Everything was ready. Qi Zhimu began the clinical experiment.
He confirmed his memories were intact, then copied them for digitized backup—only to discover something unexpected.
"My memory… has gaps?"
From the digitized view, the cross-sections of artificial sealing were obvious—clean, deliberate.
Who had touched his memory?
Qi Zhimu halted, brows drawn in thought.
A Memokeeper of the Garden of Recollection? A Cremator?
No clear trail emerged. He didn't dwell; instead, he took the opportunity to attempt recovery of the sealed portion.
The process went smoothly—almost too smoothly.
When everything returned, a shadow fell over his face.
…
The next morning, Qi Zhimu slowly opened his eyes.
A stabbing pain surged from deep inside his brain, instantly sweeping away sleep.
He scanned his surroundings—something felt off.
What had happened yesterday…?
Back mountain pruning. Sudden rain. Clarisse arriving with an umbrella. Then…
Mrs. Durand's session ended. He left instructions. He conducted the clinical trial.
Yes. That was it.
But why did his subconscious insist something was missing?
What were the results of the experiment? Why did his head hurt?
When did he end up by the window?
He lowered his gaze. Several plum liquor jars lay nearby.
They were empty, scattered in disarray across the floor.
His ruan lay by his side—yet it had been hanging on the wall.
He lifted the empty jars and smelled them one by one.
All were the highest-aged stock. Drinking that much would absolutely knock him out.
It wasn't right.
He was always disciplined. Even if the experiment failed, he wouldn't drown himself in liquor.
"Hm?"
Qi Zhimu's wrist shifted. Only then did he realize his other hand was holding a sheet of paper—handwriting unmistakably familiar.
His own.
"The clinical trial was a complete success. It can cure Mrs. Durand's amnesia."
He was certain it was his writing.
But why had he written it down? Why did he have no memory of writing it?
Why did he need to remind himself like this?
Staring at the line, he realized there was more on the back.
He turned the paper and read every word.
"This is…"
Still his handwriting—but the content looked like… unfinished lyrics.
He stared for a moment, then picked up the ruan and played a melody he had apparently composed, humming softly.
Lyrics and tune fused seamlessly.
"So this is mine too…"
He tried to recall when the melody had been born. His brain flared with pain again.
The exact date blurred.
"A long time ago… before I graduated…?"
He continued to play and sing, sinking into the lingering grief woven through the song.
When he reached the missing portion of the chorus, a line came out of his mouth without thought, and the melody stopped abruptly.
…
He froze.
He hadn't thought about it—so why could he supply the missing line so naturally?
Staring at the last few lines, he knew three more were missing.
He tried again.
The melody rose.
"Drunk—so I might guard the world. Tell me, do you know?"
"In this life, I turn back once—waiting for life and death."
"Would you be willing to stay, to keep watch with me?"
"Sigh—only when love runs deep do I know: we end up hand in hand."
The song ended.
Qi Zhimu held the instrument in silence, tasting the aftersound for a long time.
His teacher excelled at many instruments—xiao, flute, zither, ruan, pipa… but the ruan was her favorite.
Qi Zhimu had learned by proximity and effort until he could accompany her without dragging her down.
For all these years, whether playing classics or his own compositions, he kept to the styles she enjoyed.
But this song—
It was soaked in regret, and it could not escape the word love.
"The last three lines I filled in… don't fully match the earlier meaning. They drift from the central theme, and yet…"
"…they fit unexpectedly well?"
How could he have composed such a song without realizing it?
This wasn't Ruan Mei's preferred style.
The accumulating sense of wrongness deepened his confusion.
Why had he forgotten?
If he knew he would forget, why leave himself reminders?
Had someone of some Path faction acted on him?
Qi Zhimu hung the ruan back up and went into the treatment room searching for traces.
On the control console of the amnesia device—black ink on white paper:
"A warning to myself: do not seek the memories you have forgotten. When your lifespan ends, all memories will return on schedule."
Qi Zhimu tore the paper down and checked every other system.
No anomalies.
He pulled up last night's trial logs. Everything was normal—matching the conclusion in his brain.
For now, it was enough to cure Mrs. Durand, with a ninety percent success rate.
The remaining ten percent was the risk not yet conquered.
Before the day of his promise to Clarisse arrived, he would remove that ten percent.
For now, he chose to listen to "yesterday's self" and stop digging into what he had forgotten.
He only needed to wait.
"Cough… cough…"
Weakness surged through his body.
His face aged rapidly, black hair turning gray-white. A harsh cough brought up blood.
As a short-lived species neared the end, organs failed and aged together.
The closer to death, the weaker the functions.
"Looks like… I'll need two doses daily to maintain it."
He dragged himself to the encrypted safe, took out two pills, and swallowed them.
"In the last thirty days, two a day will become four… then six…"
Qi Zhimu sighed. This time, he didn't put the medicine back.
He had reached the stage where he needed to carry it on his person—insurance against sudden collapse.
Yu Qingtu could come and go at will.
If she learned the truth, even if she didn't act, she might inform Ruan Mei.
Qi Zhimu didn't want his corpse to become fuel that pushed his teacher deeper into an abyss.
He couldn't stop her—but at least he could refuse to add momentum.
As the medicine took effect, he returned to youth again.
…
Days passed. His rhythm stayed unchanged.
Clarisse visited more often—every few days.
The biggest change was that sometimes, when he played the ruan, he would unconsciously slip into that song's melody—and begin singing without realizing it.
Three days before Mrs. Durand's follow-up, just before dawn, Qi Zhimu woke from light sleep.
He lifted Little Orange off his chest and placed it gently into the warm covers.
He washed up, took his medicine, and glanced outside.
Snow drifted quietly through the night, dressing the world in silver.
"Earlier than usual by a few days."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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