. "This photograph is crucial to Professor Yin's research."

"Don't mention it," the other person said. "If you need more information, feel free to contact me anytime. My father left behind many old things; they might come in handy."

The conversation ended.

Jin Zhaoxuan sat in front of the computer, staring at the graduation photo from eighty years ago, unable to come back to his senses for a long time.

The boy in the photo has a clear smile, with the streets of Anshan from the Showa era behind him. And now, outside the window is a winter night in 2023, with the neon lights of the new district flashing on the horizon in the distance.

"Mr. Jin?" Yin Shaoqing's voice came through the phone, tinged with doubt. "The live broadcast is about to start. Are you... alright?"

Jin Zhaoxuan snapped out of his daze, closed the private message window, and rubbed his face vigorously.

"It's nothing." He adjusted his expression, opened the live streaming app, and said, "Come on, let's talk about New Year's customs today."

The number of viewers in the live stream reached a new high, approaching 5,000. The chat was filled with messages like "Good evening, Teacher Yin" and "We've been waiting all day."

Jin Zhaoxuan pointed his phone camera at Yin Shaoqing, who appeared in the frame—after a day of "recharging," he was in much better shape. The texture of his virtual robe was clear, and even the folds on his cuffs were lifelike.

"Good evening, everyone." He smiled, his voice gentle. "Today happens to be the twelfth lunar month, so I'd like to tell you about how people in Anshan bid farewell to the old year and welcomed the new in the 1930s..."

He spoke vividly. He talked about the sticky candy eaten on the 23rd day of the twelfth lunar month when worshipping the Kitchen God, and the charcoal brazier for staying up late on New Year's Eve; he talked about the bowing etiquette for paying New Year's visits on the first day of the new year, and the riddles on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month.

The viewers were completely absorbed in listening to the comments.

This is how my grandpa used to celebrate the Lunar New Year!

[Teacher Yin even knows which brand of candy is best? That's incredibly detailed!]

Could you tell me how much money we received as New Year's gifts back then?

Halfway through the live broadcast, Yin Shaoqing suddenly paused when talking about firecracker customs.

His eyes were somewhat unfocused as he stared at the camera, as if he saw something else through the screen.

"What's wrong?" Jin Zhaoxuan asked alertly.

Yin Shaoqing quickly adjusted his expression, reverting to the restrained tone he used when "reciting historical materials":

"Just now, when I mentioned firecrackers... I suddenly remembered a worker's diary from 1938."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "That New Year's Eve, a Japanese engineer brought his adopted son to Tiexi District to celebrate the New Year with his Chinese colleagues. One of the workers, surnamed Liu—the technician Liu Fusheng mentioned yesterday—had a young daughter who was afraid of the sound of firecrackers and cried incessantly."

The comments started scrolling:

[It's Liu Fusheng again! What a coincidence!]

[Teacher Yin's database is so comprehensive, it even includes workers' diaries?]

What happened next?

Yin Shaoqing's fingers unconsciously caressed the cuffs of his virtual robe, his gaze drifting off-camera:

"The diary says... the engineer's adopted son covered the little girl's ears with his hands and said to her—"

His voice suddenly choked, but he quickly regained his composure:

“Tell her, ‘Do not be afraid, this is the sound of spring thunder, the clarion call of winter’s departure and spring’s arrival.’”

The comments section was silent for a moment, then flooded in:

How gentle!

That adopted son must also be Chinese, right?

[How does Teacher Yin even know the conversation? So detailed!]

Jin Zhaoxuan quickly chimed in: "Professor Yin has collected a lot of oral history materials, and many details are recounted by eyewitnesses."

Yin Shaoqing snapped out of his reverie and nodded: "Yes. I have visited many old workers and their descendants, and these old stories... were all told to me by them."

He tried to remain calm, but Jin Zhaoxuan could see clearly that his hands, resting on his knees, were trembling slightly.

"And then what happened?" an audience member asked.

Yin Shaoqing was silent for a few seconds before continuing, "That diary... only goes up to January 1945. After that... there is nothing."

His voice was very soft, so soft it seemed to dissipate into the air.

The comments section started to reflect:

[They probably moved away?]

In those days, how many people parted ways forever?

If that little girl were still alive, she'd be over ninety, right?

[Maybe it was already...sigh]

Jin Zhaoxuan looked at the comments on the screen, then at Yin Shaoqing, who was trying to remain calm on the screen, and felt a pang in his heart.

He changed the subject: "Alright, let's continue talking about New Year's customs. Teacher Yin, how about the lantern festival?"

Yin Shaoqing took a deep breath—although he didn't need to breathe, the action seemed to be a way of encouraging himself.

“Okay.” He put on his professional smile again. “The Lantern Festival in Anshan in the 1930s, the main street stretched from the front of the train station to Tiexi, with all kinds of colorful lanterns…”

The live stream continued, but Jin Zhaoxuan could sense that Yin Shaoqing's mind had already wandered far away.

The live stream is over. Turn off your camera.

Yin Shaoqing floated out of the phone, returned to the dressing mirror, lowered his head, and remained silent.

“You almost gave yourself away just now…” Jin Zhaoxuan carefully chose his words.

"I'm sorry," Yin Shaoqing said in a muffled voice, "I can't control myself when I think of Xiulan."

"Xiulan?"

“The daughter of technician Liu Fusheng.” Yin Shaoqing raised his head, his eyes glistening with a faint mist – ghosts don’t shed tears, but the sadness was all the more intense. “I watched her grow from a three-year-old child to a twelve-year-old girl. Every New Year’s Eve, she would come to me to cover her ears, until… January 1945.”

He forced a bitter smile and said, "That was... my last New Year's Eve."

Jin Zhaoxuan didn't say anything. He walked to the mirror and lightly patted his shoulder—his hand passed through, only bringing up a wisp of cool mist.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll take you to see her.”

Yin Shaoqing was stunned: "But I look like this now..."

“I have a way.” Jin Zhaoxuan turned around and pulled out a lightweight AR glasses from the equipment box. “This is the latest model. It can project virtual images—although the resolution isn’t high, it’s enough to fool elderly people with poor eyesight.”

Yin Shaoqing's eyes lit up, but then dimmed again: "However, my voice... I cannot speak in the outside world."

“I’ll speak,” Jin Zhaoxuan said, picking up his phone. “You type, I’ll read, and then I’ll relay it. Or…”

He pulled out a small bone conduction headset: "You use this to speak into my ear, and I'll repeat it. It's a bit of a hassle, but it'll work."

Yin Shaoqing stared at the cold electronic devices, then looked at Jin Zhaoxuan, his voice trembling: "Why...why go to such lengths for me?"

Jin Zhaoxuan turned his face away and scratched the back of his head: "Anyway, the company is about to go bankrupt, and these devices are just gathering dust, so we might as well take them out for a spin."

Yin Shaoqing knew he was lying.

But he didn't expose him, he just said softly, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Jin Zhaoxuan waved his hand. "Whether it works out or not is still uncertain. Besides..."

He paused, his expression turning serious: "You have to promise me that no matter what you see or hear, you won't lose control of your emotions. You're already in an unstable state; if you continue to exhaust yourself like you did last night, you might really... fall apart."

Yin Shaoqing nodded earnestly, his body radiating a faint golden light that signified his commitment: "I agree."

Late at night, as Jin Zhaoxuan tossed and turned in bed, he received a new message about "Years Before the Steelmaking Furnace".

[We have contacted Lishan Nursing Home. Ms. Liu Xiulan is indeed there. Her health is generally good, but her memory has been declining in recent years; she forgets many recent events but vividly recalls older ones.]

Would you like to visit? I can arrange it.

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

What should he say? Should he say that he wants to bring a "ghost" who covered her ears eighty years ago to see her?

After hesitating for a moment, he typed:

If it's convenient, would tomorrow afternoon be suitable? I'll bring Professor Yin along—he's the historian who did the live broadcast; he's very interested in the story of technician Liu Fusheng.

The other party replied very quickly:

"Sure. I happen to be delivering clothes to the elderly tomorrow. How about we meet at the nursing home entrance at 2 PM?"

Okay. May I ask how I should address you?

My surname is Liu, and my given name is Liu Jianjun. Liu Fusheng is my grandfather.

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the last line of text, his heart skipped a beat.

Liu Jianjun.

Liu Fusheng's grandson.

The little girl Liu Xiulan, who was afraid of firecrackers in Yin Shaoqing's memory, was Liu Fusheng's daughter.

So... this Liu Jianjun is the little girl's son or nephew.

Eighty years have been connected at this moment by an invisible thread. The cold names in history books have suddenly become warm, continuous bloodlines.

Jin Zhaoxuan put down his phone and looked towards the living room.

Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting a cold, white streak on the floor. The full-length mirror stood silently in the darkness, its surface reflecting a faint light, like a door to another time and space.

He suddenly realized that his decision to return to Anshan to start a business might not be solely for the grand ambition of "revitalizing the old industrial base through the digital economy."

Perhaps it was all preordained that I was destined to meet this soul trapped in the mirror for eighty years.

In order to hear those forgotten stories.

To give a farewell that is eighty years overdue for someone who can't go home.

"Go to sleep," Jin Zhaoxuan said to himself, closing his eyes.

In his dream, he saw New Year's Eve in 1938. In a low-ceilinged workshop in Tiexi District, a charcoal brazier was burning brightly. A thin boy in a dark blue school uniform covered a little girl's ears with his hands and whispered something in her ear.

Outside the window, firecrackers exploded, and red debris spread across the snow, like an early spring.

More than eighty years later, on this winter night, the sound of leaking water still echoes in the old house in Taichung.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Like the second hand that never stops moving, or like the heartbeat that is finally about to arrive after a long wait.