The moment the elevator door closed, I realized that my phone had been left on my desk.
Damn it.
I pressed the door open button, but there was no response. Press again, still no response. The lights overhead suddenly flashed twice, and the entire car sank suddenly. The feeling of weightlessness made my stomach churn.
Then it stopped.
I stared at the red "15" on the elevator panel - the fifteenth floor, I couldn't go up or down, I was stuck here. The air was so stuffy that the air conditioner stopped at some point, and the fan blades above my head were spinning slower and slower, like a fly about to expire.
I took a deep breath, told myself not to panic, and took out my phone - there was no signal.
Hold.
At this moment, the diary I read last night suddenly flashed in my mind.
That broken diary.
I dug it out from the mezzanine of an old bookcase when I moved. The cowhide cover was so yellow that it looked like an unearthed cultural relic. The moment I opened it, I almost choked to death from the musty smell. The signature reads "Jiang Heming", but the signing date is "December 31, 2035."
I thought someone was playing a prank. Or maybe it was a junk thing left behind by the previous tenant and forgotten to take away.
But the content on the first page made me laugh out loud.
