Lin Mo can deduce anyone's past.
Why his deskmate changed her eraser last week, the class monitor's application form after it was revised three times, who in the next class left their student ID at the secondhand bookstall: give him enough information, and he can even tell you exactly what time you went to bed last night.
The problem is that he's always right, and his answers are always boring.
A car passed the school gate twice a day. He spent three days working it out and concluded it delivered milk, because if it didn't slow down at the gate, the milk would get smashed to bits.
He spent three hours figuring out a gap in a door that was one centimeter wide.
The whole class called him a nutcase. Only his deskmate, Zhao Dazhu, started learning from him. In the end, he filled an entire notebook with "strategies" and never got a single one right.
He could deduce the lives of all forty-six people in his class.
But for the forty-seventh, he couldn't write down a single thing.
Her name was Shen Zhi. The way she looked at him was strange, as if he weren't a stranger.
Every time he tried to deduce something about her, his head hurt.
Because he was part of her past.
And he had forgotten.
