When Lin Wan opened her eyes, the water stains on the ceiling were still in the same place.
It was a palm-sized yellow water mark, shaped like a soaked leaf, that spread from the corner of the wall to the side of the fluorescent tube. She stared at it for a full ten seconds, her heart beating like a drum in her chest.
This room was too familiar to her. In the urban village partition room that costs ten yuan a day, the walls are so thin that you can hear the snoring next door, and the windows cannot be closed tightly. In winter, the cold wind pours in through the gaps like a knife slicing your face. There were two boxes of instant noodles piled on the bedside, and several torn postgraduate entrance examination materials were thrown on the floor.
She sat up suddenly and grabbed the phone from the pillow.
The moment the screen turned on, her pupils suddenly contracted - Tuesday, September 3, 2019.
Not 2024.
