Zhao Wen woke up in the afternoon.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the gap in the curtains, pale and dusty, landing across the edge of the desk and the scattered papers beneath it. His head felt heavy, the kind of weight that lingered after a fever refused to fully retreat. His throat was dry. His limbs felt slow to respond.
For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the ceiling.
Then the memory surfaced.
A man.
A voice.
A chair that should not have been occupied.
Zhao Wen let out a quiet laugh, short and hoarse.
"A strange dream," he muttered.
Yesterday had been strange enough already—the mountain fog, the cold that seemed to seep into his bones, the way his breathing had gone oddly out of sync with his body. Add a fever to that, and the mind could easily invent things. He had read enough papers on cognition under stress to know how unreliable memory could be.
He pushed himself upright.
Something cold brushed his hand.
Zhao Wen froze.
Slowly, he looked down.
A small knife lay on the bed, half-hidden in the folds of the blanket.
His mind went blank.
He remembered using it days ago to cut bread. He remembered setting it on the table. He did not remember bringing it to bed. He did not remember holding it at all.
He sat there for a long moment, unmoving, listening to his own breathing.
Then, almost reluctantly, his gaze shifted toward the table.
The token was there.
It rested exactly where it had been in the dream—or whatever that had been. Plain. Unmarked. Unremarkable in every way except that it should not exist.
Zhao Wen stared.
Minutes passed.
Finally, he stood and walked over, each step measured, cautious, as if the object might vanish if he moved too quickly. He picked it up.
Cold.
Smooth.
No engravings. No symbols. Nothing that suggested craftsmanship or value.
"This is ridiculous," he said quietly.
Someone must have left it here. A prank, perhaps. A hallucination layered over something mundane. The mind was good at filling in gaps when given enough encouragement.
He set the token down and turned away.
For the rest of the day, he did not touch it.
The next morning, he went to the university. Meetings, emails, discussions about research that felt distant and strangely unimportant. He spoke when spoken to. Took notes. Nodded at the right moments.
When he returned home, his eyes went immediately to the table.
The token was still there.
On the second day, he tried harder not to look at it.
On the third day, he decided enough was enough.
He picked up the token and placed it in a drawer beneath his desk, closing it firmly. Out of sight. Out of mind.
That evening, he returned late.
The token lay on the table.
Zhao Wen stood in the doorway, keys still in his hand.
He did not remember taking it out.
His heart rate increased—not panic, not yet, but something colder. The kind of alertness that came when the mind could no longer pretend it understood the rules.
On the fourth day, he sat down.
He picked up the token deliberately.
"If this is a joke," he said, "it's not funny."
He held it tightly. Nothing happened.
He stared at it. Nothing happened.
Feeling foolish, he thought, Guide me.
Still nothing.
He exhaled and leaned back in the chair, letting his grip loosen. The token rested lightly in his palm.
His thoughts drifted, unprompted.
The mountain.
The fog.
The pressure in his chest that hadn't quite been discomfort.
The question.
Do you want to know?
"I just want to understand," Zhao Wen murmured.
The room tilted.
Not violently. Not suddenly. Orientation slipped, like a horizon quietly giving way. The walls did not move. The light did not change.
And yet—
He was gone.
There was no sensation of falling. No sound. No darkness rushing in.
Only absence.
In the empty apartment, nothing was disturbed. Papers lay where they had been. The chair stood still. The table was bare.
Outside, the city continued as it always had.
No one noticed, that a man vanished from his room.
And somewhere beyond Earth's awareness, Heaven observed—silent, patient, unchanged.
End of Chapter 37