自己翻譯自己的書

That's right! I know where I come from!

Like fire, full of insatiable hunger.

Shining, I devour myself.

Everything that belongs to me turns into light,

Only ashes are left behind:

I am fire!

— "Ecce Homo: Behold the Man" by Friedrich Nietzsche

In that small cabin in Blenheim, the previous owner left me five books on the shelf, one of which was an autobiography written by a then-unknown poet. The little poem above is what I found in that autobiography, which wasn't actually very remarkable, but I was very fond of it at the time. Later, I even copied the poem onto a bookmark, and whenever I felt disheartened, I would take out the bookmark to remind myself:

— I am the fire that swears to burn everything.

Later on, during my travels, I heard a wandering poet say in a tavern that all the stories ever told by mankind are actually retellings of the same seven stories - "overcoming the monster," "wealth and power," "searching," "voyage and return," "rebirth," "comedy," and "tragedy." So I thought, if my story were to be told, in which category would it belong?

At that time, I wished my story would never begin. But like everyone else's story, mine inevitably began. However, I believe that although we have no power to determine the outcome of our story, when it is being told, we always have the power to determine its beginning.

So I chose a day in that sweltering summer, by the standards of the Returning Bay.

That year, the flowers in the grass were particularly lush, covering the hills and bays like a carpet, and also causing the mosquitoes and flies in the marsh to be more than twice as numerous as in previous years. If any adventurer wanted to row through the Little Slave River that year, even if they made it through the treacherous rapids, hidden reefs, and driftwood, they would be left with only half a life in the dense, sky-darkening cloud of mosquitoes—if they had any life left at all.

And on a night in that sweltering summer that was neither a full moon nor a new moon, without anyone else's attention or permission, I unilaterally made that night the beginning of my story.

With my arms tightly wrapped around my legs like chains and my cheeks pressed against my sharp knees, my body was wrapped in a once-floral and patterned blanket in my memory, but now turned into a dark brown beaver-like fur due to never having been washed. I tried not to expose an inch of skin to the countless "little vampires" attempting to penetrate this line of defense—but this was in vain, for no matter how tightly you think you're wrapped, they always manage to find the gaps you don't even know exist, buzzing and charging in their final assault. And the owner of this little fortress made of blankets—me—had given up resistance and let them feast. So I felt them burrow into my skin, my muscles, my bones, my brain, until I, too, became one of them. Or rather, I felt like I had become a flute, or a puddle, a hollow pipe, my purpose being to serve as their dining place.

But this was a lie; I was a person, a flesh-and-blood person, although I didn't always feel that way.

Looking up at the starry sky — or more precisely, I raised my head, imagining myself looking at the stars, but the clouds allowed only half a moon and four of the brightest seven stars (I still remember which four: Virgo, Polaris, Gold, and Demon King) to be faintly visible in the night sky. I vaguely remember seeing a meteor, but I'm not sure if that was an illusion. I've always been looking forward to seeing a meteor or other similar celestial bodies, but every time I see a meteor, I can't be sure if I've really seen it.

I opened myself up, letting the eternal tranquility of the zenith swallow me.

"Oh, night mother's migratory birds, take me away," I prayed silently, driving away the noise.

Until I failed, and the noise stubbornly returned. The door beside me was pushed open with the wooden bolt making a harsh friction sound. Of course, even though it's called a 'door', it's just a layer of thin wooden boards nailed together and smeared with mud, nothing like the ten-meter-high all-steel door of the Returning Castle.

"Little one, Dad's asleep, come in."

The straw-like figure making what should be some kind of language or just the hoarse roar of the night wind is my older brother. I don't like him always calling me "little one", but I have to admit that he's not lying. Although he's only a year older than me, under some mysterious influence, he's already a head taller than Dad and still growing rapidly, forcing Mom to keep altering his clothes until a year ago when she finally accepted reality and made the largest set of clothes I've ever seen, larger than those worn by hunters from the south or wild men from the west, ensuring he won't need new clothes for five years. But today, a year later, although he still occasionally has to bend down and roll up his pant legs and looks like a straw in a sack, I think at the current rate, he'll need new clothes by the end of next year at the earliest.

Compared to him, I'm like a short, little mole.

My brother quickly closed the door behind him. His large eyes, like a snake, owl, or chameleon, were embedded in his skull, which looked particularly terrifying and gaunt due to the intersection of rapid growth and malnutrition, two phenomena that shouldn't happen simultaneously. He stared straight at me while reaching out to pull me up. But I slapped his hand away.

Or at least I thought I did. But my body didn't successfully keep up with my spirit. At that moment, I realized that I had been motionless for so long that my body had stiffened.

Before the thought fully blossomed in my mind, I was rudely pulled up by him. Although the skin on my arm had lost sensation from being pressed between my body and the wall, my bones told me that he was gripping my wrist tightly, like a pair of iron pliers.

"Hisss, your body temperature is so hot," his voice, still in the midst of changing, carried the impatience that boys of his age usually had.

With another soul-shattering noise, I was dragged into the room stumbling, and then, with another noise, the door was closed.

Words cannot express how much I loathe this door and everything behind it.

Under the dim oil lamp — I could never tolerate the smell of kerosene burning, even though I've endured many other theoretically worse smells. This made everyone in the family think I didn't like reading, but in fact, I just didn't like reading under a kerosene lamp — was a small, pathetic, ugly, deformed, disgusting creature. Regrettably, I had to address this beast as my father, even though I never believed that the man's seed was in my blood from the start.

Lying on the table like a stranded octopus couldn't hide his hunchback and his uneven shoulders. The strong smell of alcohol mixed with the everlasting moldy smell in the room, the pungent smell of kerosene burning, the dusty smell of ashes, the rotten sour smell from somewhere, and several strange smells I couldn't name that fell between a stench and the smell of animal flesh, forming a breath that instantly made me feel nauseous. But now I felt my stomach was too weak, or maybe I had just gotten used to it, so my body didn't react at all.

And his coat, that coat made of the heaviest fabric I've ever seen, covered with layers of grease stains, dirt stains, mud stains, and urine and excrement stains — until half the weight of the coat was made up of various filthy things, worn by him like armor. Mom always told us to take off our hats and coats as soon as we came in, but this man never took off his coat, whether outside or inside, while defecating or working, sleeping, eating, drinking, or messing around somewhere. He always wore that coat.

I felt he was hiding something, maybe he knew his disgusting flesh needed to be hidden too.

Not far from him and maintaining a subtly appropriate distance, Mom was cleaning up the shattered glass on the floor. Under the red handprint on her face was an expression, or lack thereof, as heavy as that man's coat. This expression made me feel that although she was physically present, her soul was already far away, in some immeasurable distance, a place untouched by the noise and troubles of this world.

I can barely remember the last time Mom had any expression other than this detached, even transcendent one on her face. Like the man's coat, Mom also wore a set of 'armor.'

Sometimes I envy her ability to easily suspend her soul like this. If Mom can let her soul fly away, why has she never taken me with her?

Sitting in the chair opposite that man was my younger brother, Loki, a small and quiet boy, slowly scooping up the porridge in the wooden bowl with a wooden spoon and sending it to his mouth while also delivering a third of it to the ground. If it were any other time, Mom would sweep her slender fingers across Loki's lips to push back the food that fell out before it hit the ground. I could see that he was trying to be very careful not to make any noise, but he was still making a sound similar to that of a rodent eating.

Loki was mentally disabled; at eight years old, he could only make a few simple, animal-like noises to barely express some simple meanings, and he could never coordinate and control his body. When he walked, he always moved his arms and legs together, like a bear trying to learn human upright walking.

On the small bed against the wall were two infants still in swaddling clothes, my twin sisters Medusa and Minerva. They were miraculously not crying at this moment, or perhaps they were too frightened to cry, though I thought the latter was unlikely, as they were creatures oblivious to fear.

At that time, I solemnly vowed in my heart that if either of them made even a little noise, I would immediately strangle them both.

Grasping my wrist, the man seemed to want to pull me into the bedroom, but I didn't budge.

Or so I thought, but in reality, I was dragged into the inner room like a dead fish, a small room separated from the main house by thin wooden boards. He threw me roughly onto the bed, and for a moment, the damp and moldy smell of the sheets made it almost impossible for me to breathe. From his strength, I could feel the emotions hidden beneath his calm demeanor.

"Hush," he leaned over, pressing his finger heavily on my lips, almost making me protest involuntarily, "Don't make a sound, he'll kill you. Go to sleep." His voice was as light as the wind from an owl's wings.

I had no choice but to nod.

As I watched the man's retreating figure, I suddenly felt pain. At first, I thought it was an illusion, then I thought it was some kind of heartache, then I thought it was the swelling and pain caused by a mosquito bite, and finally, I realized it was just the momentary pain of the body and soul reuniting as blood and nerves rushed back into the numb limbs.

I wanted to make a sound, but I knew I couldn't. So I gritted my teeth, listening to the sound of my upper and lower teeth grinding against each other until the process was complete, and everything returned to calm. I was back to myself.

I wanted to cry, or rather, I vaguely thought I should want to cry, at least put on the appearance of crying, but I didn't. I even felt like laughing a little, but I knew I couldn't laugh, at least not yet, so I wrapped the moldy towel even tighter around me without making a sound.

After a while, I don't know how long, the silence was broken again, and the man's voice rang out, but it was too distant for me to hear clearly—or so I thought it was because it was too distant. But the room was only so big, and no wall was soundproof, even whispers could be heard by everyone, so how could I not hear clearly?

I rolled over and put the blanket over my head, but it didn't help at all; the man's voice seemed even louder.

His voice was like coming through a thousand layers of spiderwebs, blurred, incomprehensible. Instead of words, it was more like a continuous wail and moan, barely forming a cacophony that could be called a language.

Then the noise grew louder and louder, filling the air until it felt like it was coming from deep within my mind.

Then the noise was interrupted, replaced by shoving and the sound of something falling to the ground.

Finally, with a crash, everything quieted down again.

I wanted to stay in bed, but I got up quietly and tiptoed to the doorway to take a look.

Mom was standing in the center of the room, her arms covered in left and right red streaks, like the scales of a fish. She covered her face, blood seeping through her fingers, but her expression remained the same detached look, her gaze unfocused, seemingly staring at the distant horizon.

The man lay on the floor in a strange position, like a wild dog hit by a car, his limbs and body twisted together. His head was smeared with dark stains under the dim oil lamp, making his already messy, bird's nest-like hair even dirtier. Even so, his hand still tightly held a belt, causing his pants to lose support and hang halfway down his knees, revealing his urine-stained underwear.

Next to him, the young man stood upright, holding the cast iron frying pan that, in my memory, had never been cleaned and was covered in layers of grease. His bird-like, large eyes twinkled, reflecting the light.

After what seemed like a long time, he turned to me and spoke calmly.

"Lilith, fetch a basin of water; I need your help."

This was the first time he hadn't called me 'Little One' since he grew taller than me.

I looked at Loki, who was still spooning porridge, seemingly oblivious to what had happened. But now, only about a quarter of each spoonful made it into his mouth.

I had no choice but to nod.

That night, we committed our original sin. The rest of our lives became a journey of atonement.

It wasn't until many years later that I realized I had never understood or tried to understand that man. In my memory, except for the earliest fragment, he was always the object of my disgust. In some ways, my disgust and contempt for him became a source of strength for me. Anger and self-pity sometimes became the only remaining motivation to keep me going. It wasn't until I finally, perhaps too late, realized that to create a better world, we need not only anger but also love.

【Eight years ago】

In early spring, Vena was a beautiful city that one wouldn't want to leave.

Walking along the streets adorned with spring flowers, green leaves, and ladies and madams dressed in the latest imperial fashion, one's feet would tread upon a smooth white stone pavement with a history of three thousand years. On both sides, buildings in the new and old styles alternated, and towering snow-capped mountains seemed within reach upon looking up. Vena proudly showcased its status as the 'Jewel of the Empire.'

In this city, it seemed there were endless masquerade balls every day, theaters and circuses were always packed, and the scent of wine and honey filled the air. Even the horses here held their heads high. People often said, 'No matter the changes, Vena remains the same.' For thousands of years, it had been the center of imperial power, but it seemed like a paradise, far from strife, enjoying its own prosperity.

At least that's what people thought—or pretended to think. After all, the city's nickname was the 'City of Masks.' Here, no one was without secrets, and no one was without a mask.

But change was inevitable.

When the young man dressed in a black priest's robe arrived at the apartment building near Samar's Conquest Square, the street was still scattered with wooden sticks, broken fabric, banners, slogans, broken sword blades, shattered glass, ownerless cloth shoes and boots, and even dark red bloodstains that hadn't been washed away—these were the remnants of the previous day's strike and subsequent suppression. Some newspapers reported ten deaths, others a thousand, and some claimed that no conflict had taken place at all.

Decades ago, such a scene would have been unimaginable.

The young man's steps were so light that they seemed like dancing, gliding as he entered the apartment building without looking around.

It was an old apartment, with a faint smell of rotting wood and old carpets. The walls were covered with yellowed wallpaper, and the once-fashionable, exquisite patterns were now outdated.

A middle-aged woman with tightly combed hair sat behind a table in the lobby on the first floor, idly passing the time with a book.

The young man gently tapped on the counter.

"Hello, could you please tell me which room Professor Ulysses lives in?"

His voice was so soft that it was barely audible, with a hint of a foreign accent, but it was hard to pinpoint where he was from.

It took the middle-aged woman a full twenty seconds to put down the book in her hands.

"If you have letters and packages to deliver, you can leave them here."

The receptionist habitually observed the man before her. He was not tall, about the same height as an average woman, and had an ordinary appearance, with no distinguishing features that would make him stand out in a crowd. He was dressed simply in a black robe, the kind usually worn by novice priests. The robe was well-kept, with hardly a wrinkle, and well-tailored, but without any badges or symbols indicating rank.

"I have urgent matters to discuss with Professor Ulysses immediately." His voice remained gentle but carried an unwavering determination.

The receptionist and the man locked eyes for several seconds, as if measuring each other's resolve. Quickly, the receptionist decided that she didn't need to waste her time here. She opened a drawer, pulled out a register, and handed it to the man.

"Please sign the registration form."

The man didn't use the ink pen provided on the table, but instead took out a black pencil from his pocket and wrote his name on the visitor's list.

【Alexander Hannibal 05/12/898 13:24】

His handwriting was nearly as neat as the printed fonts on newspapers, and his strokes were light, indicating that the writer held the pen above the paper rather than pressing it down.

The receptionist leaned over to take a quick glance, confirming that the man had written his name, and then stood up, reluctantly pushing open a slightly ajar door next to her. Inside the small room, a row of dark red ropes hung from the wall, each with a small tag indicating a room number at the end. After searching through the ropes for a while, she found the one she was looking for and pulled it down.

"Click"

To her surprise, the rope did not budge at all.

"Um, it might be stuck from disuse," the receptionist shook her aching wrist and grabbed the rope again. This time, she took it more seriously, using both hands and turning her body to face the rope head-on before pulling hard.

"Click"

The rope emitted another wail, but still, nothing happened.

After a few more attempts, the receptionist reluctantly gave up.

"I'm sorry, the bell seems to be broken. Maybe you could come back in a few days..." The receptionist turned around as she spoke, but when she did, she realized that the man had already disappeared, leaving only the closed visitor registration form behind.

"Ah, he must have left."

The receptionist returned to her seat, picked up her book, and quickly forgot the incident, not noticing that the line of writing on the visitor registration form had been erased.

——————

Babylon Ulysses was a handsome, happily married man with a successful career. Anyone who met him could see this from his confident, neatly-trimmed mustache, the domed hat on his head made from fertile fur from the New World by Brunsa's craftsmen using traditional lead distillation techniques, the beautiful gilt sculpture on the handle of the cane he held, and the ivory wedding ring on his ring finger, engraved with his wife's name.

But today, as Professor Ulysses jumped off the carriage, he seemed worried. His steps were disorderly, his gaze constantly fixed on the ground near his feet, and his breathing shallow and rapid. Even the greetings from the attendant went unnoticed as he walked past - on a normal day, he took pride in his outstanding manners, but today he didn't even crack a joke as he usually would after class.

'How could she? How dare she? When did it happen? Who was it?'

Years later, when Ulysses finally mustered the courage to ask her these questions, she just looked out the window as usual with her usual detachment, mechanically continuing to scrub the already murky dishes in the basin, without saying a word.

When Ulysses rushed into the house in a daze, hurriedly hanging his coat on the hook, he didn't look back to see the man standing in the shadow behind the door.

'Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!'

Ulysses turned on the kitchen faucet, placed his hand under the running water, and watched the water dance and change shape between his fingers, but his body was too stiff to bend down.

'It's all lies! It's all lies! It's all lies!'

"Ah!"

A short, deep, suppressed roar squeezed out of Ulysses' throat, and then he suddenly grabbed a plate and threw it against the wall, his movements resembling those of a puppet with cut strings.

But it was because of this action that he turned around and saw the man standing quietly behind him.

"Professor Ulysses, do you have time for a talk?"

His voice was light and gentle, reminiscent of some harmless little creature, but Ulysses felt as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his head.

"Who are you? Get out of my house!"

Ulysses forced these words through his teeth while reaching for his waist, only to remember that he had hung his coat with the intricate self-defense revolver in its pocket on the hook.

The man smiled, a warm and friendly smile.

"Please, have a seat."

As he spoke, he pulled a dining chair from the side and pushed it in front of Ulysses.

Without even realizing it, Ulysses sat down.

Despite his inner resistance to being ordered around in his own home by a stranger he had no recollection of, he found himself sitting on the side of the dining table closer to the interior, the chair that usually belonged to his wife. It was because of this that, after sitting down, he realized that he hadn't observed the room from this unfamiliar perspective for a long time, and for a moment, he had the illusion that he was not in his own home.

'He's using my teacup!'

Ulysses watched the unfamiliar man calmly sip hot tea from a cup he didn't know when had been prepared.

'That's my teacup!'

Anger once again swept through his heart. He had never realized before how much attachment he had to that ordinary brown clay teacup. Although it was just a cheap teacup bought a long time ago by either him, Isis, or a friend, still...

'Don't touch my teacup!'

Seeing the stranger's fingers holding the teacup, thin, delicate, pale, with visible dark blue veins on the surface, and slightly reddened by the heat of the tea due to the tight grip, Ulysses felt more and more that he was about to lose control.

Ulysses felt his heartbeat quicken, his vision narrowing, as if he were standing before a dark tunnel.

"What do you want? I don't remember meeting you. If you're after money, I'm sorry to tell you, but I'm on the verge of bankruptcy."

Ulysses heard his own voice coming out of his mouth, surprisingly restrained, even though he knew he was walking on the edge of violence. However, even so, admitting the fact that he was about to go bankrupt in front of a suspicious stranger still filled him with an unstoppable sense of shame.

The man exhaled gently, blowing away a mist of moisture, "I am... you can call me Alexander for now. I... first, I must clarify a misunderstanding. I am not your enemy, and in some sense, I am your ally. I came today with nothing but good intentions, and the abrupt visit is due to some other reasons. Perhaps you can understand, as a government employee, there are always some restrictions."

"A government employee? You're a government employee?" Ulysses' tone rose, full of doubt.

"Ministry of Internal Affairs, Logistics Archive Bureau, Room 114."

"Archive Bureau? Are you here to get a signed copy of a book I've written for the archives?" Ulysses said sarcastically.

Alexander shrugged, "Well, although we are indeed administratively classified under the Archive Bureau, we have a more resounding name that you may have heard in certain circles, which is the so-called 'Imperial Purity and Truth Investigation and Preparation Guard Group,' or simply 'Purity Group'."

Ulysses felt his heart skip a beat. He had certainly heard that name.

"I..." Ulysses hesitated, "Do you, do you have any identification?"

Alexander put down the teacup, pulled a small black card from his inner pocket, and waved it in front of Ulysses' face, putting it back before he could see the content clearly. But Ulysses still saw the golden badge on it.

"You're a detective from the Vena Police Department. I've dealt with detectives before, I was invited as a consultant last year, and I recognize that badge."

"My real job doesn't have corresponding identification; this is just for convenience."

"So do you have a search warrant? If not, I will exercise my rights as a citizen and ask you to leave immediately." Some of Ulysses' past confidence and composure gradually returned.

"Ah..." Alexander sighed, "I think you still don't understand my intentions; I am here to help you, not investigate you."

Ulysses stood up, snatched the teacup Alexander had put down, and was pleased to find that he was a whole head taller than the other man.

He slammed the teacup heavily on the table, "So, if you don't have a search warrant, please leave immediately, or I will call the police... uh, I will..."

"Where did Isis go, did she go out with the children?" Alexander suddenly changed the subject, leaving Ulysses somewhat unresponsive.

Ulysses instinctively replied, "She took the kids to attend the Princess's ball... No, I have no obligation to tell you where my wife and children are! What does it have to do with you?"

At this point, Alexander walked over to the grand piano occupying a third of the living room, picked up the picture frame on it, and examined it closely.

In the frame, a blurred black and white photo showed Ulysses, his wife Isis, and their three children together.

In the group photo, Ulysses looked a few years younger than he did now, dressed in a neat evening suit, his face serious. Beside him, a beautiful woman with waist-length black hair smiled gently, holding the hand of a young boy in a small tuxedo, with big eyes, looking somewhat unwillingly to one side. Behind the boy, a pair of even younger twin girls hid to the left and right, both dressed in white skirts and shoes like little princesses.

"Hey! Let go!" Ulysses rushed forward and snatched the picture frame from Alexander's hand, "Don't touch my photos!"

"Mr. Ulysses," Alexander looked at his open hand and continued, "Have you ever heard of an ancient... 'creature' called a 'succubus'?"

Ulysses found it difficult to breathe.

"Oh, of course you have. As a professor of paleontology at the Imperial Academy, how could you not have heard of it?"

Alexander playfully winked.

A month later, a weary young couple with three children and three suitcases disembarked from a newly-built train, still a novelty, arriving in the ice-free port of Bridley. The family never discussed the reason for their trip with anyone, as if they themselves didn't know where they were coming from or going to. If someone brought up the subject, the couple would skillfully change the topic. The children were completely unaware.

There, after waiting for half a month, they finally found a cargo-passenger ship to take them to the New World.

It was a 700-ton old foremast square-rigged three-masted ship, belonging to the North Sea Company. Aboard the ship, in addition to a large number of goods and supplies, were crammed 150 slaves—another type of cargo, about 30 sailors and soldiers, and 26 passengers, including this family, headed for the New World. The cargo and slaves were piled in the bottom of the ship, and the passengers' rooms were not much better, with all the passengers squeezed into two rooms, one of which was half occupied by barrels of salted fish and pickled meat. Although men and women were supposed to be separated into two rooms, in practice, everyone wanted to be with their family. Due to the limited space, they had to sleep in two shifts—there was not enough floor area for everyone to lie down.

Because the ladder to the bottom of the ship was in one of the two rooms, whenever a slave died below, the body would be dragged up through a small wooden door, half a meter in length and width, by a rope. The sailors would then drag the body to the deck under the watchful eyes of all the passengers and throw it into the mouths of the sharks that followed the ship. At first, older passengers would cover the children's eyes, but as slaves began to die almost daily, people gradually became accustomed to it.

Another month later, even the passengers and sailors began to suffer from loose teeth, cracked skin, and bloody coughs and stools due to malnutrition.

On the 45th day, the body of one of the twin daughters, Sophia - who was slightly older by half an hour - was found hanging from the mast in the morning, covered in unsightly marks. The captain and first mate were both alarmed, but after a whole day of investigation, the identity of the killer was still not discovered. So, after a simple prayer by the ship's priest, her body was pushed into the sea like the others and disappeared into the waves.

Her twin sister, Lilith, cried for three whole days, after which the other sailors and passengers could no longer bear the noise-induced sleeplessness. After several heated arguments and fights, Lilith's father had to cover her mouth with a cloth, forbidding her from crying any longer.

From that moment on, Lilith never cried again, as if her tear ducts had permanently lost their function.

————————————————————

It wasn't until many years later that I heard a belated explanation from my mother: why we suddenly left everything behind, fleeing from the center of the world to the edge of the known world like headless flies, why Dad turned into a monster, why my sister had to turn into foam on the ocean, and why we carried such cursed bloodlines.

I wasn't sure if she was lying then, but I can be sure that the version of the story I heard was not the whole truth, but it was enough. There is no such thing as 'truth' in this world, only what we choose to believe.

For example, I have always believed that, at least for a while, Dad loved us—no, sometimes I'm even willing to believe that even after he had become that man, he still loved us, but he had lost the ability to express love. Pain eroded his humanity, just as pain leaves its mark on everyone equally.

This doubt is the greatest legacy he left me. After confirming that I was indeed not his biological daughter, I even felt a little sympathy for him, although by then he was long gone.

Many years later, I returned to the small hill where we buried him, only to find that the hill had been leveled. In its place was a newly constructed, neat, and bright street paved with bricks, and there were even electric streetlights along the street. What was once a desolate wilderness had become the bustling center of a small town.

I went to the town's archives and talked to the old people who used to live nearby. Finally, one of the old people told me that not just one, but hundreds of unclaimed and unidentified skeletons were dug up from under the hill by the developer. The bones were all burned, and even the ashes might have been processed into fertilizer and returned to the soil. People suspected that the bones were either from the massacred indigenous people by hunting parties or soldiers who died in the Nine Years War, or just the popular hiding spot for countless unsolved murders over the years—but no one had a definite answer.

Standing there, under the lights, watching the snowflakes gently fall into my hand, was one of the most bewildering moments of my life. I thought that just as his presence in my heart tormented me, his physical existence must be deeply rooted there, waiting for my return.

But he wasn't.

As quickly as he was forgotten, his body was erased. In the end, he returned to dust and soil, leaving not a trace in this world except for my unreliable memories.

When I was at the Tower of View, I read a sentence in a book, "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

I do not agree with this statement because, in my view, happy families each have their own happiness, while unhappy families all share the same misfortune. We are all abandoned children of our time, and our suffering and sadness connect us as a whole. It is because our hearts have bled that we are not deceived by the illusions of this world. All glory, all kindness, all beauty, radiance, and justice are just parts of that omnipresent machine. The most terrible crimes are often committed under the glare of the sun, and so only in the deepest night can we find forgiveness.