Lost Area in Gray Haze

——"When the fog is 1 meter thick, the city turns upside down; when the fog is 100 meters thick, we are signed by our own shadow." A city becomes an island overnight. The gray haze descends silently, carrying tiny particles of amnesia: with every breath, names, faces, and the past peel off like dust; with every step you take, an inverted mirror city is born under your feet, waiting for you to fall into it. The government has only issued two orders: 1. Application is required for breathing. 2. It is forbidden to look for yourself in the fog. The only clue left by the missing person was a still dripping toothbrush with a countdown of 44 minutes written on the bristles. The female navigation voice begins to exude a sticky tongue, turning the vehicle driving into the "lost area" of the northern suburbs into a memory cash machine - every 100 meters you drive, it randomly erases the name of a person you still remember. The mirror cannot reflect yourself, it only reflects "others" with an extra gray eye; it lives for you, and you die for it. When the fog reaches 100 meters thick, the city slowly turns over, flicking the people on the front into the darkness like coins, while the shadows on the back that have long lost their names are lining up to climb onto our beds. This is a strange fable about being "replaced": If the air starts to acquire your identity, If breathing becomes a loan that is sold to each other, Do you dare to do it at the last second? With the remaining forgetfulness, In other words "I still remember who I am"? Open this book, But don't take a deep breath— fog, I'm waiting for your signature in the text.