Messenger

The moment a person dies, the words he wants to say the most but has not said out loud will not disappear. It leaves a momentary echo. Very few people can catch it. Jiang Sheng is one of them. He has been doing this for twelve years and has delivered the last word to the ears of those who deserve to hear it for more than 1,100 people. Two hundred in the city, five hundred out of the city, one thousand two hundred across the province, no charge if you don't hear it. He carries a stack of self-printed receipts with him, each with a number - nine years ago he lost 4,800 yuan because he couldn't produce the receipt. There are three rules: only at the moment when he dies, only one sentence at a time, and he only sends words without touching anything. There is also a price: every time he catches a sentence, he loses a piece of his own memory. It's not up to him to drop anything. Most of the time it doesn't matter what it drops. For example, what is the name of the owner of that noodle shop you often go to? Only once wasn't it. He was not there that night when my mother died twenty years ago. This was the only thing he had been sure of for twenty years. He delivered everyone's last words. He had been looking for his own sentence for twenty years - he didn't even know whether he heard it or not.