After twelve o'clock in the morning, the convenience store where I work no longer accepts living people.
A drenched woman came to buy mineral water, but she died thirteen years ago; an old lady showed up at one o'clock every morning and only bought the same bottle of milk; a little girl without a shadow stood in front of the freezer and asked me: "Brother, do you sell regret medicine here?"
What's even weirder is that items sold after midnight no longer require money to be checked out.
A bottle of water, three years of life.
An umbrella, a memory.
A box of Band-Aids, a name.
There is only one principle in my work - no matter what comes in, treat it as an ordinary guest.
Until one day, the cash register printed out a receipt that belonged to me:
[Name: Lin Ye]
[Time of death: June 17, seven years ago]
[Current status: unknown]
At that moment, I realized that the real person who died in the fire seven years ago might have been me all along.
