The damp, rusty smell of some kind of old, rotten wood stubbornly entered the nostrils. Zhou Xun opened his eyes suddenly, and the rain-stained mildew stain in the corner of the ceiling, which looked like a distorted human face, came into view right on time. In the tenth year, the 3650th time (he was too lazy to count the extra days in leap years), the same starting point.
The body reacted before the consciousness, lifted the thin quilt with overnight body temperature, and stepped barefoot on the cold and rough concrete floor. The latest page of the notebook open on the low table next to the bed was what he wrote last night—or rather, before the last cycle ended—with force that almost broke the back of the paper: "Try to inform Lin Nuan.
