Lin Shen, occupation: last-words courier.
The job is simple: deliver the final words of those about to die. In three years, I have seen too many secrets and regrets. I thought I had grown completely hardhearted.
Until one night, an old man covered in burns was wheeled into the emergency room. He clutched my hand and used the last of his strength to say:
"Tell Lin Shen... that rainy night wasn't your fault."
A chill ran down my spine.
The old man was my own father. Eighteen years ago, he burned to death in a laboratory fire.
I had his coffin opened that very night and examined the body. Inside lay a charred corpse. The DNA test showed the deceased was not Lin Jianguo.
Following the clues, I found a top-secret death list at a biotech company. It clearly stated:
Lin Shen, time of death: eighteen years ago.
And I am Lin Shen.
So who am I, alive now? Who was in the coffin? Beneath the list was a line of tiny text that had been crossed out:
"Memory recipient confirmed alive: yes."
For three years, I delivered messages for the dead. In the end, I discovered that the person who most needed to hear those words was me.
