I stared at the man behind the third pillar in the subway station for almost two minutes.
He wore a gray sweatshirt, black pants, and white sneakers. Dressed up so ordinary that my mother wouldn't even recognize her when she came here. But he had been standing here for forty-five minutes, motionless.
Literally motionless. Not even breathing.
In the eyes of others, this is probably just a passenger waiting for the bus. But when I looked over, I could see that his entire figure was like a map - there were subtle jagged edges, the light and shadow did not flow on his body, and even the folds at the hem were fixed.
He has been out three times.
For the first time, he walked into Car No. 3. When I was changing trains, I saw him standing at the door of carriage No. 7. The second time, I deliberately sat past one stop, and when I returned to this platform, he walked out of the No. 2 Carriage again.
Three times. Same face. Same dress. Same expression.
I lowered the brim of my hat, pretended to check my phone, and walked past him. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the work badge on his chest - black letters on a white background, with a small number printed on it: M-0021.
I've seen this number before.
