Year 427 of the Ashen Wheel Era, Deep Waters period.
The fishing boat moved away from the port, shrinking to a black dot that gradually disappeared on the water.
Your tears fell on the reeds of the shore, startling a few night herons.
They flew off, flapping their wings towards the opposite bank, where flames rose to the sky, falling back like ashes onto the water's surface, slowly sinking like black snow.
You slowly entered the water. The waves opened in concentric circles, gradually engulfing you...
The water was cold, but gentler than fire.
Underwater, you opened your eyes and looked up. You saw the entire city suspended beneath the surface. Flames flowed backward from the tops of the towers, air bubbles rose slowly from the window frames of old houses, brushing against red posters and yellowed family letters, their ink dissolving in the water into blood-like filaments.
The city walls were covered with carved relief faces, grimacing and twisted, as if they were screaming some order.
You swam towards the city. Suddenly, a group of pigeons swirled beneath your feet, without making the slightest sound – their immaculate white wings brushed your waist, and you then noticed that each pigeon's beak was sewn shut with red thread; only their empty eyes and the beating of their wings remained.
You half-turned, sinking slowly with the aquatic vortex, your feet finally touching the city floor.
These ruins. The entire city was covered with a fine layer of ash, like a late snow. You walked barefoot through the streets, each step leaving a blackened footprint.
Among the collapsed walls and rubble, you knelt, your journal open on your lap. The ink spread on the damp paper, like a memory disintegrating.
The wind blew through the sections of walls, lifting a few pages of torn manuscripts. The paper trembled between your fingers, like a dying fledgling struggling one last time.
You were writing, writing, when suddenly you heard someone knocking at the door, beneath your feet.
You stopped writing.
Someone called to you from below: "Nantang! We have to go!" You slung your journal on your back and headed towards that voice. Your steps crunched on the rubble and ashes.
Under the dust of the ground, there was a large door. You took a rusty key from your pocket, inserted it into the lock, turned gently – the door, against all expectations, opened.
The ashes of the entire street suddenly began to churn. The draft escaping from the open door lifted countless particles of burnt paper, forming a swirling corridor that slowly sucked you inside.
You advanced through the corridor, entering the lobby of a cinema.
The posters on the walls had long been weathered by time, the floor littered with lime and bone fragments. The once-bright colors had turned rust-colored, the images so faded that only a few indistinct silhouettes remained. A woman looked up at the sky, a man ran; their faces had been torn off or blackened, and in the background, one could make out a burning rice field.
The upper right corner of the screen was burning with a gray fire.
The hall was empty, but applause resounded forcefully. The screen was showing a film you had never seen, yet which seemed familiar.
Jingwei was sitting in the middle of the seventh row, the cold light from the screen casting a fine shadow on the bridge of her nose. When you sat down next to her, the seat emitted a damp groan.
The image on the screen was in black and white, jerky, skipping frames.
In the middle of the film, Jingwei leaned towards your ear and said: "Do you know the end of this film?"
You shook your head.
The screen jumped, the image switched to color.
She said: "I would like to play the role of a princess... dressed in a red robe, setting off on a long journey."
You asked: "Are you going to follow the script?"
She didn't answer.
She simply lowered her head and kissed you, a very warm kiss.
Then she said: "Next scene, it's your turn to enter."
Suddenly, seven or eight people in military uniform appeared on the screen, each one's head a mirror. You couldn't see their faces, only your own, repeating, distorting, endlessly flaking.
You wanted to run away, but you discovered that your own body had become a mirror. You had become one of them.
They chanted your name in unison. Each time they shouted, a new shadow detached itself from you, wandering among the seats.
Suddenly, a train entered the cinema. Jingwei grabbed a handle and jumped aboard, without any luggage. The train started silently. Just a column of light piercing the mist, carrying her shadow away.
Turning to flee, you knocked over the projector. The film spilled out like a waterfall, entangling you, preventing you from leaving.
Then, the cinema lobby disappeared. You turned and saw the research institute behind you, engulfed in flames, the building tilted like a question mark.
You passed by the gatekeeper's lodge and saw Old Liu sitting on a stool, wearing the old archaeological team uniform. The nameplate on his left chest was split in two: one half bore the character "Liu," the other was illegible.
"Comrade Sima, you're late," Old Liu said.
You replied that you weren't late.
"We were all waiting for you."
He turned around; behind him, there was no one.
You looked down and discovered you were holding an excavation trowel – no, it was your bone. You had torn it from your own shoulder.
You followed him inside the library. The shelves rose up to the clouds. When you reached out to take a book, they flew away like butterflies, burning to ashes in the air.
The glow of the fire fell on the back of your hand, leaving a small mark.
Old Liu, leaning on his cane, stood at the end of the shelves. His shadow stretched long, like a sword planted askew in the wall.
He asked you: "Young man, have you found the book you were looking for?"
You shook your head.
"That's right." He smiled, his cane striking the floor. "There haven't been any books here for a long time."
Barely were these words spoken when the entire library began to collapse. The pages turned into butterflies, flying towards the blood-colored moon outside the window.
Suddenly, Old Liu's cane became a fishing rod. He cast his line towards the pages carried by the wind. Suddenly, a paper kite rose into the air.
You fled, panicked, into a corner of the reading room. The fire lit up the window, shadows danced on the wall, like demons resurrected from hell.
The paper, as it burned, emitted this sound, not the familiar crackle of matches, nor the sizzle of incinerating paper, but an almost suffocating "hiss," as if someone were tearing the silence, as if cutting the tongue of an era.
You covered your head with your hands, terrified. Suddenly, the noises disappeared. You looked up and saw – Jingwei, dressed in a red robe, her back to you, standing in a full-length mirror.
You approached her, gently embracing her from behind.
"Are you leaving?" you asked.
She shook her head and pointed to her belly – it was slightly rounded. She took out from under her clothes an enormous egg, as if assembled from pottery shards, its surface covered with tiny characters and maps.
"What do you think will hatch from this?" she asked.
You were about to answer when the surface of the mirror suddenly cracked. Her face shattered into countless fragments, each reflecting a different scene: Old Zhao, standing on a platform, haranguing the crowd; the institute's porcelains broken, a rain of blue and white fragments falling; a white horse galloping through flames, its mane burning like a banner.
You were pushed onto the stage. The spotlights blinded you. Someone handed you a hammer, asking you to shatter with your own hands these terracotta statues that you had restored.
"Strike!" Old Zhao urged you.
You raised the hammer, but discovered that the statue's face had become Jingwei's.
The hammer remained suspended in mid-air, refusing to come down.
Old Zhao sighed and removed his mask – his face was a blank page.
A crowd rushed at you; you received several violent slaps... You fell to the ground.
Turning around, you saw Jingwei, also on the ground, her face bearing a few scratches, but she was looking at you with a gentle smile. Beside her, her bicycle was overturned, the wheel still slowly spinning. In the basket, there was a roll of film. You reached out to help Jingwei up, but you touched nothing...
A large fish swam past your ear, blowing bubbles. Its tail struck your cheek coldly.
You continued to sink, your lungs filling with water. You were no longer breathing.
Suddenly, a milky way stretched out before your eyes, then, in an instant, dispersed into a myriad of stars...
Your journal, at first, was an archaeological notebook: documentation of burial chamber strata, numbering of artifacts, dating of sediments, and also observations on the use of tools.
Later, daily details mingled in, and on one page, it was written: "The photos came out today, her smile is so beautiful, I wished so much I could have taken more... There will be other opportunities, won't there?"
Subsequently, the text became disjointed, the journal seemed written as if time were chasing it. The handwriting became more and more messy, increasingly resembling dream talk.
Ah yes, my name, besides Sphinx, besides Sylvie, there is another one – grandmother also called me Shi, Sima Shi.
In a spacetime where my back is turned to you, I greet you.