The tremors persisted, a low, grinding rumble that shook the walls and rattled the teeth, yet Lin Xia might as well have been standing in still air. Her entire being was tethered to the letter in her hands—her fingertips, still tingling from the paper's texture, hovered over the words "time reversal," and she swore the ink retained a faint, living warmth, as if the letters themselves were breathing.
"The ultimate secret of retrograde memory disorder: When a patient dies at the origin of a retrograde memory, driven by an intense 'urge to correct,' their consciousness will return to the day the 'mistake' first began."
Lin Xia's breath hitched, catching in her throat like a trapped bird. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the tremors. Death... The word hung in the air, sharp and metallic, like the tang of blood. A key? To going back? It sounded absurd, a macabre riddle—yet a tiny, traitorous part of her leaned into it, a spark of hope flickering in the dark. Could the end really be a beginning?
"Room 709 is that origin.
"The 1998 gas leak wasn't an accident—it was a trace left by my 24-year-old self during my first attempt to set things right. That day, I managed to travel back to 1998, but couldn't stop the leak. All I had time to do was get everyone out alive."
So that was it. Lin Xia's shoulders sagged, a breath she hadn't realized she was holding whooshing out. She thought of the "no casualties" note in the newspaper, the words she'd stared at so many times, trying to convince herself it was mere luck. Luck. How naive she'd been. A future version of herself had fought here, in this very room, to save those lives—and she'd spent years running from the echoes of that courage. Shame pricked her cheeks, hot and sharp.
"But that correction left aftereffects: the fear of gas leaks took root deep in the heart of the surviving boy, Chen Yang."
"That boy's name is Chen Yang," Zhou Yan's voice drifted in and out with the tremors, as if carried on a faulty radio signal. "He was only a year old when the 1998 leak happened, carried out of Room 709 in his father's arms."
Lin Xia's throat tightened. A year old—too young to remember, yet old enough to carry the fear like a shadow. She thought of the way phobias clung, unshakable, even when their origins were forgotten. How many nights had he woken gasping, dreaming of that day?
She went on reading, her eyes stinging: "In 2019, 22-year-old Chen Yang took a job in the old neighborhood. On his first day, he was assigned to inspect gas pipes. He noticed a slight leak at a joint, but childhood fear made him cover it up—sneakily tightening the valve without proper repairs. That's what caused the fire.
"My interference is what led to that fire.
"It has to be stopped."
Lin Xia's fingers curled into the paper, creasing the edges. Her interference. The words echoed, a condemnation and a plea. She'd thought her future self was a savior—but here, she was a catalyst. Fear begetting fear: her own terror of a stranger with a silver ring, his terror of a gas leak. A chain of cowards, each link breaking under the weight of what they couldn't face.
"I tried countless times, but could never 'see' the 2019 details clearly in my retrograde memories—until I realized: I needed an 'anchor.'"
An anchor? Lin Xia's gaze flickered to the silver ring on Zhou Yan's finger, catching the red light. It glinted like a shard of moonlight, cold against his skin. The same ring from her memories—the one that had pushed, then pulled. Was this the anchor? A man with a cursed family, a ring that bridged timelines? She shivered, not from cold, but from the strange certainty creeping in.
"The 1998 leak turned Room 709 into a wrinkle in time; your retrograde memories made the 30-year-old death scene a precise coordinate; Zhou Yan's silver ring, the red neon outside—all served to sharpen that coordinate. Only by strengthening this anchor could consciousness lock onto the 2019 timeline."
"I'm writing this in Room 709, not knowing when he'll find me.
"Maybe I'll make it to the 30-year anchor, go back again—but I can't risk it.
"My death doesn't matter. I just need you to see this—even if it only scares you. At least it would make you avoid that year's fire.
"Because the moment you die, I'll vanish too.
"If I vanish, there will be no second chance."
Lin Xia's breath hitched, a sob threatening to break free. My death doesn't matter. The casualness of it, the quiet resolve, squeezed her chest. This was her—older, wiser, ready to burn so that another version of herself might live. And here she was, 29, still flinching at shadows. She finally understood why she couldn't escape: these weren't clues—they were a lifeline, thrown across years.
The tremors grew more violent, the floor bucking like a wild horse. The bookshelf shook, old books tumbling down around her, thudding against the floor like falling bodies. Lin Xia clung to the shelf, her knuckles white, but her hands didn't shake. For the first time, the chaos outside matched the storm in her head—and she felt weirdly at peace, as if finally standing in the eye of it.
"From now on: don't run, don't hide. If you can go back, stopping this will be easy for you.
"If you fail... no, you will succeed.
"One last thing: The July 15, 2019 fire at the Old Tailor Shop? It was caused by aging gas pipes.
"All you need to do is warn the owner to have someone inspect them in advance, and you can stop everything."
Lin Xia folded the letter carefully, her fingers brushing the creases as if tucking away a fragile secret, then tucked it into her pocket. The paper pressed against her thigh, a warm weight, as if the future self's heartbeat still lingered in it. She looked up at Zhou Yan, her gaze steady—no more doubt, no more fear, just a quiet, unshakable resolve.
"I understand."
The floor trembled so violently that she felt as if she were standing on a ship caught in a typhoon, the world tilting at a dangerous angle. The bookshelf finally gave way with a thunderous crash, splinters flying, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air that stung her eyes.
"Hold on!" Zhou Yan's voice cut through the haze, sharp and clear. His hand closed tightly around her wrist, his grip firm, unyielding.
Lin Xia didn't struggle. His palm was warm against hers, but the silver ring pressed coolly into her skin—a paradox, like past and future touching. A force spread from his hand, carrying that coolness up her arm, seeping into her veins, her bones, her heart—like an electric current piercing the barrier of time, stitching her to something larger than herself.
Her consciousness blurred, the locked room warping around her. The red glow melted into other images:
That day in the town library, sorting through old newspapers, the headline burning into her mind: 12 Killed in Old Neighborhood Gas Leak; Only Boy Survives. The photo: a boy huddled beside an ambulance, his eyes hollow as empty wells, a dusty daisy lying beside him, its petals crumpled. That boy had been Chen Yang.
In the midst of the tremors, more images flashed: Chen Jianjun lingering outside the tailor shop, his eyes fixed on the laughter spilling through the door, a storm brewing in his gaze; him digging frantically through the fire rubble, fingers bloodied, clutching a charred scrap of cloth—his son's shirt, maybe—and screaming into the smoke; him stalking Lin Xia in the darkness, madness glinting in his eyes like shards of glass...
"He doesn't hate you," Zhou Yan's grip tightened, as if sensing her rising fear. "He hates 'luck' itself. The way some survive while others burn."
The fallen shelf revealed a crack in the wall, jagged and raw. Red light poured through it, coiling like a crimson snake, hungry and alive. Lin Xia felt herself growing lighter, as if her bones were dissolving, being drawn into the crack—pulled, not pushed, by a force that felt like home.
She glanced at Zhou Yan one last time. His face was calm, almost serene, as if he'd been expecting this, as if he'd known all along.
Her body lurched—a sudden, jarring drop, like falling down the stairs in the locked room. But this time, there was no suffocating fear, no clawing panic. Only a quiet determination to reach the end, to land on solid ground and start again.
She thought of the slide at five, the scrape on her knee that had felt like the end of the world; the library at seventeen, the way her hands had shaken when she'd first found a retrograde memory scribbled in a book; the yellow streetlights in the town, casting long shadows she'd hurried to outrun—all those "retrograde memories" had been clues, breadcrumbs, a mission to save herself.
In her final vision, Zhou Yan smiled and said: "We'll meet again, in the new future."
She'd thought it was a farewell. Now she knew: it was time, knocking softly at the door.
Lin Xia opened her eyes to sunlight—warm, golden sunlight, not the dusty red glow of the locked room, but light that carried the scent of sun-dried rice and jasmine from a nearby garden. It spilled over her, chasing away the last of the red shadows.
She stood on a familiar bluestone path, the stones warm beneath her feet. Old houses lined the street, their wooden doors weathered but welcoming, with blue cloth fluttering on lines like flags of peace. A bell chimed gently in the tailor shop, cheerful and clear.
The calendar on the wall read: July 15, 2019, 2:45 p.m.
She was back.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, as if her mind were unwrapping itself from a tight coil. Fragmented thoughts flickered—Don't hide. Don't run—but the fog was lifting, leaving clarity in its wake. She knew what she'd hidden from, what she'd run from. And she wouldn't do it again.
She ran forward, her shoes thudding against the stone, driven by a heavy, unspoken mission that pulsed in her veins like a second heartbeat. Then she passed the tailor shop and stopped, her breath catching.
The old tailor was pedaling his sewing machine, the "clatter-clatter" a steady rhythm. Beneath it, faint but unmistakable, lingered the sharp, metallic smell of gas.
Four men sat chatting on benches outside—one of them was Chen Yang, his young face tight with a tension she hadn't noticed before. A little boy dropped his daisy, the white petals brushing the dirt. Chen Yang bent down to pick it up, his fingers hesitating, as if the flower might burn him.
"Master Wang!" Lin Xia called out, her voice breathless but steady, no trace of the tremble she'd expected. "Check the gas pipe! It's leaking!"
The fog in her mind lifted completely, like a curtain being drawn back.
The old tailor looked up, his glasses sliding down his nose, confusion creasing his brow. "What did you say, girl?"
"Gas leak!" Lin Xia pointed to the gas tank in the corner, her arm straight, unwavering. A faint white wisp curled from a joint, almost invisible unless you knew to look. "Hurry—before it's too late!"
Chen Yang froze, his face paling, recognition dawning in his eyes. The customers scrambled outside in a rush, exclamations flying. The tailor fumbled to shut off the gas valve, his hands shaking. Chen Yang's mother grabbed her son and ran outside, snatching up the little boy with the daisy as she went.
As she passed Lin Xia, the woman met her gaze—a flicker of recognition, then gratitude. Lin Xia remembered her from the fire photos, her face charred beyond recognition. Now she was alive, her cheeks flushed, her son safe in her arms.
He had lost both of them that day. But not today.
At 2:58 p.m., gas company workers arrived and repaired the pipe, their tools clinking.
"Thank you, girl!" the woman called back over her shoulder, waving.
The little boy grinned and held out the daisy, his fingers sticky with dirt. Lin Xia took it, the petals soft against her palm.
The tailor patted his chest, repeating over and over, "We got a second chance at life."
Lin Xia stood on the corner, watching smoke rise from the tailor shop chimney—cooking smoke, not fire—and smiled. Her heart felt full, as if it had finally found its proper place.
The next day, Lin Xia woke up in her own bed. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm on her face, no red glow in sight. Her phone showed the date: July 16, 2019.
Not the 2024 locked room, not the 30-year-old town—but the day after she'd rewritten fate.
The air carried the smell of soy milk from the breakfast stand downstairs, rich and inviting. On the windowsill, a vase held the child's daisy, its petals perked up, bright as hope.
She remembered Zhou Yan's words in the red light: We'll meet again.
It hadn't been a farewell. It was time, knocking softly.
Lin Xia smiled at the clear sky outside, blue and endless. She touched her knee, the crescent-shaped scar still there—a souvenir from the slide at five, from the first "retrograde memory." But now it felt like a gentle badge of honor, a reminder that even the smallest scars could tell a story of survival.
Today, hers was just beginning.