The day I returned to the Lin family, I was catching up with my own funeral.
The portrait shows a photo of me when I was twelve years old, and the sweet-scented osmanthus cake on the altar table is still my mother's recipe from that time.
But no one knows that I have not died in the past ten years, but that I was picked up and raised by an old man guarding the tomb after being pushed off a cliff by my uncle.
He taught me to read, practice tablets, and live.
I also left a letter on the day I turned twenty-two:
"It wasn't Lin Tianhao who pushed you off the cliff, it was me."
I carry this tablet with nine things sealed inside it.
Every time the lockdown is lifted, something human is forever lost.
For the first time, I lost my sense of taste.
The second time, I lost my sense of pain.
The third time, I lost my fear.
And what is sealed in the ninth monument is not a monster—it is the heart of the first person to destroy the monument.
If you read this story, it means I still remember who I am.
But I'm not sure how long I can remember.
