When I woke up, I became a fertilized egg.
I have no memory, but I am born to write experimental diaries. I recorded the heartbeat as three clocks, the placenta as the logistics department, and cell apoptosis as "pack your bags and leave." There was a frequency living next door. It gave me the best land and went to the thin land to the west - and then it disappeared. I remember it as "Number Zero" and say a word every day to that channel that will never ring.
My mother, Xu Nian, didn't know that I was writing a diary. All she knew was that there were "two" on the B-ultrasound sheet, but only "one" was left on the day of the review. She checked "disappearing twins" in the middle of the night. She burst into tears and wrote on her notepad: You are not alone. She named the child she left behind "An'an", which means safe and sound An.
The night she had a fever, I turned off all my lights and watched over her all night; the night she had a nightmare, I watched over a crack that had not yet grown. I think when I grow up and can speak, the first thing I want to say to her is: I kept watch over you the night you had a fever.
But someone outside the door was waiting for this signal, and they had been waiting for thirty-one years. They said the withdrawal window was only nine months away.
None of them knew that the unborn child was writing a book that no one read in her mother's belly.
Concept: The consciousness of a neuroscientist who died on a rainy night in 1987 woke up in a fertilized egg thirty-one years later - she lost her memory, but she was born to keep a diary, recording an unknown exploration of the universe in her mother's belly.