At 3:30 in the Morning, Four Words Were Crammed into My Mind

At three-thirty in the morning, four words were stuffed in my mind, "Wake up and open the door." In the corridor, a human figure made of old newspapers was knocking on the door, three times, two times, three times. It cannot enter by itself and requires the permission of the room owner. But the master has not left that door for twelve years. I spoke for her, not to agree, but to negotiate. I let it go into another vacant room on one condition: I would help it find the person it had been waiting for ten years. It agreed, and hundreds of characters were embedded in the door frame, glowing with a warm yellow light. The light has not gone out to this day. After that night, three words appeared on my right arm, "I remember." Director Bai said this was a mark, that I was the seventh gatekeeper, that the mark would deteriorate if not used, that there were eight floors downstairs, and that something was waiting at the deepest level—it had been waiting for a hundred years. What he didn't say was, "The first six gatekeepers are gone." Cup rim up, I'm waiting.