In the autumn of the seventeenth year of Yongchang, in the capital. The sun was hanging in the sky, but the shadow was motionless. The leaves of the old locust tree at the entrance of the alley kept falling, stopping three feet in the air from the ground. Grandma Wang, who sells cooking cakes, froze in her hand when she opened the basket, and the steam condensed into white clouds that would never dissipate. The sound of the clapper struck by old watchman Chen stuck in his throat for the third time, and the tilt of the gong seemed to have been paused by someone. It's been three months. Su Wanzhao stood at the threshold of Jishitang Medical Center, holding the door frame tightly with her fingers. She looked at the people coming and going on the street, if those frozen postures could still be called people. A string of golden numbers floated above everyone's head, motionless, like a spell nailed in mid-air. The number on Grandma Wang's head is 003124733, and the number on Uncle Zhao's blacksmith shop across the door is 127052211. Su Wanzhao has been able to see these numbers since she was a child. At first, she thought everyone could see them. Until she was five years old, she pointed at a man on the street with only three days of numbers on his head and said that he was going to die. Her father covered her mouth.
