My master said he could shut down my system.
I thought he was bragging. He is an old man who cooks in the mountains. Even the tea I bought tastes bad to him. How could he know that I have a panel in my head?
But he was so right. So accurate that I didn't dare ask. He said, if you ask, I have to answer. If you answer, you have to go.
Then he left. Before leaving, he left me a half-sentence and pressed it under the pillow.
I chased it out of the mountain and realized that the panel was not mine. Not only is the panel different, but I, my name, and my past eighteen years were all written on paper by others.
And that piece of paper is now invalid.
