Chapter 5

At 11:59 a.m. the next day, Jin Zhaoxuan stood at the entrance of Ansteel Museum, feeling like a single father who had been repeatedly battered by life but still had to force a smile. Not only did he have to take care of a "kid," but this "kid" was also an eighty-year-old ghost that consumed electricity like drinking water. At this moment, it was huddled in the modified power bank in his backpack, hissing and sucking in electricity, just like it was slurping up snail rice noodles.

"Are you nervous?" he asked in a low voice, glancing around warily, afraid of being mistaken for a mentally ill person talking to themselves.

Yin Shaoqing's voice came through the earphones, much more stable than yesterday, but still a little weak, like he had just finished a massage: "A little. I... have never been to such an event before. Neither in life nor in death."

“Just treat it as a live broadcast.” Jin Zhaoxuan said as he walked towards the museum lobby, adjusting the bone conduction microphone disguised as a button on his collar. “It’s just that there are only a few viewers. Remember, you are ‘Historical Consultant and Technical Expert Teacher Yin,’ not ‘Yin Shaoqing, the Unlucky Dead Man of the 1930s.’ Don’t start with ‘Showa Year X,’ we’re in a new era now.”

"Understood." Yin Shaoqing paused. "But if they ask me my age..."

“Thirty-eight.” Jin Zhaoxuan said without changing his expression. “Born in the Year of the Dog, unmarried, socially anxious, works remotely. Perfect persona.”

The museum receptionist was a young woman with a ponytail. Her eyes seemed to say, "Why is this handsome guy always talking to himself?" She led them to the conference room and, as she opened the door, she deliberately glanced behind Jin Zhaoxuan—there was nothing but air there.

Four people were already seated in the conference room: Zhang Jianguo, the museum director, was in his fifties with hair so white it looked like it had been pickled by historical documents; Li Mei, the deputy director and curator, was in her early forties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and had the air of someone who could recite "How the Steel Was Tempered" by heart; Wang Zhi, the director of the technical department, had a bald patch on his head that gleamed under the lights; and a young assistant, Xiao Zhou, who looked like a recent graduate, was holding a notebook.

"Mr. Jin, welcome!" Director Zhang stood up and shook hands with a force so strong it could bend a steel pipe. "...Where is Teacher Yin?"

His gaze swept over Jin Zhaoxuan's back for the third time, his expression gradually shifting from doubt to "Has this young man been driven crazy by the client?"

Jin Zhaoxuan calmly pulled a tablet out of his backpack—he had modified it overnight, covering the casing with "cyberpunk" style stickers, making it look like it came from 2077. He placed it on the conference table and opened a customized interface with black background and green text.

The screen lights up, displaying Yin Shaoqing's virtual image: dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit, with a virtual study in the background, and bookshelves displaying "Principles of Metallurgy," "Blast Furnace Operation Manual," and a copy of "The Three-Body Problem" with its cover deliberately exposed.

"Hello everyone." Yin Shaoqing's voice came from the tablet speaker. After being polished by AI, it was warm and steady, with just the right amount of electrical noise, which gave it a very high-tech feel. "I am Yin Shaoqing, and I am honored to participate in today's discussion."

Director Zhang and the others were stunned for two seconds, then showed an "Ah, I see" expression—these days, some people work remotely, some hold meetings in the metaverse, and having multiple virtual advisors doesn't seem too outrageous.

"Hello, Teacher Yin." Li Mei pushed up her glasses, her gaze sharp as if she were scanning a QR code. "I've watched your live stream recording; it was very professional. Especially your grasp of the technical details of the old steel mill—it was as if you had...experienced it firsthand."

Jin Zhaoxuan's heart skipped a beat.

Yin Shaoqing was silent for a moment, then calmly said, "You flatter me. I only did some data organization and deduction. History is like an old rolling mill; you have to follow its grain to figure out how it turns."

That's a brilliant analogy. Jin Zhaoxuan secretly gave it a thumbs up.

"Let's get straight to the point." Director Zhang opened the PPT, and a line of large characters appeared on the projection screen: "Immersive Experience Project of Industrial Memory - Let Steel Speak."

"We plan to use AR technology to recreate production scenes from various historical periods of Ansteel." Director Zhang switched slides, revealing a dazzling array of technical parameters. "We've reviewed the proposal from General Manager Jin; the AR rendering and interactive design are excellent. But the core issue is—"

He paused, his expression as serious as if he were reading a verdict: "We need sufficiently detailed and accurate historical information. Not just approximate, but precise down to the equipment model, operating procedures, worker movements, and even the details of where the sweat beads are shaken off."

Wang Zhi continued, the glare on his head swaying: "For example, in the primary rolling mill in 1936, what was the set speed of the rolling mill? How was the temperature control curve of the heating furnace drawn? What passwords did the workers exchange when changing shifts? These details are either not found in the public information or are contradictory."

All four pairs of eyes turned to the tablet screen.

The meeting room was so quiet you could hear the air conditioner vents groaning.

A soft tapping sound came from Yin Shaoqing's end—it was the virtual sound plugin Jin Zhaoxuan had installed for him last night. A few seconds later, the sound rang out:

"In early 1936, the main equipment of the rolling mill was a Japanese-made φ850mm two-roll reversible rolling mill with a nominal rated speed of 62 revolutions per minute. However, in actual operation, experienced workers would make fine adjustments between 58 and 65 revolutions per minute based on the temperature of the billet and the state of the surface oxide scale. The tachometer was mechanical, and the pointer would shake, so you had to rely on your ears—if the rolling mill sounded 'deep,' you would slow down; if it sounded 'floaty,' you would speed up."

Li Mei's pen flew across the notebook, making a sizzling sound.

"Where's the heater?" she asked without looking up.

"At that time, we used a regenerative open-hearth furnace, and the normal tapping temperature was between 1550 and 1600 degrees Celsius." Yin Shaoqing spoke steadily, as if reciting his own house number. "Temperature measurement mainly relied on the old master to look at the color of the molten steel—'yellowish-white and bright' was just right, 'incandescent and glaring' meant it was overheated, and we had to adjust the gas valve immediately. Experienced masters could judge the temperature difference by color from three meters away, and it was no more than 20 degrees."

Wang Zhi slammed his fist on the table in excitement, making the thermos cup jump: "This is it! This is exactly the kind of detail we've been looking for!"

"The workers handed over the instructions?" Director Zhang pressed.

“When the day shift hands over to the night shift, the foreman will say three things.” Yin Shaoqing’s voice suddenly took on a subtle, almost imperceptible tone, like an old photograph being moved by the wind. “First: ‘The train is running normally, and the temperature is stable.’ Second: ‘Note that the noise from bearing number three is a bit loud; it has been loosened by half a turn.’ Third… ‘The water level in the tank is low; remember to add water during the night shift.’”

He paused for a moment, then continued, "Because the No. 3 bearing of that rolling mill had a design flaw. The tolerances were marked incorrectly on the original German drawings, making it prone to overheating. The Japanese never fixed it, so the experienced workers had to adjust it manually."

The meeting room fell completely silent.

Director Zhang stared at the screen with the look of an archaeologist who had discovered the mausoleum of the First Qin Emperor: "Professor Yin, where did you find these details? Some of them are not even recorded in our museum's internal technical archives."

On the tablet screen, Yin Shaoqing's virtual image lowered its head slightly—this was a "thinking" action pre-programmed by Jin Zhaoxuan.

Jin Zhaoxuan quickly stepped in to salvage the situation, his smile so bright it could have been used in a toothpaste commercial: "Over the years, Professor Yin has interviewed hundreds of veteran workers and their descendants, collecting a great deal of oral history. Some details have been passed down through generations, while others are reasonable inferences made after cross-referencing materials from different sources."

“No wonder!” Li Mei closed her notebook, her eyes shining. “This is a million times more vivid than our dry technical parameters! If we could make it into an AR demonstration, viewers could wear glasses and see the master craftsman adjusting valves and hear the sound of the rolling mill—that would be a truly immersive experience!”

The atmosphere of the meeting instantly heated up. For the next hour or so, the two sides discussed the specific plan: to first conduct three pilot scenarios—the rolling mill in early 1936, the steelmaking workshop during the "□□" period in 1958, and the technical renovation site in the 1990s.

"Regarding the budget..." Director Zhang looked at Jin Zhaoxuan.

Jin Zhaoxuan cleared his throat and announced a price—30% higher than his expectations, but 20% lower than the market price. This was the result of repeated deliberations between him and Yin Shaoqing last night: to make the client feel it was a good deal, while also leaving himself enough money for modifying the equipment and buying nitroglycerin pills.

“Okay,” Director Zhang readily agreed, “but we have one additional request.”

"Please go ahead." Jin Zhaoxuan smiled outwardly, but inwardly he had already begun reciting "The Art of War"—when the client makes a request, there's always something fishy going on.

“Professor Yin must be deeply involved throughout the entire process.” Director Zhang leaned forward, his expression serious as if he were taking an oath. “He will not only be a technical consultant, but also the ‘soul’ of the project—appearing as a virtual guide in the AR tour to lead visitors. We want to make ‘Professor Yin’ an exclusive IP of Ansteel Museum.”

Jin Zhaoxuan felt a string in his heart snap, almost breaking.

On the tablet screen, Yin Shaoqing's virtual image clearly froze—this was a genuine reaction, not a pre-set action.

“This…” Jin Zhaoxuan’s mind raced. “Teacher Yin isn’t in good health. She has a severe…photosensitivity! Yes, she gets dizzy when exposed to light, so she can only work remotely…”

“No need for offline visits,” Li Mei interrupted with a smile. “Let’s keep this model. We can set up a special ‘Professor Yin AR Guide Station’ in the museum. Visitors can wear AR glasses to see his virtual image and listen to his explanations. We can even do holographic projection so that he ‘stands’ next to the exhibits.”

She became more and more excited as she spoke: "Professor Yin's knowledge and storytelling style are more suitable than any ready-made narrator. And—"

She paused, carefully choosing her words: "He has a kind of...the unique temperament of an old-school engineer, rigorous, persistent, and bearing the mark of his time. This temperament is a perfect match for the weight of industrial history."

Jin Zhaoxuan looked at the tablet. Yin Shaoqing's virtual avatar remained silent for a few seconds, then nodded slightly—Jin Zhaoxuan frantically pressed the remote control under the table to make the "nodding" look natural.

"I can give it a try," came Yin Shaoqing's voice, calm yet trembling slightly.

The meeting ended in a friendly atmosphere (and Jin Zhaoxuan was exhausted). Director Zhang shook Jin Zhaoxuan's hand vigorously: "Mr. Jin, if this project succeeds, we can recommend it to other industrial museums—Benxi, Fushun, Qiqihar…the market is huge!"

"Thank you, Director Zhang."

"If you want to thank someone, thank Professor Yin." Director Zhang looked at the tablet with the eagerness of someone looking at a national treasure. "Professor Yin, we look forward to cooperating. By the way, we'll send you the design drafts of the virtual avatars later. Could you take a look and see if there are any adjustments needed—for example, the clothing, should we add a safety helmet?"

“Okay,” Yin Shaoqing said. “The helmet… should be the Japanese style from the 1930s, with a shorter brim.”

"Professional!" Director Zhang gave a thumbs up.

As he left the museum, Jin Zhaoxuan climbed into his secondhand SUV with its peeling paint, let out a long sigh, and slumped into the driver's seat as if he had just been run over by a rolling mill.

"Success," he said to the air, then casually reached into the glove box, pulled out a bottle of mineral water, and drank more than half of it.

Yin Shaoqing's voice came through the earphone, tinged with laughter and obvious fatigue: "Yeah. They're very nice... just a little too enthusiastic."

“It’s more than good, it’s a lifesaver.” Jin Zhaoxuan started the car, the engine panting like an old ox. “This order is enough to pay for half a year’s salary, two years’ rent, and can even get you a bigger ‘house’ – I saw it, Xiaomi’s new 20,000 mAh power bank, fast charging version.”

“Thank you,” Yin Shaoqing said softly, “but Mr. Jin, can I really… be a tour guide? Stand in front of many people—even if it’s virtual—and speak?”

“Why not?” Jin Zhaoxuan turned the steering wheel and drove the car onto the old, potholed road in Tiexi District. “You’ve been telling me history for so many days, from Showa Steel Works to supply-side reform, from blast furnaces to 5G smart factories. Even though I’m the only listener, I often fall asleep while listening.”

Yin Shaoqing laughed, the laughter transmitted through bone conduction, making Jin Zhaoxuan's eardrums itch: "That's different. This time it's... truly seen and heard by many people. It's like... coming back to life."

His voice held an irrepressible anticipation, as well as a deep-seated unease.

"Are you scared?" Jin Zhaoxuan asked.

“A little,” Yin Shaoqing said honestly. “I’m afraid I won’t do a good job, that I’ll expose myself, and that I’ll drag you down. I’m also afraid… that people will find out who I am, or what I am.”

"Come on," Jin Zhaoxuan said, staring at the traffic jam ahead. "You speak better than any of our university history professors—that old man just reads from the textbook, but you can tell me the difference in sound between a rolling mill in winter and summer. As for exposure..."

He paused, his tone becoming serious: "We need to set a few rules. First, don't mention specific names, especially Japanese names. Second, don't say 'I remember,' say 'According to the data.' Third, if someone asks a very personal question, cough—I've installed a cough sound effect, press this button."

He tapped a button next to the steering wheel.

"Understood," Yin Shaoqing said. "I will be careful."

The car drove past abandoned factory areas. Slogans on the red brick walls were peeling and faded, and chimneys silently pointed towards the gray sky. The setting sun cast a golden filter, like that of a nostalgic film, over everything.

“Mr. Jin,” Yin Shaoqing suddenly said in a soft voice, “I would like to go and see the old water tower.”

Jin Zhaoxuan's hand trembled, and the car almost collided with the Wuling Hongguang in front of him: "Now? How much energy do you have left?"

“32%,” Yin Shaoqing reported. “Enough to maintain low-power projection for half an hour. I just… wanted to go take a look. I’ve been thinking about some things since I came back from the nursing home.”

Jin Zhaoxuan glanced at the time: 4:30 PM. He then checked the navigation; the old water tower wasn't far. He looked again at the indicator light on the power bank in his backpack—a faint but steady green light.

“Okay.” He turned the car around, the wheels rolling over the gravel road. “But it’s agreed that we’ll just look around from the outside, not go in. That area is currently a demolition zone for dilapidated buildings, and if we get caught, we’ll be fined.”

"good."

The old water tower is hidden deep within an old factory area slated for demolition, surrounded by piles of construction waste and abandoned machine tool wreckage. The iron gate is so rusted it looks like it was salvaged from the seabed, and a sign that reads "Danger, Do Not Enter" hangs there, the lettering so blurred it looks like scribbles.

Jin Zhaoxuan parked his car in the roadside weeds and took out a pair of portable AR glasses from his backpack—he had modified the temples, adding a miniature projector and sensors.

He put on his glasses and pressed the switch on the temple.

With a sizzle, Yin Shaoqing's projection appeared on the passenger seat. It was still semi-transparent, but much clearer than yesterday, revealing the creases in his suit and his slightly furrowed brows.

“This is the only way,” Jin Zhaoxuan said. “Your energy isn’t enough to maintain this physical form for too long. Only I can see this projection—through my glasses.”

“That’s enough.” Yin Shaoqing pushed open the car door—of course, it was a virtual gesture. Jin Zhaoxuan cooperated by unlocking the passenger door, and the two got out of the car together.

Reaching the iron gate, through the rusty railings, one could see the cylindrical water tower, over thirty meters tall. The red bricks had turned a dark brown, like congealed blood. The water tank at the top was rusted through several large holes, like a soda can punctured by a giant's finger. Japanese slogans remained on the tower, but only the words "Safety" and "Warning" were barely legible.

“Eighty years ago…” Yin Shaoqing said softly, raising the projected hand and pointing vaguely at the water tower, “This is the core water supply facility of Showa Steel Works. It supplies tens of thousands of tons of industrial water every day, sustaining three blast furnaces, five open-hearth furnaces, and the entire rolling mill.”

His gaze slowly climbed along the surface of the water tower, finally stopping at a spot about fifteen meters above the ground. There was a square opening there, now just a dark hole, the metal frame around the opening rusted into jagged edges.

“There,” he pointed, his voice trembling slightly, “the maintenance hatch. Around 3:20 p.m. on August 14, 1945… that’s where I fell.”

Jin Zhaoxuan looked in the direction he pointed. The setting sun cast an eerie shadow in that spot.

“It was a very hot day,” Yin Shaoqing continued, his projected hand unconsciously clenching, his knuckles turning white—though it was just a shadow. “My adoptive father said there was an emergency and asked me to go to the top of the water tower to get a document. When I got up there, I found him already there… and two Japanese men I didn’t recognize, who weren’t wearing work clothes, but casual clothes.”

His voice began to tremble, like an old radio with an unstable signal.

“My adoptive father said that those technical documents could not be left to the Chinese, nor could they be taken back to Japan; they had to be destroyed on the spot. I said we could hide them and take them out when peace was restored… He shook his head and said, ‘Shaoqing, there are some things you don’t understand.’”

Jin Zhaoxuan held his breath, feeling as if he were watching an immersive horror movie with the main character standing right next to him.

“Then…” Yin Shaoqing closed his eyes, and a slight static appeared on the projection screen. “He pushed me to the access gate. I grabbed the railing, and rust pierced my hands. I asked him why. He said…”

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was as cold as steel in winter: "'You know too much, and you are ultimately Chinese. Bloodline will not change.'"

"What do you mean?" Jin Zhaoxuan asked, though he already had a pretty good idea of ​​what was going on.

“What I mean is,” Yin Shaoqing smiled bitterly, a grimace forming on the projection of his mouth, “that although I am his adopted son and have studied metallurgy with him for ten years, I have Chinese blood flowing in my veins. At that time… when the Japanese were defeated and wanted to destroy all evidence, this bloodline was the original sin.”

The setting sun dyed his shadow blood-red, making him look as if he were about to burst into flames.

“I fell in,” he said, his tone eerily calm. “The last thing I heard was my adoptive father saying, ‘I’m sorry, Shaoqing.’ And… the sound of the tin box hitting the water, a heavy ‘plop.’”

"A metal box?" Jin Zhaoxuan pressed. "For storing technical documents?"

“Yes.” Yin Shaoqing opened his eyes, the light spot in his pupils staring straight at the water’s surface. “A waterproof iron box, about this big—” He gestured the size of a suitcase. “It should still be at the bottom of the water. After I died, my soul was trapped here, and I could often feel its presence… like a kind of resonance, right below the water tower in the silt, very deep.”

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the water's surface—now overgrown with duckweed and garbage, its surface a strange, oily green. When the wind blew, dark depths were revealed beneath the duckweed.

"What kind of information is inside?" he asked. "Is it worth killing to silence them?"

“I don’t know.” Yin Shaoqing shook his head, the projection undulating slightly with his movements. “But it’s definitely more than just ordinary technical blueprints. It might be something… that shouldn’t have been taken away, nor should it have been left behind.”

The two stood silently. The wind blew through the ruins, swirling up plastic bags and scraps of paper with a mournful sound. The distant roar of demolition machinery could be heard, but here, time seemed to stand still.

“Mr. Jin,” Yin Shaoqing suddenly said, his voice soft but unusually clear, “I want to find that box.”

"Why?" Jin Zhaoxuan turned to look at him. "You've been dead for eighty years. What good would it do to find you?"

“I don’t know.” Yin Shaoqing looked at the water tower, the shadows on his face projected on the tower flickering. “Maybe it was an obsession. I want to know what it was that made my adoptive father—the one who taught me to read, taught me steelmaking, and said he would train me to be the best engineer in all of Japan—choose to kill me.”

His voice was calm, but Jin Zhaoxuan could hear the turbulent emotions beneath, like an undercurrent hidden beneath a calm sea.

Eighty years later, this ghost is still wondering: Why?

"And then what?" Jin Zhaoxuan asked. "What do you plan to do? Cry your eyes out while holding the box, then say 'Oh, I see,' and then go to be reincarnated in peace?"

“Perhaps.” Yin Shaoqing smiled, a bleak smile. “Ghosts shouldn’t exist for long. I’ve been trapped for eighty years, that’s enough. If I can figure out the truth, then… maybe I can finally rest.”

Jin Zhaoxuan's heart tightened. These words sounded like a farewell.

"You want to disappear?" he asked, his voice unconsciously rising.

“All ghosts will eventually dissipate,” Yin Shaoqing said. The projection began to fluctuate more noticeably, and the energy was decreasing. “I just… want to choose a clear way.”

He didn't finish his sentence.

Jin Zhaoxuan didn't ask. The two stood in the sunset for a long time, until the sky began to darken and the shadows of the ruins stretched long, as if to swallow them up.

"Let's go back." Jin Zhaoxuan glanced at the energy indicator on his glasses—only 8% left. "You're about to shut down automatically."

The projection began to flicker violently, and Yin Shaoqing's figure faded, distorted, and finally shrank into a stream of light, disappearing back into the power bank in Jin Zhaoxuan's backpack. The power bank beeped a low battery alarm.

Jin Zhaoxuan returned to the car but didn't start it immediately. He sat in the driver's seat, staring at the increasingly dark water, his mind reeling as if a rolling mill were churning inside.

After a while, he took out his phone and found Liu Jianjun's contact information—which he had saved last night with the note "Old Liu's grandson, might know something."

[Brother Liu, would it be convenient for me to come to your house tomorrow to take a look at those old blueprints?]

A few minutes later, a reply came. The font was large, the kind that older people often use.

Sure. 2 PM? My son will be home too.

Okay. Also, I have a question: Did your father or grandfather ever mention a "tin box"? It was used to hold technical documents. They said it was from 1945.

This time, the reply took a long time to arrive. Jin Zhaoxuan stared at the screen, his fingers unconsciously tapping the steering wheel.

Ten minutes later, the phone vibrated:

Yes. My grandfather said before he died that in August 1945, engineer Takahashi entrusted him with the safekeeping of an iron box, saying, "If I don't come back, sink it to the bottom of the water tower." But my grandfather didn't live to see him return; the Japanese surrendered. The box... he hid it; it didn't sink.

Jin Zhaoxuan's heart pounded, and he almost threw his phone away.

Is the box still there?

[I don't know. Before my grandfather passed away in 1980, he told my father the hiding place. But my father suddenly suffered a stroke in 1995 and passed away before he could tell me. He only said "the third pillar of the old factory building." But that factory building was demolished in 1998.]

The trail went cold.

But it wasn't completely severed.

Jin Zhaoxuan stared at his phone screen, his mind racing:

If Liu Fusheng hid the box, then what box did Yin Shaoqing hear the sound of falling into the water from?

Yin Shaoqing clearly heard the box fall into the water with his own ears.

unless……

There are two boxes.

Or, someone is lying.

Or perhaps Yin Shaoqing's memory is faulty—after all, he's been dead for eighty years; even ghosts can suffer from dementia.

“Interesting.” Jin Zhaoxuan muttered to himself, a smile he himself didn’t even realize was creeping onto his lips. “This is fucking more interesting than the AR project.”

He started the car, the engine growling softly in the twilight. The car drove away from the ruins, its taillights leaving two red streaks in the potholes.

In the rearview mirror, the old water tower is clearly silhouetted against the deepening night, like a silent tombstone, standing quietly on the wasteland of time.

Inside the backpack in the passenger seat, the power bank's indicator light flickered faintly, its red light flashing regularly—like a slowly beating heart, still patiently waiting for an answer.

Jin Zhaoxuan held the steering wheel with one hand, and with the other, he took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, but didn't light it. He glanced at the empty passenger seat, then suddenly spoke, addressing the air:

"Old Yin, starting tomorrow, we'll fight on two fronts. On one hand, we'll work on the AR project to earn money to support the family, and on the other hand... we'll dig up that damn box of yours."

The power bank's red light flashed twice rapidly, as if in response.

Jin Zhaoxuan laughed, took the cigarette off his hand and threw it back into the storage box: "Alright, it's settled then. Who told me to be your 'guardian' now—even though the person I'm guarding is a centenarian who drains electricity like water."

The car entered the main road, merging into the evening rush hour traffic. The city lights were just coming on, neon illuminating the brand-new office buildings and shopping malls. But in the rearview mirror, the ruins and water tower were slowly sinking into the shadows of history.

Jin Zhaoxuan turned on the car stereo and played "The March of the Steel Torrent"—Yin Shaoqing said yesterday that this piece could "recharge" him, although Jin Zhaoxuan seriously suspected that the old man was just appreciating the past.

The rousing melody filled the carriage. Inside the backpack, the red light of the power bank flashed even more cheerfully.

"Let's go," Jin Zhaoxuan stepped on the gas, "I'll go home first to charge your phone. We'll get to work tomorrow."

The car accelerated, heading deeper into the brightly lit city. And in those ruins, the wind blew through the rusted holes in the old water tower, producing a long, sighing wail.

It's like an unfinished story, waiting to be continued.