Autumn, twenty-three years of the Republic of China.
My name is Lu Yan, and I was a forensic medicine student at the University of Lyon in France. A year ago, due to a mistake on the autopsy table—or rather, a moment that I don't want to recall—I fled back to China. Under the introduction of my mentor, I came to this overseas hydrological observation station called "Gushan Island" to serve as a recorder and medical officer.
This is truly the end of the world. A bare reef, a white lighthouse eroded by the sea wind, and several stone barracks under the lighthouse. There are four of us, like four forgotten ants, lingering on the endless blue canvas.
The station leader, Chen, is a skinny local who has guarded the island all his life and always talks about weird words like "listening to the tide". He said that the sea has a temper. If the tide is not right, something will happen. I just think it is a superstition of the older generation.
Zhao Cheng, a young scholar from Jinling University, wears gold-rimmed glasses and is elegant. He was nominally here to study the ocean climate, but I always felt that his eyes behind the lenses were not looking at the sea, but something deeper and darker. He was always writing and drawing in his notebook, drawing symbols that I couldn't understand.
There is also Wang Wu, a handyman, a strong man from Shandong, who is not very bright but has frightening strength. His life credo seems to be only two: eat enough and survive.
Our lives depended on the monthly supply ship. Ships brought food, fresh water, medicine, and most importantly - news from the civilized world.
Supply ship this month.
