My name is Lu Mo, I am twenty-two years old, do odd jobs, and like to collect second-hand records. That evening, I exchanged a copy of Debussy's "Moonlight" for a worthless bronze medal in the used book alley.
From that night on, there was a line on my forearm that would feel hot, and I also gained an ability: I could hear the "debt" on other people's bodies. I could clearly hear those whispered apologies, admissions of mistakes, and farewells in the subway.
But this ability is borrowed. Someone carved a false promise on me, and the price was my memory—first the keys and the door lock, and then my mother's nursery rhymes and the meal she cooked for me. Every time I checked, I had to use a piece of my past to pay the bill.
Some people want me to forget, and some want me to remember them for them. Later I realized: In this city, responsibility and freedom are two sides of the same contract. Whichever side you sign, you have to pay back with the other side.
