Zhang Huan-An · First Dream Aberration
He fell asleep faster than expected.Though his mind kept turning, his body had already begun to yield—drawn gently into a silent dark, led by some unseen rhythm.
In that darkness, a sound emerged.Not language, but something older—buried deep in the substratum of memory.The hush of water.The whisper of wind.The faint crunch of feet brushing over sand.
A vision surfaced.
—
He stood beside a low brick wall.His perspective had shrunk—no taller than a child of eight.It felt like he was seeing the world through someone else's childhood eyes.
To his side, a classroom: open windows, and the echo of a Mandarin lesson drifting out.Afternoon sunlight fell through a mosaic of tree shadows, carrying the scent of chalk dust and dry straw.
He had never been here before.And yet—he knew.This was Yu Yong-An's childhood.He couldn't explain how. But he knew.
He walked forward, pulled by an invisible thread.When his foot struck a small stone near the schoolyard path, his vision trembled—
The scene shifted.
—
At the edge of the playground, a young boy knelt in uniform, quietly cleaning his shoes.His hands moved with delicate precision—as if those shoes could carry him far away from a world he no longer wished to stay in.
The boy looked up.
Zhang Huan-An stood nearby, gazing at a familiar, aching face—Yu Yong-An.Not the one he knew now, but the child he once was.
Zhang tried to speak.No sound emerged.
He raised his hand—only to see it pass through the air, like a ghost watching from a veil between worlds.
And then—behind the boy, something approached.
Not a person. Not quite.A blur of black mist, shaped vaguely like a middle-aged man.Zhang couldn't name him. But pain rose inside him—visceral, instinctual.
Don't go near him…He screamed it inwardly, but his voice remained locked in silence.
Time began to twist.
—
The playground bent. Darkness fell fast.The school, the trees, even the ground beneath them—split.Two overlapping timelines emerged:One, filled with sunlight and childhood innocence.The other, cloaked in gray fog and fractured ruins.
He saw Yu Yong-An again.His body flickered, doubled—Existing in both timelines at once.Or perhaps… being rewritten.
"Are you watching me…"
The voice was unmistakable.Soft. Clear.It cut straight through him.
"…Or are you here too?"
—
Zhang Huan-An jolted awake, gasping for air.Outside, the sky was still dark.Inside, the room sat in unnatural stillness—as if time itself had forgotten to tick.
Sweat coated his brow.His fingertips were cold.
He looked down.This was his eighteen-year-old body.But his heartbeat still echoed in that schoolyard wind.
This wasn't just a dream.It was a memory—one he'd never lived, but that had already existed.
—
He rose, stepped to the window, and looked out over the silent skyline of Tamsui.
His first dream.His first brush with time displaced.
And he knew—This was only the beginning.
Reality Timeline · Early Morning, May 18, 2024
Zhang Huan-An · First Dream Record Created
Dawn arrived in a soft, misted light.
Zhang Huan-An sat at the desk, pen hovering over the page, eyes locked on what he had just written:
2024.05.17｜Dream Record 01Starting point: schoolyard scene. Unusual height. Estimated age: eight.Scene believed to be a memory from another—likely not my own.Appearing figures: boy (suspected: Yu Yong-An), unidentified black shadow.Temporal anomaly: split vision, overlapping space, asynchronous sound.Final phrase: "Are you watching me… or are you here too?"
He paused, then looked out the window, where the sky was clean and newly washed.
He knew.This wasn't an ordinary dream.
—
The images from last night still lingered with chilling clarity.He could remember the angle of the sunlight filtering through tree branches—Even the smell of dust in the air.It wasn't hallucination. Nor recollection.But a vision—Seen through someone else's eyes.
And that someone—A name had surfaced.
Yu Yong-An.
The voice in the dream had spoken.Not in normal speech, but like a ripple across dimensions—A transmission that bypassed space and struck directly into thought.
Zhang Huan-An understood:The dreams would return.
And he would need to record them—every detail, every timestamp, every word.
This wasn't passive observation.It was a conversation—still unfolding.
May 19 · Dream 02 · First Emergence of Message
Zhang Huan-An · Transmission Begins
That night, he slept again—almost expecting it.And once more, the dream came.
This time, he remained himself.No childlike vision. No schoolyard.Only silence.
He stood at a deserted intersection.No cars. No people.Just a blinking yellow light—cautionary, waiting, suspended.Time had stopped.
Across the street, the gate to an apartment building stood ajar.Within, a shadowy figure kept wiping the nameplate beside the door.Over and over again.
The face was hidden.But a pale, thin hand moved in the flickering light—restless, bone-deep.
Suddenly, the figure froze.It slowly raised its head.And turned toward him.
"Time is not linear. It is reassembled."
The words didn't enter through his ears.They detonated in his mind—implanted from within,as if memory itself had spoken.
"Your body hasn't adjusted yet.But memory… memory will guide you toward the true direction."
—
He woke, breath steady.The clock read 4:22.The world outside was still wrapped in shadow.
No trembling.No panic.Just a strange, unnerving calm.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
2024.05.19｜Dream Record 02Type: message-bearing dreamLocation: unknown intersection, frozen timeLanguage: internal transmission, not external voiceKey phrase: "Time is not linear. It is reassembled."
He underlined the date—twice—then scribbled a note beside it:
Tomorrow is Monday, May 20. Return to work.If anomalies are cyclical, they might surface during the week.
He closed the notebook and poured himself a glass of water.
It would be his third morning in this world.
And already—He could feel the stillness beginning to crack.