When he was nine years old, Gu Chi came home from school and found a bowl of cold noodles on the table.
There is a page nail pressed into the bottom of the bowl. Mother's clothes are missing two pieces, and the book "Basics of Restoration of Old Books" is missing from the bookshelf. No suicide note, no explanation.
Seventeen years later, he is the archive's last restorer. On the day the project ended, there was an extra letter on the windowsill.
The handwriting is my mother's. There was only one line in the letter: Gu Chi, tonight at 23:17, Linchuan South Station.
South Station was demolished three years ago.
There he went. An old bus without a license plate drove out from behind the fence, and the conductor handed him a ticket without a name.
"Night shift contract, temporarily valid."
At 4:44 a. M., The contract came into effect. There are only four rules, one of which is: Do not forge memories for anyone.
He thought this was a clue to find his mother. Later I found out that all the unsigned records were waiting for a name.
