Zhang Huan-An / Return to Linzi Police Precinct
The morning sun cast an even, muted gray over the station walls. Patrol cars slipped into the garage one by one, the white lines on the ground remained unchanged, and the movements of staff and officers followed their usual patterns—as if this world had never been rewritten.
Zhang Huan-An entered the Prevention Unit in a button-down shirt, his travel bag placed by the bench. He nodded to the duty officer at the command center as usual, tone natural, movements precise—yet his consciousness felt like a machine switched into autopilot. He moved through the scene, but he wasn't truly "alive."
He knew he'd worked here before. He recognized the position of the desks, the subtle scent of the floors, even the slightly crooked angle of the broom hanging in the corner.
But within that familiarity hid an inexplicable sense of wrongness. The space hadn't changed. The people hadn't changed. But someone had rewritten the script when he wasn't looking.
He had just stepped down from the secretarial role in the commanding officer's office—a more isolated period filled with paperwork, briefings, and confidential files. He had long grown used to being a Foreign Affairs Officer.
But today's "return" wasn't just a shift in role. It was the first time he appeared in this timeline under the name "Yu Yong-An."
Signs of Anomaly / In the Details
08:43. He logged into the precinct's internal system and submitted his morning patrol report. The light from the screen flashed against his eyes—he squinted.
A delay. No—a flicker of three frames flashing simultaneously. The cursor shifted strangely, like two sets of vision fought for control. He blinked. The screen returned to normal.
09:12. In the break room, fellow officer Lin Xue-Ting greeted him with a smile: "Hey, Xiao-Yu, you're back? Had enough of secretarial work?"
He smiled lightly. "Just catching my breath."
"Nice. Foreign affairs are quiet lately anyway... oh, didn't you say you'd take a day off last Friday? Didn't see your name on the leave sheet."
He paused. "I said that?"
"Yeah! You said the pilgrimage drained you. I thought you changed your mind."
Zhang Huan-An didn't respond. He hadn't gone on a pilgrimage. That was Yu Yong-An's memory.
But the version of "him" in this timeline had said it—left behind a version he didn't remember.
As he turned, he saw a wall calendar in the break room marked: April 23, Tuesday - Duty Shift Update.
But today was clearly May 20, Monday.
He hurried back to his desk. His digital calendar displayed the correct date. But in the corner of his vision, he could still "see" the wrong one on the wall.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
This wasn't illusion.
This was the shadow of Tuesday.
Reality Timeline · May 21, 2024 (Tuesday) Zhang Huan-An / First Recognition of the Tuesday Anomaly
The sun rose as usual. The air felt damp and clinging. Patrol schedules were updated as always.
Everything looked like yesterday.
But Zhang Huan-An knew: Today was different.
07:54. He stepped into the office. His cup had already been filled with hot tea, a note tucked underneath:
Xiao-Yu, let's grab noodles at the stall across the street today, 12:10. —Xue-Ting
He had never seen this note before, but the handwriting was unmistakably his own.
Not the handwriting of now, but from another version of him—yesterday's.
He wanted to ask Lin Xue-Ting, but she wasn't in. She was off today.
08:27. Passing the staircase landing, he saw an unnatural glare reflecting off the elementary school across the street. It wasn't sunlight. It was a kind of visual distortion.
He moved toward the glass.
In the window's reflection, a figure entered the station—uniformed, shoulder bag slung, flipping through papers.
It was him.
He looked down at the entrance below—no one. The reflection persisted. It moved in the exact path he'd taken just the day before.
Time ticked backward. He shivered. Closed his eyes.
Not a hallucination.
A layered reflection of Tuesday.
10:11. He received a report for a foreign-affairs incident on Wuguang Road. As he drove, the traffic, the shops, the passersby all seemed normal—but when he turned a familiar corner, a thought surfaced:
I was here last week.
Except he hadn't. He just returned two days ago.
The thought wasn't his. It was a memory-projection from another version of him.
He predicted traffic lights, spoiled tomatoes at a fruit stand, an old woman looking for her dog.
Everything felt known, but none of it had happened to him.
This day was a replay. One he never lived.
The Truth of Tuesday / The Beginning
On the way back, he scribbled into his notebook:
2024.05.21 (Tuesday) / Anomaly emergence: temporal repeat / visual dissonance / memory pre-run / predictive behavior x3 / mirror showed non-current image.
He underlined the final note in red:
If this is a recurring Tuesday anomaly, the next one would be...
He paused.
Another word surfaced: Friday.
May 22-23: Observations and Inference
May 22, Wednesday. The rain fell in hesitant drops, like time itself dripping apart.
Zhang walked along the dike by Qiyang Road. He'd walked this alley two days ago—he remembered it.
The sign at the alley's end had changed. A new font. The owner was repainting.
Yesterday, he had no memory of that change. But the image before him felt like something already known.
He stared at the migrant worker brushing paint.
"Need help?" the worker asked.
"...No, just checking if this place's always been like this."
He turned before hearing the reply.
Back at the station, he combed through duty logs.
Every Tuesday's patrol records—all matched. Except one.
May 14. Last Tuesday. The notes section was empty.
Only that one.
He clicked the file. It wouldn't open.
"Access Denied. File Locked."
But he had written it.
He opened his notebook:
If misaligned memory is real, then a version of me must have left a survival signal.
He drew a circle and wrote:
Tuesday = Layered Day? Layered = Multiple Me? Memory Residue = Pre-lived scenes? → Friday?
Below, a faint imprint bled through the page. Pencil erased, barely visible:
"You will remember me, when you no longer believe you are you."
A wave of nausea struck.
It wasn't his tone. But the handwriting was identical.
May 23, Thursday.
He began to doubt himself.
Not self-denial. Self-division.
Dreams became erratic.
Yesterday, he dreamt of standing by the Dadu River bridge in plain clothes. Across the way, a figure waved. It was also Zhang Huan-An.
Thinner. Straighter. Colder. Like a stand-in, waiting to take his place.
This morning, he dreamt of sitting in a precinct backroom, whispering into a phone:
"He's not coming back."
He woke with the phone still in hand. No call history.
He wrote:
Memory overlap: no immediate impact, but boundary softening. If sustained, could lead to identity shift. Who is "he"? Me? Or a version I once was?
He stopped looking for answers.
But he began to hear the world's echo.
Colleagues hesitated before meeting his eyes. Conversations repeated—tone, rhythm, humor, all identical. Even the office radio played a show from last Tuesday, now labeled "Today's Special Broadcast."
He marked everything with a red tag:
Observation complete. Variations stabilized. Stage set. Next threshold: Friday.
If nothing happened Friday, it was all illusion.
But if it did...
Then this was no longer his experience alone.
Zhang Huan-An / A Memory That Wasn't His
There was no sound—only the hush of light against a quiet corridor,and the faint echo of bare feet brushing across tile.
He turned a corner.And she was there.
Not facing him.Not looking at anything at all.
Just standing by the window, backlit,her fingers tracing the dust on the glass like she was writing letters that had already been erased.
He didn't recognize her face.But his heart did.
A name surfaced—not from memory, but from instinct.Li An-Qing.
She turned, slowly.Her eyes carried something that wasn't sadness,but the memory of it.
"You're not him," she said."But you will carry it for him, won't you?"
Before he could speak,she stepped into the light—and vanished like breath against frost.
He blinked.
The hallway was empty.
Reality Timeline · May 24, 2024 (Friday)
Zhang Huan-An / Second Anomaly · First Emergence of Friday
05:41. The sky was still dim.
He awoke knowing: today was the day.
Not a dream. Not a premonition. A bodily knowledge—like blood moving backwards, like the light slightly colder than usual.
He rose. Turned on the light.
And saw an extra chair.
It hadn't been there last night. It leaned neatly against the wall, a gray shirt folded over it—freshly pressed.
He touched the fabric. Not his uniform style.
Yu Yong-An's.
07:20. He arrived at the precinct. The route felt ordinary. So did the breakfast stalls. The flowers. The people.
But the front desk officer greeted him:
"Xiao-Yu, you left your notebook on the third floor yesterday. I put it away for you."
He froze. "Who?"
The officer blinked. "...You. Xiao-Yu."
He smiled. Nodded. Went upstairs.
The third-floor hallway was empty. Passing the meeting room, the door was ajar.
On the whiteboard:
"5/24 Friday / The world before recovery isn't always clean."
The marker was still wet.
He stood there for a long time.
This wasn't a message.
It was a reminder. From himself.
But which version?
08:30. At his desk, someone had organized his items.
In the drawer: a notebook. He'd never seen it before, yet he knew what it held.
He opened it.
Handwritten note:
[Friday]"This is time's silhouette. You think you are you, but sometimes, you're only the one passing through for the next version."
10:10: Do not enter break room
12:25: Watch the stairwell corner
17:42: West mirror will open
He looked up. Everything was as usual.
Typing. Phones. Laughter.
But that notebook...
It came from another reality, inching closer.
He picked up his pen and wrote beneath:
2024.05.24 | Second Anomaly Anomaly prompts came from unknown version of me. No timeline reset. Messages inserted ahead of time. Suspected temporal residue guiding present self.
He didn't wait.
He knew today wasn't like Tuesday.
This was Friday.
The day the world began whispering: "You are wrong."
10:10. He stood outside the break room. The door was shut, yet he heard voices inside:
"If he remembers, will he stop?"
"No. He'll choose to finish it. Because that's who he is."
He flung the door open—
No one. Not even a dripping tap.
He turned away, pulse steady. Eyes certain.
He was no longer a witness.
He was a participant.