The car broke down in a deserted village. I thought it was the beginning of bad luck, but I didn't know that I had stepped into a closed loop of fate.
Those who cry in the middle of the night are said to be wild cats, and the reflections in the village's bronze mirrors will move on their own.
Until I saw the exact same birthmark as mine on the village chief's wrist, until I opened the village diary and saw the photo of the sacrifice with my name written on it in 1965.
I wanted to run away, but the whole village surrounded me and said in unison: "You are back, the ceremony can continue."
So, who am I? The sacrifice thirty years ago, why me? And what is the purpose of this ceremony that I have been waiting for for thirty years?
