Xu Zhiyi hadn’t been able to reach her brother for five days.
During those five days without any word from Lin Yan, she spent her weekdays in the library reviewing for her professional courses, went home as usual on the weekend, curled up on the sofa watching TV dramas, and only occasionally glanced at the pinned chat at the top of her messaging app.
When she went to the supermarket alone to stock up, she ran into a close friend who lived nearby. After greeting her, the friend’s gaze swept past the shopping cart half-filled with groceries behind her, and she said casually, “Did your brother go to grab something?”
Xu Zhiyi kept her eyes lowered. “I came by myself.”
Her friend froze for a second, then a look of understanding crossed her face. “Oh, so he’s coming to pick you up later?”
“…He’s not here. I’ll go back on my own,” she answered quietly.
It was a simple everyday exchange, yet the look on her friend’s face instantly turned dramatic, as if she hadn’t heard Chinese at all.
She raised a reasonable objection: “Really? How could your brother possibly…” let you go home carrying all those bags by yourself.
“That’s totally normal.” Xu Zhiyi cut her off. Her eyes were starting to glisten, but her tone remained light and breezy. “Do my brother and I have to be attached at the hip every second of the day?”
Her friend, confused, felt her forehead. “No fever.”
Xu Zhiyi: “…”
Just as her friend was about to say something more, frantic footsteps suddenly erupted beside them—pattering, rapid—and several heads wearing security guard uniforms popped out from between the shelves.
Xu Zhiyi followed the direction they were chasing.
A woman clutching a stack of A4 papers stood at the end of the aisle. Middle-aged, her gaze wandered blankly around her surroundings. Even when she looked down at what she was holding, her face showed only bewilderment, as if she had no idea why she was there.
“She’s over here!” one of the guards bellowed, and three or four of them quickly surrounded the woman. They seemed wary that she might snap at any moment, so they didn’t dare grab her, keeping their distance as they asked her to leave the supermarket.
The woman nodded dazedly.
She barely managed a few weak steps before she gave out, her body going limp and sliding to the floor, the A4 papers scattering everywhere. Chaos erupted instantly—the guards’ shouts for an ambulance and the police nearly drowned out the store’s intercom, their voices frantic and piercing.
In the midst of the pandemonium, a few sheets slid across the smooth floor and came to rest near Xu Zhiyi and her friend.
Her friend picked one up, clicked her tongue, and shook her head twice, sighing, “Ugh… cult stuff again.”
Xu Zhiyi glanced at the paper, her face pale, lips pressed together, saying nothing.
In fact, it was just an ordinary missing person notice, with nothing promoting any church or doctrine.
It listed the missing person’s name, ID number, address, physical characteristics, schools attended… everything was very detailed, but there was simply no corresponding photo.
The reason people called such notices “cult stuff” was that if you looked up the information on them, you couldn’t find any real person at all.
This was already who-knows-how-many cases like this in Hushan City—lost, soul-emptied people searching for family and friends who had been fabricated. No official announcement had ever explained these incidents, but a theory was widely circulated on the streets—
These people had been brainwashed by a cult, which was why they searched for people who didn’t exist.
Fortunately, those searching for their relatives would quickly regain their sanity after breaking away from the legendary “organization,” returning to normal life—and even feeling confused about the information they had written themselves.
There were plenty of reports on the matter, but this was the first time Xu Zhiyi had actually seen a real-life example. She was still thinking about it when she got home, feeling a mix of fear and anticipation as she silently counted down. Tomorrow—tomorrow was the day Lin Yan would return.
Since October, Lin Yan had lost contact several times.
Every single time, no matter what methods Xu Zhiyi used, she couldn’t find him.
She had tried, she had fought, she had even threatened to cut ties with Lin Yan, but in the end, waiting for his return was the only thing that worked.
That said, aside from the first time when he was unreachable for a full ten hours, every subsequent disappearance was preceded by him telling her in advance exactly when he would be back.
And he always kept his word.
Like last time—at ten in the evening, he told her he needed to leave for three days. Seventy-two hours later, true to his promise, he called her via video.
Xu Zhiyi, who had been waiting by her phone, picked up the call instantly, her heart full of grievances. Two similar faces appeared on the screen, but only she was teary-eyed. Lin Yan, on the other hand, was perfectly calm.
Not only that—his face was wrapped tightly in a scarf and mask, as if afraid she might see it clearly, leaving only a pair of beautiful peach-blossom eyes curved in a smile, his voice gentle as he called her “Zhizhi.”
Xu Zhiyi was about to lose her temper at the sight of him, her brows just starting to furrow, when she noticed Lin Yan propping his cheek on one hand, casually adjusting the scarf around his neck as if without a care. His slender fingers were wrapped in a few band-aids—a pretty cherry pink, standing out starkly against his pale skin.
Xu Zhiyi: “…”
The scarf was one he had knitted a few days ago, wine-red in color, with a matching one hanging on the back of her dorm chair. The band-aids were ones she had applied herself, though she really couldn’t understand how her ever-careful brother had managed to hurt his fingers knitting a scarf.
She saw through his tricks at a glance, but her temper inevitably softened anyway. She mumbled, asking where he had been these past few days and why he had disappeared without contacting her again.
But Lin Yan just curved his eyes into a smile and came up with a ridiculous excuse on the spot.
Asked why, and it was: his unscrupulous advisor had run off, his startup partner had absconded with the money, and a murder had occurred in the apartment above his rental.
Xu Zhiyi’s eyelids twitched uncontrollably as she listened. It all felt strangely familiar, as if a long time ago, when she had asked him the same question, he had fobbed her off the same way. She was about to question him, but the cold laugh on her lips took a turn, and what came out instead was—”Oh, I see. That’s fine.”
After saying it, she froze for a moment herself.
Lin Yan, as if he had known she would react this way all along, lowered his eyelids and softly hummed in acknowledgment.
That strange conversation ended there. Oddly enough, Xu Zhiyi couldn’t muster any urge to press further.
She accepted Lin Yan’s explanation the same way she had accepted the laws of physics in high school—even though her whole body ached from not understanding, this was objective truth, and truth was not to be questioned.
Still, her mood inevitably sank, and her fingers unconsciously began squeezing the inflatable hamster cushion on her phone case, producing a soft squish-squish sound.
“Don’t bully the little animal.” Lin Yan chuckled, tapping the phone screen.
“…” Xu Zhiyi released her grip with a look of grievance.
They talked on the phone for a long time, and she gradually became happier, making plans with Lin Yan for where to celebrate after finals, almost mapping out their schedule all the way to the New Year in one breath.
Lin Yan listened quietly to her future plans, but the smile in his eyes wasn’t deep. Just as they were about to hang up, he suddenly spoke, asking how her hospital follow-up went.
Xu Zhiyi’s smile immediately wilted.
She bent down, pretending to pick something up off the floor to hide her lowered head, which hung in shame and guilt. “The results were pretty good.”
Lin Yan clearly knew her personality very well, and only gave a faint smile. “Xu Zhiyi, you can’t avoid this. I’ll take you there this weekend.”
Xu Zhiyi: “…”
Fine, she’d go.
She had developed a chronic condition in childhood, and no matter how she tried to nurse her body back to health afterward, it never improved. Aches and ailments of all sizes piled up on her. The most serious of them all was a heart problem.
Last year, Lin Yan saved up enough money and dragged her to the hospital for surgery.
Even after the surgery, she wasn’t completely cured—it could only be said that her condition had eased somewhat. Still, Lin Yan continued to take her around to see doctors, visiting every authority they could find, almost enough to write a hospital review guide for the province.
Xu Zhiyi kept putting off going to the hospital for her follow-up. On one hand, an MRI was ridiculously expensive—four or five hundred yuan each time. On the other hand… her body had been acting strange lately.
She no longer woke up in the middle of the night with heart palpitations, and the phenomenon of running out of breath after walking a bit too long had also disappeared. Her vital energy had surged too suddenly, leading Xu Zhiyi to briefly think she was experiencing a final burst of life before death. She’d even drafted half a suicide note in her memo app.
But nearly two weeks passed, and she was still alive and well. In fact, her body grew lighter and lighter, and her face had gained a healthy flush.
After determining that it was probably eighty percent a medical miracle, Xu Zhiyi decided to tell Lin Yan about it.
At that point, there were still five days until their agreed-upon “weekend trip to the hospital.”
She happily typed out the good news, but the chat interface popped up with an urgent notification from Lin Yan.
He had to leave again for five days.
Five days, then.
Xu Zhiyi deleted what she’d typed, and replied with a sulky face: Got it. Come home early. I have good news for you.
This was the sixth day.
Lin Yan’s call still hadn’t come through.
Lin Yan had disappeared.
Or rather… his very existence had been brutally erased from the world.
His phone number had become a dead line. His contact accounts on all major apps had been collectively deactivated. Even the chat window on WeChat had vanished without a trace.
Xu Zhiyi and Lin Yan’s rental apartment had become a one-bedroom unit. In their photos together, only she remained. Past friends, teachers—all of them denied Lin Yan’s existence.
She could almost narrate Lin Yan’s entire life, but… she couldn’t produce a single photo proving he had ever existed.
Xu Zhiyi couldn’t keep asking those around her for help. They had already started worrying that she’d joined some cult. With every phone call she made, their desire to send her to treatment grew more and more obvious.
Refusing to accept it, she went to the police station to file a report. The lobby was brightly lit. An officer poured her hot water and helped input Lin Yan’s ID number. The process was orderly and smooth, which rekindled her hope.
The police station couldn’t find any trace of Lin Yan ever having existed.
The auntie who took her report looked at her kindly. “Student Xu, don’t worry. Do you have any other family? We can help you get in touch with them.”
Her colleague behind her was clearly quick on the uptake, already pulling out a phone and searching for the number of the city’s psychiatric hospital.
Xu Zhiyi, whose eyes were still brimming with tears, paused and suddenly began apologizing in embarrassment, hanging her head as she admitted she had only come to the police station because she lost a game of Truth or Dare.
The officer who had been quite amiable just moments before turned green in the face.
After writing a two-thousand-character self-criticism, Xu Zhiyi repeatedly assured them that she would absolutely never do anything to waste national police resources again, putting on her most humble and obedient expression before she was finally released from the station.
When she reached the back of the subway entrance, she slowly crouched down in a small corner, burying her face in the upturned collar of her padded jacket, clutching her phone as the world before her blurred behind the mist of tears welling up in her eyes.
Her materialist worldview had suffered a major blow.
Maybe she really did have delusions.
The air quality in Hushan City during winter had always been notoriously terrible. When Xu Zhiyi wiped away her tears and looked up again, the surrounding streetscape was hazy and murky, so indistinct that she could barely make out what was across the road.
The night was dim, but the living room light was still on because she had forgotten to turn it off. When she reached the ground floor at ten o’clock, she tilted her face up and could see the location of her home.
In the heated room, Xu Zhiyi lay on the soft sofa, still wearing her padded jacket and the same shoes she had gone out in. Her phone was down to two percent battery, and the charger was within reach if she leaned over slightly, but she didn’t move at all, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, blinking only once in a long while.
When would Lin Yan take her to the hospital?
Wasn’t she supposed to get checked up?
She was feeling much better now—he would be happy to know that.
Her phone screen kept flashing with ding-dong notifications, all of them useless messages unrelated to Lin Yan.
Xu Zhiyi’s head throbbed from the noise. She waited for a long time, but her phone stubbornly refused to die, continuing to push notifications. She scrunched up her face and grabbed the phone, ready to send it to an early grave, when a video call invitation popped up on the screen.
The username was “Brother.”
The profile picture was also of her brother.
Xu Zhiyi was instantly activated, springing upright from the sofa in a flash, her fingertips trembling as she pressed accept.
After six days apart—especially after spending today searching for Lin Yan—Xu Zhiyi couldn’t control her emotions the moment she saw Lin Yan’s face again. Her voice shook and trembled. “Brother! Where are you?”
Lin Yan on the screen didn’t answer. Instead, just like before, he smiled and called her name.
He rarely got this close to the screen. From this angle, the camera seemed to be pressed against his collar, completely obscuring his surroundings.
The image was shaky and blurry.
“Where are you?!”
“I’ll come back.” Lin Yan’s gentle tone overlapped with her repeated questioning. “It’ll just take a little longer this time… Zhizhi, live well. Don’t worry about your brother.”
This was just a recording.
He wasn’t talking to her.
Xu Zhiyi clutched her phone, her entire body ice-cold.
The screen’s battery finally reached the point where it could no longer sustain light. As the screen went dark, Xu Zhiyi remembered she needed to charge it, but her hand, reaching frantically for the charger, froze mid-air.
Because the video call was still ongoing.
In the center of the screen, the buffering circle indicating shutdown overlapped with Lin Yan’s face in a way that defied physical logic.
“Wait for me to come home,” he said softly.