In my ordinary life, by chance, I unexpectedly discovered an astonishing secret hidden deep in my family - I died in the attic of my home when I was a child. It was a corner that had been dusty and forgotten for a long time, but every speck of dust and every trace seemed to tell an unknown story and reveal a chilling and weird atmosphere.
My memory seemed to be suddenly torn apart, and a series of events emerged that I had never experienced before. Those fragments are fragmented, but extremely clear, as if they happened yesterday. I saw a little boy with the same name as me, who was playing in the attic and had an accident. His cries and despair are deeply imprinted in my mind.
All this plunged me into deep confusion and fear. I couldn't understand why I had such a strong memory of an event I had never experienced. Could that little boy really be me? Or is there some incredible confusion in my memory?
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
