Rules and Ghost Stories: I Learned Archiving in Ghost Stories

Li Muxi has long discovered that the world is secretly lying. The lights in the supermarket will flash three times without warning, and the potato chips on the shelves will turn into old models that have been discontinued; a crooked letter asking for help from a six-year-old girl will suddenly appear on the door of a neighbor's house that has been empty for four months; a person who is supposed to die in a fire will smile and hand you a piece of chocolate and ask if you want candy. No one is aware of this, only her memory is a yardstick that will never fade - from the broken glass when she was three years old, to every time it was tampered with, every detail is revealed. Until that day, countless pairs of pupilless eyes emerged from the darkness and asked her if she wanted to become an "archivist". The moment she signed her name with a rusty pen, she glimpsed the backside of the world: those forgotten obsessions would turn into strange stories, those erased people would become sacrifices to the rules, and her mission was to seal up the out-of-control anomalies one by one. While others were running around in strange stories, she cut corners on the stage and welded the bus handrails crookedly while complaining about the stage. Others trembled at the rules, but she relied on her absolute memory to dig out the loopholes in every word and dismantle the law enforcement officer's trap to pieces. She thought she was just a laborer until the black card with "Chief Filer Shen Qing" printed on it landed in her palm. It turns out that my mother's disappearance was not an accident. It turns out that the memory engraved in her bones was never a coincidence. When Lu Kui's fangs penetrated the dimensional barrier, when the existence of countless people was being silently erased, Li Muxi tightened her grip on the pen. Rules are a cage and the sharpest knife. She will archive those people who have been forgotten by the world, and those truths sunk in the darkness.