Those eyes, hidden just beyond the reach of the lamplight, gazed at him in silence.
"He left behind words," the figure spoke, voice low—as if drifting from between the pages of an ancient book. "Not for anyone in particular. Just… to make sure the world wouldn't forget he had once existed."
Yu Yung-an's brow furrowed.
"You mean… Zhang Zhi-an?"
The figure neither nodded nor denied it. Instead, he drew out a small wooden box from beneath the desk. The wood was worn, aged—like something lost and recovered over many years. He opened the lid. Inside lay a faded letter, and a tiny cross-shaped pendant.
But this cross was no ordinary shape.It was three crosses embedded into one, layered so intricately that under the flickering light, it was nearly invisible—crafted to be seen only by those who could truly see.
"This is the anchor he left behind," the figure said. "A memory-mark. It only reveals itself when you begin to doubt who you truly are."
Yu Yung-an held the cross in his palm.The moment he touched it, a familiar heat surged up his arm—as if his body remembered it far before his mind ever could.
He lowered his gaze to the letter. On the aged paper, only a few hastily scribbled lines remained:
"When memory slips and time fractures, return to the beginning.Truth is not what lies before you,but what flickers in the cracks you choose to see.There is a door—one that opens only for those who have chosen."
"What door?" he asked, lifting his head.
The figure looked toward the far end of the library.There was no visible door—only a seamless wooden wall.
"The door you came through belongs to this space," he said after a pause."But the door you're looking for belongs to the layer of time itself."
Yu Yung-an slowly stood, stepping toward that wall.With each step, the cross in his hand grew warmer—until he realized: this wasn't an ornament.
It was a key.
He closed his fingers tightly around the cross.
It wasn't a symbol of faith, nor a token of salvation—It was the key to a fractured stretch of time, meant only for those who remembered.
There was no wind, yet as his fingertips brushed the surface of the wall, it rippled—like liquid time hardened into form. When the cross touched the surface, the space shuddered faintly.The lamplight in the library flickered.And the shadows receded like a tide.
"Memory has chosen you," the voice behind him said."Now time will show you what it once tried to hide."
A door began to appear before him.
Not opening—emerging—as though it had always been there, carefully veiled from sight.
No doorknob. No keyhole.Only the faint imprint of a cross,and a line of silent, pulsing light beating at its center—like a heartbeat.
He pressed the cross into that glow.
—No sound.
But the world lost its gravity.
His body lifted from the floor,senses stripped away,all that remained was the weight of time—tilting, unraveling, breaking apart.
He tried to shout—but no voice came.
Only the sensation of falling into a space with no up, no down,no near, no far,no past,no future.
The layer of time had opened.
And in the dark,a voice drifted toward him:
"Do you remember the first day…you ever chose?"
The sensation of falling vanished.
Yu Yung-an opened his eyes and found himself in a space that defied all time. No sky. No ground. Only mist—soft, pulsing, threaded with glowing strands that shimmered like memory itself. Each flicker held a moment once forgotten, hovering just beyond reach.
He stepped forward. His feet made no sound,yet it felt as though he were walking across someone else's memories.
In the mist, shadows began to take shape.
Zhang Zhi-an.
Young. Fragile. Resolute.His expression fractured like old film.He saw him whispering into a mirror,saw him writing furiously under a flickering lamp,saw him clutching his head in despair on a Tuesday morning.
Each image was a consequence of a choice.
"Are these… his memories?" Yu Yung-an asked softly,his voice swallowed by the fog.
"No,"the voice returned—from within the mist,sounding uncannily like his own."These are the choices you are about to inherit."
From the fog, a staircase emerged, spiraling downward into the unseen.
Each step was carved with faint words—some he recognized, fragments once written by Zhang Zhi-an; others… were phrases from his own childhood dreams, never spoken aloud.
Their memories were starting to overlap.
At the base of the stairs, a silhouette stood waiting.
"If you go down," the voice said, "you can no longer return as an outsider."
"This isn't just witnessing.This is becoming—a man who has chosen."
Yu Yung-an stood before the steps,his fingertips still tingling from the cross.
And in that moment,he understood:
This wasn't about remembering Zhang Zhi-an's choices.
It was about completing the one he could never make.