Autoimmune Midnight

Immunologist Lu Heng has always believed that the world can be observed, named and measured. Until a box of pathology slides from Seattle showed up in the lab. Cells in the slice remember a house that has been moved. The old well spits out strangers' dreams and an impossible wedding ring. The red brick paths on campus are shortening every night, the punctuation marks on the pages of books have fled, and Lu Heng's name is quietly disappearing from the faculty system, photos, and the memories of others. At the same time, his ex-wife Jiang Hui is trapped in an unknown city where it always rains. There are people forgotten by reality, letters without addresses, and all actions that never happened. When Jiang Hui's body began to grow red oak roots, Lu Heng's immune system gradually gave up on recognizing "self". They are divorced, but they are still exchanging rainwater, dreams, cells and pain. When the self-antigen recognition rate finally reaches zero, a person may not only lose his body's defense line, but also his name, time, and the qualification to exist as an independent individual. And the crack connecting them is slowly opening underground in Chapel Hill.