The fog climbed up from the river, like someone wrapping invisible thread around a street lamp. Gao Jingxuan stood outside the rusty red iron door of the "old factory" holding an old portable tape recorder, his palms covered with cold sweat. There was an intermittent sound of electricity coming from the iron door, as if someone was breathing inside, but never showed up.
He took out a piece of paper folded several times from his pocket, which Tang Ruoxi had thrust into his hand before she disappeared: Don't come to me, come and listen to the recording. The handwriting was as straight as if it had never experienced trembling before, but the corners of the paper were soaked in rain and dried in the sun, and they quickly cracked.
