Nameless Sea

I was working overtime to organize and seal medical records in the hospital, and I saw my name on the wristband recycling slip. At one o'clock in the morning, the radio in the old third ward, which had been closed for three years, suddenly rang, telling me to go back to bed 37 and complete the identity filing. They say that if you buckle your wristband and lie down on the hospital bed, your life will be fully recognized by the world. But I know that those who answer that bed number will only be dragged into the unknown sea, leaving no trace of their existence. Three years ago, my sister walked into this building and became a crossed-out line in the file. Her name was altered, her life was misidentified, and her existence was completely erased with the phrase "family recognition." The moment the door was pushed open, a man in an old jacket stopped me. He said, don't answer. Once you accept this wrong version, you can never go back. Only then did I realize that the world was already sick. Those unresolved relationships, unrecognized disappearances, and unfiled mistakes will turn into a layer of tidal film, dragging people into a never-ending processing process. And I will either complete this rule for the world, or become the next name to be archived.